When I reached out and grabbed his wrist, I saw a flash of something in his eyes. I thought it was anger at first, but the way his eyes slowly traveled from mine to my lips had me squeezing my thighs together. I nervously darted my tongue out to catch a stray drop of whiskey, which caused his jaw to flex. In that brief moment, it almost felt like there was something between us—like I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
Getting him to talk is a bit like pulling teeth, but I don’t hesitate to fill the void. I’m a nervous talker and a nervous laugher, and growing up, my mom used to tease me about it. Actually, most people did. I love a good story and I love to make small talk, so I guess that’s why I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I just love words.
After dinner, I don’t want to overstay my welcome, but I want to see his face when he tries my muffins. I know it’s silly, but cooking and baking are things I’ve come to love doing for people. Maybe it’s my love language, or perhaps I’ve been conditioned to care for people like I did my dying mother. I watch as he takes a bite of the muffin, licking the crumbs off his lips and wiping them out of his beard. Suddenly, all I can think about is what it would feel like to have that beard between my thighs and that tongue on my you-know-what. I feel my face flush just as he makes eye contact with me and I feel like I’m about to turn into a puddle on the floor. I swear he can read my mind, because the look of pure lust in his eyes tells me that I think he might be having the same thoughts.
“How do you—is it?” My words catch in my throat and my tongue feels thick. He finishes the muffin in two bites before reaching for another. He doesn’t respond to my jumbled question, and instead slowly peels the paper off the muffin like he’s undressing it, which causes a deep pull in my core. I can feel myself getting wetter by the second, and I’m mortified.
How can someone make eating a muffin look so damn sexual? I’m pretty sure if he so much as stepped toward me right now, I’d come on the spot. I rub the back of my neck and gesture toward the pot of coffee that’s beeping.
“You know, it’s actually pretty late for me to drink caffeine, so I should probably . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. I just gesture awkwardly toward the front door. I step toward the entrance, cutting him off on accident just as he steps forward. He’s practically standing on top of me.
“You sure? It’s decaf,” he says, his chest practically pressing against my shoulder.
“Yeah, thanks. I don’t want to take up any more of your evening anyway.” I move farther away and slip on my boots. “I hope you lick my muffin. LIKE. I hope you like my muffins,” I correct myself. “Your muffins. I hope you like the muffins I made for you,” I stammer as I reach for the front door.
He doesn’t move as he watches me make a complete idiot of myself, but I see a smirk spread across his face as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Oh, I plan on licking and liking your muffin.”
I pull open the door and step outside into the cool night air before slamming it shut and letting out a whooshing breath. I groan in embarrassment as I run back down to the safety of the ground floor.
I’m lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, replaying what Sawyer said to me over and over again. That smirk. “Oh, I plan on licking and liking your muffin.” Did he say muffin or muffins? Did I mishear him? I feel my face grow red with embarrassment all over again and I roll over and groan into the pillow.
I imagine what it would have been like if I hadn’t run out—if he had moved a little closer and pressed me up against the door. I imagine his large hand slipping behind my neck and pulling me closer into a perfect kiss.
I roll onto my back and slip my hand beneath the covers and down the front of my pajama pants. I know I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. I close my eyes and imagine his tongue delving into my mouth, meeting my own thrust for thrust as his other hand grabs my ass. I rub my clit over my panties until I feel the wetness pooling again, and I can’t take the torture any longer. I thrust my hand down my panties as I circle my clit faster and faster. My breathing is rapid as I imagine Sawyer’s hands caressing my naked breasts. I come undone at the thought of his lips around my nipple as he whispers in my ear all the dirty things he wants to do to me.
I pull my hand out of my panties like I’ve been burned. The only sound in the darkness is my rapid breathing as I feel guilt wash over my body.
My eyes pop open before my alarm goes off, a residual result of caring for my mom. I often woke up at all hours of the night to check on her and medicate her. I let out a sigh and stare at the ceiling again. I didn’t sleep well last night, but I somehow still feel too amped to be tired. I grab my phone and check the time: not even 6 a.m. yet.
“Might as well get up,” I mutter as I put on my slippers and walk into the kitchen to brew some coffee. I’m really missing my programmable coffeemaker right now. Nothing says “good morning” like waking up to the smell of a fresh pot. I grab my hoodie and pull it on as I shiver and check the thermostat. The morning and evening temperatures here are so drastically different from the midday temperatures—another Colorado thing I’m not yet used to.
The coffee beeps and I grab a mug from the shelf. It has a pot leaf on it with the words Rocky Mountain High stamped across it. I giggle to myself when I look at it. I pour myself a fresh cup of coffee, adding in some of the maple almond milk creamer I picked up from the grocery store the other day, and take a long sip.
I take my coffee out to the balcony and breathe in the fresh morning air. I need to start on my novel. I’ve been kicking around a few ideas here and there and I think I’ve settled on a romance story—a once-in-a-lifetime kind of love story. I imagine a broken man who doesn’t believe he can love again; I’m a sucker for tragic love stories that require you to keep a box of tissues close. And this one just might be inspired by a certain someone.
I hear some shuffling in the driveway and I step off the balcony to see Sawyer loading a large plastic box into the back of his truck along with a fishing pole. The sun is peeking up over the mountains and it casts an amber glow against his face. I take a moment to take him in as he sorts his belongings. There’s something in his eyes that I’m dying to understand . . . sadness maybe? Hurt?
He looks up and catches me staring at him. I feel my face heat with embarrassment, but I’m not sure if it’s because he caught me staring or if it’s because I’m worried he knows what I did in bed last night to thoughts of him. I smile and offer a limp wave. He gives me his signature head nod, but his look seems softer today and his eyes linger on mine a tad longer.
Suddenly, I get bit of courage and make my way toward him. “Good morning, Sawyer.”
“Mornin’, Miss Prescott.”
My belly clenches at the sound of his early morning voice, which is deeper and more gravelly. I imagine what it would be like to wake up to that voice—to hear that voice whisper delicious, dirty things in my ear.
“Got a favor to ask,” I say.
“What can I do for you?” He turns and leans his shoulder against his truck, crossing his arms across his massive chest.
I kick at the rocks in the driveway and nervously tuck my hair behind one ear. “Well, I’m working on something, and I need a point of reference for fishing. As I mentioned last night, I’ve never been fishing, so . . .” my words trail off and I look up at him, hoping he’ll catch on to what I’m asking, but he doesn’t. Or if he does, he doesn’t show it, because his expression hasn’t changed.