I whimper, a bit unsure if it’s hot or embarrassing, but Sawyer’s not unsure. He groans, and it’s primal and raw and he can’t take his eyes off us. His hands are still gripping my waist. He moves one, dropping a thumb to my clit and working it with a skill I’ve never experienced. I come again and he joins me, shouting his release, stilling inside of me, then pumping his hips slowly until he’s spent.

Twenty-Nine

I wake up sore and alone. Something clatters out in the living room so I know he’s nearby, but I’m almost glad he’s up. Almost. The stamina of that man is something to be reckoned with. I came five times last night before he was done. We’d finish one round, fall asleep talking—my head on his chest, his fingers in my hair—and then we’d wake and start the entire cycle again.

Shifting, I roll over and then sit up, pulling the sheet up and tucking it under my arms. It’s a nice room. I’d guess it must be professionally decorated. Probably his mother, I realize, recalling that she’s a designer. I can’t imagine Sawyer used someone else. I’ve already seen the master bathroom—it’s tiled in marble and contains a double-door entry. There’s a walk-in shower that would make any dorm-living girl cry tears of joy. I’m definitely using it before he takes me home, that’s for sure.

The bedroom is simply furnished, clutter-free. The headboard on the king-sized bed is fabric, and as I scoot back to lean against it I catch something on the nightstand, a can of Diet Sun Drop. I reach over and pick it up, finding it cold. Sawyer must have left it there just recently. I pop the top and take a swig as Sawyer appears carrying a tray, which, if my nose does not betray me, contains bacon.

“Do you want coffee too, or just the soda?” he asks, nodding to the can in my hand as he sets the tray on the bed.

“You made me breakfast in bed?” I ask, eyebrows raised. He’s too much. I’m waiting for a camera crew to pop out and tell me I’ve been punked. Massively, irrevocably punked.

He drops his hands to the bed and leans in, stealing a kiss. “To be fair, I didn’t cook. Ordering room service is one of the perks of living here.” He stands and walks towards the bedroom doorway. “Coffee?” he reminds me.

“No, I’m good,” I tell him, taking another swallow of my beloved soda. When he walks back in with a coffee for himself it hits me. “Do you drink Diet Sun Drop?” I ask, holding the can up for a visual before setting it down on the breakfast tray.

“No.” He uncovers the plates on the tray, stacking the lids and setting them aside. “And to be honest, I half expected your pussy to taste like Diet Sun Drop based on how much of it you appear to consume.”

My eyes widen and a flush heats up my cheeks as I bite my lip. He’s managed to make me blush.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got you scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and pancakes. Or you can eat an egg white omelet with me,” he says, digging in with a fork.

I pick up a piece of bacon and shove half of it in my mouth. “You know about my Diet Sun Drop addiction but not what I want for breakfast?”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Well, your mom didn’t pick up when I called this morning, so I had to wing it,” he says, pointing at the tray.

I gasp. “You did not call my mother to ask her what I like for breakfast at”—I glance at a wall clock over the dresser—“seven in the morning.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, his face giving away nothing, until he finally breaks out a smile and I sag in relief.

“Not cool, Camden.”

“I learned about your soda addiction from your social media accounts. It’s not hard to piece together someone’s likes and dislikes if you look in the right places.” He tosses a smirk in my direction. “Your Pinterest boards alone are a treasure trove of information.”