The nervousness I experienced about running the event is nothing compared to the emotions flying through me at the prospect of having coffee with Sawyer. I still can’t quite believe he’s here. Or that he actually spoke to me.
He even smiled. Not the terse one he used to give me at camp, but a real one, like he gives others.
After my letter to him, I didn’t think it was possible for us to meet again without there being too much bad blood between us. He was so calm and contained, though, I have no idea what he’s thinking. So he asked me for coffee. Maybe he’s being polite, for Petr’s sake, wanting to rebuild a bridge that can at least hold our weight so we don’t upset my brother.
I can’t read too much into this. If nothing else, coffee might give me the ability to say a few things I’ve been rolling around in my head. Closure.
Then it hits me; he’s looking for closure, too. It dampens my spirits but does nothing to stop the fever inside me or the fact I have trouble focusing long enough to think straight.
His smile and the way he regarded me with familiar intensity …
It’s too much to think about.
The rest of the day flies by. On the ride home, I’m trying to figure out if I want to text him now or wait until I get back. I don’t want to seem either eager or the opposite, unwilling. Because I’m dying for some time with him and dreading it at the same time.
Disgusted with the emotions I thought had somewhat under control, I tuck the phone in my purse without texting.
The party is raging out back when I get there at eight. The evening schedule was a formal dinner and after-party style night. Open bar, electronica blasting, a dance floor on the back lawn …
My old scene. I wind my way through the crowd onto the deck, where couples are snuggled up together around fire pits. They appear cozy and happy. I’m trying to figure out if I’d ever be that relaxed around Sawyer when I trip over my own feet.
I catch my balance, tug off the high heels and continue through the kitchen and up the back stairs. Padding down the hallway where my room is, I frown when I see my door open. I walk in and toss my jacket and shoes on the bed. The closet light is on.
“Petr!” I complain before I get there.
“Just showing Sawyer the ammo depot,” he calls cheerfully.
He calls my shoe closet the ammo depot, because of how well I throw shoes when I’m pissed. I’m not sure if he’s seriously proud of the fact he organized it alphabetically by designer a few weeks ago or if he’s messing with me. Having him home is great, except for the fact that he is always straightening up everything of mine. I like my messes the way they are.
“I don’t think Sawyer is interested in my shoes,” I retort and enter, crossing my arms.
“It’s fascinating,” Petr replies.
I have a couple hundred pairs of shoes, if not more. They’re over by the Jimmy Choo rack.
“This pair cost half what my Land Rover did,” Petr says picking up a rare pair.
“Definitely couldn’t buy these on a captain’s salary,” Sawyer mutters.
“I buy my own shoes!” I snap. “I have a trust fund.”
“This is what you use it on?” Sawyer glances at me. His intent gaze lingers. The combination of his chiseled features, direct look and the cling of his dark sweater to his lean frame cause the base of my belly to grow warm.
It’s something like his reaction to my shoes that indicates we might be too far a part for any bridge to connect us. I’m not sure how to answer. Or even if I can right now. I’m staring at his body.
“The good thing is that you don’t have to buy her shoes on your salary. Her trust fund will last a few lifetimes,” Petr says. “You’ve got one thing going for you at least.”
We both look at him. My brother sounds crazy right now. He’s definitely not helping the growing tension.
“Just in case anyone was wondering.” Petr shifts uncomfortably.
I roll my eyes and leave them in my shoe closet. God knows why anyone but me is interested in my collection. Snatching clothes to change into, I escape to my bathroom and swap out the dress for jeans, grateful to be back in comfy clothing after the long day.
My phone chimes, and I glance down. My stomach flutters to see Sawyer’s name pop up.
Coffee/cocoa on the deck, 5 min?
Part of me wants to mess with him and say I need at least seven minutes.
Another part wants to run down now and melt in his arms.
“What is wrong with me?” I’m twenty-five and feel like I’m fifteen.
I don’t answer but end up rushing anyway, the way I did at camp when he told me to hurry and I told him I had no intention of doing so.
In a sweater, jeans and ballet-style shoes, I head downstairs. My hands are clammy, my blood humming with hope, dread and disbelief.
Sawyer is seated at one of the fire pits, two mugs of steaming cocoa in his hands. I draw a deep breath of the chilly winter air and the scents clinging to me from the event before approaching with what I hope is calmness.
I sit down beside him, too aware of the distance between our legs, the firm shape of his swimmer’s thighs.
He offers me a mug, and I take it wordlessly.
I’ve had a list of things I wanted to tell him, if I ever had the chance. I can’t think of one of them right now.
In fact, I can’t think of anything to say. I give him a sidelong glance. He’s always so calm and put together. Is he anywhere near as nervous as I am?
Nope. Not Iceman.
Frustrated, I take a sip of cocoa and glance at his. He hasn’t drunk any, and he’s gripping it tight enough for his knuckles to be white. I realize he’s a little uneasy, though I’m not sure how to take it.
“So … how’s life?” I ask finally, needing something to fill the silence.
He meets my gaze, brow furrowed, like I’ve asked him what his shoe size is instead of the more general question.
I laugh, a little giddily.
“We were never good at small talk,” he replies. Setting the cocoa by his feet, he reaches into his pocket. “I brought you something.”
I can’t imagine what he might have. He holds out his closed fist, and I set down my cocoa and hold out my hands.
He drops dog tags into my palm. I lean forward, towards the fire, to see the name stamped on them better.
Mikael N. Khavalov
My breath catches. I read his name again.
“I thought you should have them,” Sawyer says softly. “Riley found them out on a mission recently.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Sawyer to pull these emotions from me once more. I no longer feel anger but sorrow and an intense yearning to see my brother again. These are his. Something he touched, something he kept with him at all times.
Something Sawyer knew would mean the world to me and brought them to me from all the way around the world.
“Thank you.” I manage not to start crying. I can’t believe how sweet the gift is or how thoughtful Sawyer was to hang onto them.
Leaning back, I wrap my hands around them. I wish they were big enough to hug. It takes me a moment to recover.
“Let me guess – you came back to bring them to me.” I try to lighten the mood.
“Something like that.”
I sneak a look at him and find him gazing at me. Sawyer is so damn hard to read. I want to strangle him right now, because my emotions are completely at his mercy while he’s playing it cool.
“You don’t approve of all my shoes, do you?” I don’t know where the words come from. I think I need to pick a fight. I do better when I’m mad at him.
“If they make you happy, I don’t care,” he says then leans back in the chair. He rests his head against the edge, gaze on the fire.
“You should’ve told Petr you were coming back,” I say. “How long are you staying?”
“Two or three days.”
“That’s it?” I’m embarrassed by the disappointment in my voice.
He glances at me.
“It’s a long trip back for two or three days,” I add quickly.
“Yeah.” He’s amused.
I’m struggling, and he’s got to be laughing internally. This coffee date isn’t working. I’m too stressed out.
“Stop trying to be crunchy and relax,” he orders quietly.
“I can’t relax!”
“Let things unfold, Katya.”
I don’t know what the hell that means, but fire is moving through me, along with anticipation. My face grows warm, and I decide there’s really no good response. I rest back in the chair.
For a second or two, until I’m still long enough for my thoughts to take off again.
“No. I can’t do it,” I say, straightening. I face him and brace myself for what I have to say. “I owe you an apology.”
He’s listening. I can’t look at him. This is hard enough.
“I can’t even list the things I need to apologize for. There’s too many,” I add with a frustrated sigh. “But mainly I think it’s for … hurting you. I think, of everything, that’s what bothers me most. Because you didn’t deserve it, and I was angry. Well, I’m always angry. Totally different topic, but I was wrongfully angry this time. And I made a promise that if I ever saw you again, I’d tell you that I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Katya.” He takes my hand and squeezes. “I understand the grieving process.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“What would you rather I say?” he asks, chuckling.
I consider, afraid anything I say is going to dive back into the deep end. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Normally, I relish it, but tonight … with him … and me not knowing if he feels anywhere near what I do …
I’m tired of being hurt. I don’t want to risk my heart and soul tonight and end up devastated.
“Make it up, like we did introductions at camp,” he suggests.
I don’t know why it makes it seem easier, but it does. “So, fictional Katya apologized, and Sawyer forgave her. Even after the horrible letter she wrote, the way she pissed him off every time they met, the fact she didn’t try to contact him for five months, and will probably argue with him until the end of the world. She did a ton of stuff that just totally irked him, like collecting shoes worth more than his truck.”
He’s smiling.
“But he also knew she’d come around and realize what they had or could have, so he wasn’t about to give up on her. One day, he traveled thousands of miles to visit her, to see if maybe, just maybe she …” feels the same way he does. I stop, the story becoming too personal.
He sits up, still holding my hand. “Finish it.”
“… wanted to have coffee.”
He eyes me.
“Oh, you wanted a different ending?” I ask sweetly. “Maybe they can have tea.”
“All right. I’ll play.” He pauses to think before speaking. “While fictional Sawyer was playing games with Katya, she was thinking about the gift she sent him, whether or not he received it. She’d sent it after months of silence, because she wanted him to know he wasn’t alone, to remind him that there are people who care about him, even if he was determined to spend the holidays in Iraq. Because secretly, Katya kinda likes him, enough to hope she saw him again and that the next time they met, maybe, just maybe they could escape somewhere where it was just them and…” He pauses dramatically.
I’m on pins and needles. “What?”
“… have coffee, of course.”
“You’re such an asshole!”
“You started it,” he points out. “If you want to fill in those blanks between fictional Katya and fictional Sawyer at any point …”
I ignore him, almost enjoying our cat and mouse game. Before the awkward silence can descend, I speak up. “You got the duck.”
“I did. Thank you.” He’s smiling again, his dimples showing.
“If I hadn’t sent it, would you have come home … er, I mean here?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Probably not. When I saw it, I knew you didn’t hate me too much. I figured I’d come back and just see if you wanted …”
I glare at him. “If you say coffee, I’m leaving!”
“Nah. We both know you won’t.”
“How did you know I sent it anyway?” I ask, irritated.
“Because the only other person who knows about it is dead.”
“Oh, god.” I stare at him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been years,” he says easily.
We evaluate each other once more.
“I’m sorry, Sawyer.” This time, I’m holding his gaze when I say it. My voice trembles. “I’m sorry that I blamed –”
“Stop,” he replies.
I do, not at all certain how he can be so forgiving or how much longer I can sit here, gazing at him, without going insane at not being able to break the fragile plane between us. Or even if I should.
“Just … out of curiosity … if fictional Katya asked fictional Sawyer to stay with her tonight, what would fictional Sawyer say?” I ask.
“He’d say yes. Without hesitation.”
The answer makes my heart somersault. “So you’re saying fictional Sawyer has none of the honor issues real Sawyer does. Too bad real Sawyer doesn’t -”
He kisses me lightly, enough to shut me up.
“I’m saying, let’s skip the coffee and go upstairs,” he whispers. “Unless you want to keep playing this game.”
No part of me wants to. I press my lips to his in response, emotions I’ve never experienced working their way through my system. Sawyer deepens the kiss leisurely, and I lean into him, my body burning too badly for him for me to try and play it cool.
He pulls away. “Come on.” Drawing me up, he leads me through the house to the third floor and my room. I follow in a daze, hardly daring to believe this is really happening and so aroused, if it doesn’t, I might die.
We make it to my room, and he tugs me into his arms, his lips claiming mine once more. Mine part, and his tongue slides in to taste me while I deepen the kiss to get a taste of him. Cocoa and mint, light and dark, sweet and heady. His taste is intoxicating, complicated, like he is. Despite the need I know he feels, he takes his time, exploring my mouth while his hands run down my body, over my clothes.
His mouth, the thick arousal pressed to my lower belly and the firmness of his touch convey how hot his hunger for me is. My body is fevered, the ache at my core almost too strong to tolerate.
But still he is patient, the opposite of me even here, relishing each second while I push him for more.
The sense I had about him soon after meeting, that he’s not the kind of guy you walk away from, is pounding into the back of my mind, warning me this isn’t a fling.
This is something much more already, something so deep and primal, it almost scares me. We barely walked away from one another the last time we kissed. This time, we won’t. If his kiss stayed with me for months, made me look at every potential date I met differently, what will sleeping with him do?
I’ll never want anyone else.
My hands slide up his sweater and over the warm skin of his chiseled his abs and chest. He’s solid, hard, strong.
He breaks off the kiss to tug off his shirt then presses his mouth to mine again. I let my hands roam his upper body, amazed and enthralled by the shapely muscles and his strength. His scent is stronger without his shirt, a mix of coconut and man, as complicated and consuming as his flavor.
I love it. I love that he’s got so many layers, so many puzzles for my senses. The hollow between my thighs is wet with need, my mind already fantasizing about how it’ll feel when he’s inside me.
Sawyer’s hands go up my shirt, one drifting over the scars on my back, and I hesitate for the first time.
The scars remind me of how much we’ve been through, of how battered we both are as people. He’s honorable, good and deserves everything good in the world. Being this close to someone this amazing reminds me of how flawed and imperfect I really am.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine.
“I, uh … one sec.” Prying myself loose from him, I go to stand in front of the hearth. The fire is the only light in my room.
Sawyer trails without crowding me, calm as always when my hands are trembling from emotion and need. I wish so much that I could have more self-control like he does, especially right now. My soul feels exposed, and I’m terrified we’ll end up where we’ve been the past few months: devastated.
I pull off my shirt and unsnap my bra, dropping both. “I want to show you my scars.”
“I’ve seen them, Katya,” he replies gently.
I face him, not surprised when his eyes go to my breasts. He’s so sexy right now, standing in his jeans with his perfect upper body exposed. His brown eyes are bright with desire, his features softened with affection.
“No, Sawyer,” I say with some impatience. “I want you to see all of me. Every last imperfection. Because I’m afraid if we do this, and you don’t …” I can’t finish. I don’t know how to say what I feel. This is so much more than one night with him, and if he is going to be scared off by something about me, I’d rather know that now than later.
My heart can’t take him breaking it again. I’m about to lower every inch of my guard to someone I admire and respect more than I can express, and I’m scared.
His gaze lifts to mine and understanding flickers through his features. “Show me,” he whispers.
I fumble with my jeans and unbutton them, pushing them and my underwear to the floor. I turn my back to him and pull my hair over one shoulder, so he can see the extent of the damage.
“I’ve got a lot of scars,” I say into the quietness.
His hand touches my shoulder lightly and goes down my back, tracing the edges of the scar tissue.
“You’re beautiful to me, Katya,” he murmurs, his other hand resting on one of my hips. I can feel the heat of his bare chest, inches from my back. “I don’t care how many scars you have or understand why you think who you are is going to scare me off.” His voice carries a tender note.
I listen, hardly daring to breathe. His hands skim my shoulders and down my sides, wrapping around me to my belly, where he clasps them and leans into me. His skin is hot at my back, the strong arms I’ve admired for months holding me securely.
“I won’t hurt you in any way, Katya,” he adds. “I’m here because I want to be with you. Nothing will change that. If this is too fast, I’m happy to wait until you’re ready.”
“No,” I murmur. I rest my hands over top his.
“I know what kind of person you are, and I like who you are. Enough to fly halfway around the world to see if there’s even the smallest chance you feel the same.”
“I do, Sawyer,” I whisper. Even hearing his words, it almost seems too incredible to be possible. That Sawyer Mathis, the man I’ve given hell since we met, is actually interested in me …
He turns me to face him. “You’re beautiful. Passionate, sweet, giving. You make me feel like it’s okay to let someone in finally.” He searches my gaze as he speaks. “When I got your letter, I thought there was no chance of ever seeing you again, and that crushed me.”
“I’m so sorry, Sawyer.” I touch his face and then wrap my arms around his neck, leaning into him. My heart is pounding hard, my body screaming for him to touch every part of me.
“We both had to heal, I think, before we were ready for this,” he says. “I swear, Katya, I want to be with you. Nothing you can do or say, no shoe you throw at me, will ever change my mind.”
I smile at the mention of the shoe. He’s serious and sincere, which is almost as mind blowing as the idea he’s holding me right now. I pull his head down to me and kiss him.
A different kind of warmth is blooming inside me, stoked to life by the idea he feels what I do about us.
Desire soon overtakes conscious thought, and I sigh when his hands reach my breasts, pausing to tease my nipples, before they continue down my body. He releases me briefly to remove his pants and picks me up, carrying me to my bed. I listen to his heartbeat, my blood racing.
Setting me down, he lies beside me on his side, his hand exploring my body while his mouth finds mine. His controlled, slow approach is killing me, driving me mad with need, and I shift onto my side, wrapping a thigh over his and trying to pull him on top of me.
Sawyer breaks off with a soft laugh. He pushes me onto my back once more and stays in place.
“I want to experience every part of you,” he whispers and kisses me. His hand glides down my lower belly to the sensitive hollow of my body.
“Sawyer!” I complain.
My knees part automatically to give him better access to the part of me that’s almost painful with need. His fingers slide into me, and I groan.
“So wet. And here I wasn’t sure if you really liked me,” he teases.
“I do!” I snap breathlessly. “I want to be yours. I’ve never wanted that with anyone else. It scares me, but I want you to have all of me, down to my scars.”
His fingers still, and his eyes travel from my body to my face.
“That’s how I feel. Right or wrong,” I add.
I’m expecting a verbal response. Instead, he kisses me and presses me back, his body lowering onto mine. The heat of his skin against mine and the hunger in his kiss scatter my thoughts, send me into sensory overload, while his arousal tickles the opening of my core in a way that makes me claw at his back and try to wriggle into position.
Sawyer enters me slowly, inch by inch, and my body grows taut. At no time in my adult life have I ever felt the need to come from penetration, but with him, it’s entirely different.
It’s more than physical. I opened my heart and soul to one man, the best man I’ve ever known, one who makes me want to be the best person I can be, who challenges me mentally and stirs me physically.
It’s knowing he’s seen my scars, survived my pain and born my misguided anger – and still chosen to be with me.
It’s admitting to myself that it’s not only okay to lower my guard to someone else, it’s worth risking everything I am to be loved in a way only someone like Sawyer can love me.
Whatever this is between us, it’s too strong to walk away from, and I never want to make that mistake again.
I arch beneath him, overwhelmed physically and emotionally, unable to control the intense pleasure building in response to his rhythmic thrusting and the friction of our bodies, to the intimacy of being one with him, with Sawyer Mathis. My legs are wrapped around his hips, my arms hugging him as close as possible.
“Come for me, Katya,” he whispers into my ear.
My world shatters, and I murmur his name as pleasure breaks over me, sweeping me even deeper into my senses, filling me with waves of ecstasy and his scent, skin, heat.
He slows.
My eyes flutter open, and I gaze up at him. I’m trembling from my climax and reach up to trace a finger across his lips.
I could get used to this, to lying beneath him and feeling him inside me.
“I want you to be mine in every way, baby,” he adds.
His tenderness makes me want to melt. I breathe in our combined scent. “Do you want to be mine?”
“You pretty much already own me.”
“Really?” I start to smile.
“Yeah.”
“I like that.”
“I figured you would.”
“I want you to make love to me until we can’t walk,” I whisper.
“A good Marine always follows orders.”
I’m smiling when his lips claim mine. Within seconds, it’s like I didn’t already come. I’m burning for him with too much desire to control.
No longer caring about self-control, I drop the last of the guards around my heart and tackle him with every ounce of passion I contain.
***
I’ve never felt so euphoric and happy as I do the next morning. Taking a quick shower, I pull on my bathrobe and glance at my glowing, grinning reflection. It’s the first time since Mikael’s death where I’ve felt … happy. Truly happy.
Incredible isn’t enough of a word to describe last night. Sawyer was more than I expected of any man.
I want you to be mine in every way, baby.
The words, and how he looked at me when he said them, hit me hard enough that I start to tremble in the middle of the bathroom. I balance myself against the wall. My inner thighs are sore, but I’m already growing wet for him once more. The fire that’s been smoldering between us since we met enveloped both of us last night. There were no survivors in our passion, no barriers or walls that could withstand everything we did last night.
“Breathe, Katya.” I recover and comb my hair before braiding it.
Tossing it over my shoulder, I exit the bathroom. To my surprise, he’s not in bed but nearing the door.
Fully dressed, with boots, as if he’s leaving. The small voice that’s been warning me about him being gone in two days is a little louder. I ignored it last night, too swept away in the physical sensations to want to think about not spending another night with him.
Sawyer reaches the door, and I debate whether or not I should say anything or just throw a shoe. I’m not sure why I feel the urge to flip the switch on my anger. Maybe because I’m a little embarrassed about plunging head first into a relationship without knowing if we can have one.
The door opens.
“Captain where-are-you is leaving without telling me where he’s going?” I challenge.
“I texted you.”
Picking up my phone, I check and see he has. “Going for coffee,” I read. “You need shoes in the kitchen?”
“Oh, no. We’re not starting like this.” He closes the door and faces me.
My breath catches at the sight of his handsome features. My face is warm, my body humming with desire already.
“You need to decide now if you’re going to trust me. Because if you don’t, this won’t work,” he says firmly.
What won’t work? I rarely think more than a day ahead. I know he’s the opposite. What I can’t figure out: if he’s only thinking two days ahead or much farther.
Or even if I care, if I can get his clothes off him right now. I don’t like there being anything between us, more so after last night, when I got to experience Sawyer without his Iceman face or guard.
He’s even more beautiful unguarded than he is now.
“I’m going to tell your brother about us then get us both coffee,” he says when I’m quiet.
“Petr?” I say, startled. “You’re going to tell Petr you slept with me?”
“No.” Sawyer gives a faint smile. “Mikael. He brought us together. I thought I would thank him.”
My god. I think I love this man.