“Sawyer, you didn’t have to bring anything for me,” my mom says, holding a flat package Bonnie has just placed in her lap.
“It’s just something small; you might have them already,” Sawyer says, leaning back and wrapping an arm around my shoulders again.
I am beyond curious as my mom delicately unwraps the present, and slightly fearful that it might be an inside joke that’s going to poke fun at some ridiculous thing I’ve done and make me laugh.
“Oh, how lovely!” my mom exclaims, holding up what looks like a very old copy of 1, 2, 3 to the Zoo by Eric Carle, followed by an equally old-looking copy of Henry Huggins by Beverly Cleary. “They’re signed!” My mom is elated over any book, but Sawyer hit it out of the park with these two. “I’m surprised Everly admitted her namesake to you. She never lets anyone call her Beverly.”
“And I’m not going to start,” I affirm, “but I’ll admit my name is adorable.”
Sawyer’s pretty adorable too, I decide.
Thirty-Five
“You throw a New Year’s Eve party every year?”
I’m sitting on Sawyer’s vanity, wrapped in a robe, watching him shave. I’m not sure how I’ve never watched him shave before, but it’s definitely my new favorite thing. He’s just gotten out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, baring his chest, my other favorite thing. My poor eyes can’t decide what to focus on.
“Yes. It’s our annual party for the company.”
“What if they don’t want to hang out with you for New Year’s Eve?” I ask, swinging my dangling feet. My toes are painted in Romantically Involved red. Fingers too.
Sawyer rinses the razor under the tap and then brings it back to his face and I am downright mesmerized. I clear my throat and shift on the marble counter.
“The party is optional, Everly. No one is required to ‘hang out’ with me. They can bring whoever they want, enjoy the free food and alcohol, or they can do whatever they want for the evening.” He glances at me as he repeats the rinsing of the razor. “You okay there, Boots?”
“No, I’m kinda wet.”
He glances down at the countertop surrounding the sink, devoid of a single splash, and then back to me. He tilts his head in question and makes another swipe with the razor.
“This shaving thing.” I wave a hand at his face before fanning myself. “It’s fucking hot.”
He pauses, a towel in his hand, and shakes his head. “I really am never sure what’s coming out of your mouth next.” He wipes the remnants of the shaving cream off his face and tosses the towel on the counter, dropping his hands on either side of my hips, caging me in.
“Neither do I, to be honest,” I admit.
He’s laughing as he tugs at my robe’s belt and it falls open.
“No way,” I protest, pushing him off. “I’m almost ready to go.”
“I can’t bring you to a party when you’re horny. There’s no telling what you’ll do.”
“My hair is done.”
“I’ll barely touch you.”
I lean back against the mirror, dubious. “Barely?”
“One-handed,” he replies, holding up his left, his right still planted on the counter next to my hip.
My robe is already gaping open and he slides the tip of his index finger from my belly button down to my clit. I gasp, and he knows he’s got me.
“Feet up, heels on the counter,” he instructs and I lift my knees, eager to comply. My eyelids are already heavy and I’m flushed with desire everywhere.
“Just the one hand?”
“A couple of fingers and a thumb.”
My breathing increases as he slides his finger lower, circling my opening.
“You really are wet,” he notes. He’s standing over me, arm braced on the counter, our bodies only touching at the spot where his finger is rimming me. His face is less than a foot from mine, but he doesn’t make any moves to kiss me or touch me in any other way. His finger slides in an inch and continues the rimming motion, the stretch satisfying. The contact is made more erotic somehow without him touching me in any other way. Our eyes are locked while he touches me so intimately.
He adds his thumb to my clit and I jerk. I feel his fingertip withdraw, then he’s brushing it across my clit, paving the way for his thumb to return, smoothing the wetness around in small circles.
My breasts are heaving and I want a rough hand on them so badly. But he’s resolved in his one-handed promise so I grab them myself. I’m not gentle, my hands cupped underneath, holding the weight of them, my fingers grappling at my flesh before pinching my nipples as hard as I can stand.