Semper Mine (Sons of War #1)(69)

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 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’s 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 *!”

“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 chiseled his abs and chest. He’s solid, hard, strong.