Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (47 page)

Threats? Who is threatening him?

He hangs up, looks at me. The hard
expression remains for one moment, then he grins. "Good morning," he
says. He comes up to me, pulls me to him, and kisses me. A deep, long, slow
kiss. I stand on my tiptoes. I’ve never been kissed like this, like I’m the
most beautiful person in the world. It’s exhilarating.

I kiss him better now that I have
more experience. My kiss is softer, more skilled, more playful. Definitely more
passionate. I don’t feel clumsy now. I’m just dissolving in the sheer
emotional, arousing pleasure of caressing his mouth with mine.

Someone whistles. Someone else says
playfully, "Get a room. No, wait—you have one. Go use it."

The guy frying bacon shouts and
slaps at his arm, where bacon fat hit his biceps.

I’m blushing when Sawyer breaks the
kiss. "Is there any other food in the fridge?" he asks casually.

"There’s beer," says the
blond guy.

"Breakfast of champions,"
adds the auburn-haired roommate, unhelpfully.

Sawyer rolls his gorgeous eyes. He
looks to me. "Let’s go out for breakfast."

We grab coats and shoes, and he
leads me outside through the garage. It’s a two-car garage, filled by a large
black pickup truck and a trailer that had something standing on it, covered in
a tarp. There are workbenches and shelves, all of them covered in tools, tool
chests, rags, and an assortment of shiny chrome objects that must be car or
motorcycle parts.

Sawyer pauses. Turns to me. "Want
to see my bike?" At my confusion, he adds, "My race bike." He
pulls off the tarp.

"Wow." All my breath
whooshes out and I’m dazzled.

When I’ve drawn another breath, I
say, "That’s the most sensuous piece of machinery I’ve ever seen."

His eyebrows rise at my comment.

Cautiously, I approach the bike. It
is glossy cherry red and all sweeping curves. It barely looks like a
motorcycle. It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. There could be a
whole futuristic TV show made about this bike, it looks so cool. I reach out to
stroke the curve of the seat, then stop myself.

"Can I touch it?"

"Of course."

I run my hand over the smooth,
supple leather, then my fingertips glide along the shiny, scarlet cowling. I
think that’s what it’s called. Then I touch the seat again. This is where
Sawyer’s incredible ass sits and where his crotch rests when his legs are
spread to straddle the bike. Just thinking of that makes me feel hot and liquid
inside. 

"It’s really beautiful. It
must be very valuable."

"Reasonably so," he
answers, noncommittally. "I’ve upgraded it a lot myself."

I look around. The whole garage is
a workshop. "Do you get the whole garage to yourself?"

"That’s the deal. I own the
house."

"Own the
house
?"

"Yeah. I rent the rooms mainly
to give other guys a place to live at a reasonable price."

Jenna had said he made a lot of
money from racing bikes. I guess it’s true. "Speaking of which, why was
your roommate eating so much bacon?"

"Because he bought it. He
knows if he leaves it in the fridge, everyone else will eat it."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Food in the fridge is
always fair game. So any guy that brings in food tends to eat it all at once."

Sawyer grins and I know it’s true.
He hauls up the garage door. I love watching his back muscles bunch and move under
his coat as he does it. We take his gorgeous red car—I guess I know his
favorite color.

A few minutes later, we’re in a
diner on Westingham’s main street for their brunch buffet. We’re sitting in a
booth by the window, drinking coffee. Sawyer reaches out and strokes my
fingers. It’s such a sweet gesture, it surprises me. All I heard about from my
friends were his one night stands, where he and his partner parted in the
morning and didn’t hook up again.

I try to think of something
brilliant to say, but nothing comes. "Do you like racing bikes?"
Duh—I’m sure that’s obvious.

But he frowns thoughtfully. "I
don’t know. At the beginning, I loved it. Loved the speed. I liked the money—I
needed it for my mother’s treatments. The truth is, I also liked proving I was
the best. But you can only make money if you have a sponsor." Sawyer
sneers on the word sponsor. "What I didn’t understand was that once you’ve
done that, you’ve sold your soul."

As a high school outcast, I spent a
lot of time watching people. Reading them. I can see intense anger behind his
cool expression.

"What do you mean?" I
ask.

"My sponsors call the shots.
Without their high stake bets, I wouldn’t be hauling in so much money. I have
to do what they say. It means that if he wants me to throw a race, I have to do
it."

"But you don’t want to stop
because you need the money."

"Yeah, that’s the basic
problem."

Our waitress comes with our plates
of food. Sawyer gets the ‘blue collar special’, which includes 3 servings of
sausages, bacon, and ham, along with eggs and home fries. I’m having waffles
and fruit.

"I’d like to see you again
tonight, Claire, but I’m racing."

"Okay," I say. I don’t
want to look desperate and girls in high school said you had to make a guy pant
after you. But I don’t know anything about games. I just want to see him. "Could
I go and watch you race?"

"No."

He says it so sharply I draw back.

With a savage tear of his knife, he
cuts off a third of a sausage and eats it in one bite.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to
bite your head off." Sawyer lowers his voice. "Street racing is
illegal, Claire. Half the time, cops show up and break up the race. I wouldn’t
want you to get in trouble. If I’m racing, I can’t look after you."

"You mean you could be
arrested."

"If
I got caught, yeah. But I don’t get caught."

* * *

At midnight, my cell phone rings.

I’m studying in my room, working on
calculus problems. Abby is out at a party, so I’m lounging on my bed, eating
Doritos. It’s my secondary vice when popcorn dripping with melted butter isn’t
available. And dripping anything never works well with dorm beds. Too much
laundry.

The ringing seems to make
everything I ever knew about math fall out of my head. Who would call me now?

Oh God, what if it’s Mom? What if
something is wrong with my brother Charley?

My heart accelerates really fast,
comes to a dead stop, then up speeds again.

Answer the phone
, my brain screams at my paralyzed body.

I grab my phone from the bedside
table. Not my mom. It’s Sawyer.

"Hello?" I’m confused
since he’s supposed to be racing again tonight. I haven’t seen him for two
days. We spent the afternoon together, after our first date, studying. Well, we
studied for a few hours, then he gave me oral sex again. And again. And again.
And I gave it to him just as many times. I miss him incredibly and it’s only
been a day and a half.

"Claire? Did I wake you?"
His voice is hoarse and raw.

"No, I was studying. I hadn’t
realized it was so late."

"Is it too late to see you? I
need to see you tonight. I—hell, I don’t want to be alone tonight."

Pain reverberates in his voice. "Of
course I can see you. Sawyer, what’s wrong?"

He lets out a long, shuddering
groan. It’s subtle and quiet, but filled with agony. "At the race, a
friend of mine crashed, Claire. He’s dead."

Dead? I sit there, shocked and
speechless.

"Claire?"

I don’t want to ask him how it
happened. Or ask him a bunch of questions. I’m stunned that I am who he called,
who he needs. "Do you want me to come and see you? I can take a cab."

"I’ll come and get you."

"Are you sure you should be
driving, Sawyer?"

"Yeah, because I want to see
you as soon as I can. I don’t want to force you to come all the way out here.
And hell, I make money driving." He gives a short, bitter, anger-filled
laugh. "Nothing throws off my ability to drive."

Chapter
Four

When Sawyer comes for me, he
drives the black truck I saw in his garage. I hug him. I wrap my arms tight
around his hard torso and press my cheek to his chest, into the smooth, cool
leather of his jacket. "I’m so sorry about your friend."

"Thanks." His voice is
even huskier than on the phone. He gently grips my arms and makes me step back,
so I have to stop holding him. He opens the truck passenger door for me.

I slide in and wait for him to get
in. As he turns on the ignition, I say softly, "Is it okay if I ask who
your friend was? What his name was?"

Sawyer drives out of the residence
roadway and merges onto the main campus drive, his eyes on the road. "His
name was Jaxon. Jaxon Winters. But I can’t talk about it yet, Claire. I just—I
need you."

I’m stunned.

And my heart aches for him.

I want to be with him, but I have
no idea how to make him feel better.

All I know from experiencing
painful things is that you can’t instantly feel better. It never works that
way.

At his house, we go in through the
garage. He holds my hand—holds it firmly. At his bedroom door, he says, "You
said you wanted to go to bed with me. Is it still true?" He tips up my
chin and kisses me. A long, slow kiss. "I’d like to make love with you."

I didn’t expect this. I never thought
this was what he wanted tonight. But I say, "Okay. I’d like to do it with
you."

His mouth takes mine again, in
another hot, caressing, intense kiss.

With
his booted foot, he pushes open his door and draws me inside.

* * *

I’m lying naked on his bed and
the covers are a tangle at the foot of the bed. The room is dim and shadowy.
Only moonlight spills in his high windows. His gorgeous, muscled body is
silvery-blue in the soft, pale light.

Sawyer is going down on me. He
grips my bottom to lift my pussy to his mouth.

His tongue does magical things to
me. Seriously enchanting things.

He rasps it over my clit, making
circles on my sensitive nub, and my fingers are almost tearing the sheet
beneath me. But I relax and let pleasure take me.

I keep thinking. In high school, I
was considered a ‘brain’ because I spent all my time thinking about math and
science; about homework, lessons, projects.

Now I can’t turn off my brain. I
keep thinking that
Sawyer
could have had an accident. I keep wondering:
what happened to his friend? How did the accident happen? Is Sawyer going to
race again? And weren’t there cops there afterward? How did Sawyer escape
getting arrested?

Stop
thinking
.

I reach down and tap him on the
shoulder. He keeps teasing my clit with his tongue. I’m writhing and wriggling
on the bed, trying to stop long enough to get his attention. It’s so intense,
so good, but I want him inside me. Even though I haven’t come yet. I want to
hold him in my arms. I want to wrap my body around his hot and gorgeous body.
Kiss his mouth and his neck and his ear, and have my body pressed as tight to
his as it can be.

His tongue strums my clit and I
scream. Pleasure bursts. I scream through the orgasm that ravages me. I flop
back on the bed. I’m laughing and almost crying.

He starts licking and suckling me
again.

I tap his shoulder again. Finally,
I tug lightly on his hair.

He looks up. "Can I help you?"

I have to giggle. I’m so
amazed—he’s being natural and normal just for me, I’m sure. But though he’s
teasing me, the pain in his eyes is staggering. "Yes. I want you inside
me. I’m
aching
for you. Now. Please."

This is totally new to me. The
breathless moment as he moves over me. His hands brace on either side of my
head, his long legs lie between mine. His cock touches my belly. And leaves a
dribble of sticky fluid.

He reaches for something on his
bedside table, supporting his weight on his elbow. The small foil package
tears. I watch, eyes wide, as he touches the condom to the tip of his cock. He
arranges it, unrolls it, leaving a gap at the end. The end of the condom is
only about two-thirds of the way down his cock.

I gaze into his violet eyes as he
touches his cock to me, stroking it between my pussy lips. He parts them,
releasing a flood of juice from my orgasm.

"You’re so wet," he
murmurs.

"For you. Because you just
made me come like crazy."

I lift my leg and wrap it around
his hip. That pulls him down and his cock sinks into me.

Oh. Wow. Oh. God. This is what it
feels like. I’m stretched. Full. It’s perfect. But strange—I’m sensitive enough
to feel him, to be aware of him, but not so aware that I can feel everything.

Then he thrusts, his hips moving,
his crotch touching mine, rubbing my clit which is soooo sensitive. He draws
back. I lift to him but my rhythm is wrong, I move too far back, and his cock
falls out. We both reach down to push him back in.

In he goes, thick and full. I love
having him inside. It’s so intimate. He’s deep in me, deeper than I’ve ever
felt inside me, I think. I can touch him all over while he thrusts in me.
Running my hands over his shoulders, I marvel at how strong and broad they are.
My fingers scratch down his beautiful back. I grip his ass. I hold his taut
cheeks and I work him as he drives into me.

I arch to him and let his rhythm
guide me.

He slams his cock deep into me.
Then he arches up and I gaze into his eyes.

His cock strokes somewhere inside
me, touches something so intense, my brain blanks out. I’m swirling in sweet,
delirious pleasure. I’m—

Coming with another huge scream.

 "Claire," Sawyer
murmurs, and his voice is throaty and ragged.

I run my hands all over him,
savoring the way I’ve made him so sweaty.

His forehead touches mine and we
stay still, trading fast, hard breaths.

He draws out and lies beside me.

I’m exhausted. And sore. I had no
idea my inner thighs would hurt so much from stretching wide around his hips.

Suddenly I realize he’s still hard.

He didn’t come.

What did I do wrong? Why can’t he
come with me?

Logic tells me it must be because
he’s upset. But the insecure part of me, the part that descended into
depression when I got teased in high school, fears it’s because he came to me
to use sex to feel better and he’s realized he’s not into me.

"Can you—?" I can’t ask
that, can I? I don’t want to hurt him or his masculine pride and give him a
performance anxiety issue. "I’m sorry," I say finally. "I don’t
have experience. I’m not any good at this."

"You are amazing. I just can’t
get there." He kissed my forehead. His chest moves fast with shallow
breaths. "I thought I could blank out my head with sex with you, since I
want you so much. I guess it doesn’t work that way. I really apologize because
you are fantastic."

True? Or is he just trying to be
nice? In high school, I lost familiarity with the concept of trying to be nice.
Yes, I kept it up, but once I was bullied, other people seemed to lose
kindness. It was as if it was okay to pick on me because you were just being
part of the crowd.

"Did you get off?" he
asks. "I thought you did." There’s such anxiety in his gorgeous
violet eyes.

"I did. I—I’ve never done that
before."

"I gave you your first orgasm?"

"I mean…uh…with someone. While
making love with someone."

A wicked grin curves his mouth. "Someday
I’d like to watch you make yourself come."

My face blushes hot. Though I
realize I would love to watch him jerk off. I would learn an incredible amount
about what a guy likes. And when I think about seeing his strong hand wrapped
around his shaft, I get all weak, achy, and hot inside. 

"Do you think you could…jerk
off and come? Maybe if you’re doing it, it would happen." This isn’t about
learning from him or even the fact I think it would be wildly erotic to watch.
He wanted an orgasm to ‘blank out his head’. I couldn’t give him one.

"I don’t think I can get off."

I put my own doubts aside. How
would I feel if I’d lost a friend? Hurt. No, more than that. Actually in agony.
I’d feel sick. The first time Charley was in the hospital, when he was first
diagnosed, I overheard one of the doctors say he should have an operation
immediately or he could die. In that instant, I felt like I’d turned to ice.
The fear and shock and pain were so much, it was like my brain exploded. I took
care of Mom and I was with her when she talked to the doctors. But all the
while, it was like I couldn’t really think. My brain would not allow me to
encompass the whole truth of the situation.

In the end, an older, more
experienced doctor said to wait. And they did. And Charley was okay. I mean, he
has a condition, but he didn’t lose any of his colon and he’s been able to keep
the disease under control since then with medication.

What Sawyer needs is to be taken
care of. "Why don’t you try going to sleep?" I say. "Just rest,
at least."

"Will you stay with me?"

"Yes,
of course. I’ll look after you."

* * *

A couple of hours later, I wake
up. Gray light filters in through the two high windows—since Sawyer has a
basement room, the windows are close to the ceiling. You can’t really see out
of them. I roll over, to see if he’s okay.

He’s not there.

Panicked I sit up. Where did he go?
I get up. I don’t want to get completely dressed so I pull on his robe. I walk
upstairs to the main floor.

Sawyer is sitting on the couch in
the dark living room, wearing nothing but silk boxers. His head is bowed, his
shoulders shaking. He clasps a beer between his outstretched legs. As he lifts
the bottle to his mouth, tipping back his head to drain it, I see the pain in
his eyes.

I slip out of the shadows and go to
him. Padding across the carpet, I go to him and curl up at his feet between his
legs.

"Claire—" His voice
catches. He sounds shaky, raw.

I stroke his bare leg. Then get up
on my knees and caress his hands. I stroke the side of his face, his stubble
tickling my palm. He lets the empty bottle drop to the carpet.  He makes the
strangest sound, and it takes me a minute to realize tears have dropped to his
cheeks.

"Oh Sawyer, I’m so sorry."
I stand up and wrap my arms around him, holding him as close as I can. He
turns, burying his face into my breasts in the neckline of his terry cloth
robe.

To soothe him, I stroke his hair
and kiss the top of his head. I’ve never heard a guy cry like this and it
breaks my heart.

He pulls me close so I sit,
straddling his leg. For a long time, we sit like this, twined together. His
shoulders stop shaking. He looks at me. In the moonlight, his eyes are
mysteriously dark, his face rendered beautifully by silver-blue light and deep
shadow.

Cupping my face, he kisses me
deeply.

When he stops I whisper, "Are
you okay? It’s four a.m. You should come back to bed."

"I can’t sleep. Every time I
close my eyes, I see the accident like I’m reliving it."

How could he bear seeing his friend
die in front of his eyes?

He looks at me with empty eyes. In
the faint grey light, they look grey too, instead of violet. "You should
go to bed, Claire."

"I’m worried about you. I
don’t mind staying up."

Sawyer groans and lifts me onto my
feet, then stands. "You need to go to bed."

"Come
with me. We could make love again—if that would make you feel better. Or we could
just lie there. I’ll do whatever you want to do." I hold his hand and lead
him down to his room and back to bed.

* * *

I want to distract Sawyer from
his pain. So when we reach his bedroom, I do something daring—well, very daring
for me.

I stand at the foot of his bed,
watching him, and I let his robe drop off me to the floor. Leaving me
completely naked. "What’s the sexiest, craziest thing you’ve ever wanted
to do but haven’t tried?"

Sawyer lies on his back on his bed,
arms beneath his head. His eyes go wide as the robe falls. Now, his lips move
but he doesn’t speak, like he wants to say something but can’t. I know he is
thinking about something specific, but apparently it’s something he’s not
willing to tell me.

I was a total virgin for him. "Is
there anything in which you are still a virgin?" I coax. "It can be
anything. Just tell me."

His shy smile makes my heart tumble
in my chest. Then he says, "Anal sex. I’ve always wanted to try anal sex.
But you don’t have to, Claire."

What would it be like? I’ve heard
of it. And read about it in
How to Thrill a Guy in Seven Sex Acts
.