Page 35 of Almost Ravaged

Her place is only six and a half minutes from ours, and that’s while walking at an average pace. I could be here in five if needed.

Atty looked at me like I was crazy when I told him I timed it. He’s never been all that diligent about his sister’s safety, though. Not the way I have.

Relief I didn’t even know I needed washed over me last week when Sawyer mentioned that she’d be working at the ice arena. I just feel better when she’s close by.

Once I hit the top step, I stride to room 1D and rap my knuckles on the door three times.

Immediately, a rustling sound comes from inside. “One sec.”

I rest my forearm on the jamb and settle in to wait. A full minute later, the door swings open with so much force that it rebounds off the wall.

“Good grief.” Sawyer cranes back to check the wall, laughing to herself, then straightens and smiles. “Hi.”

Fuck. Me.

Instantly, my heart goes haywire.

She’s a fucking sight to behold.

One would think I’d be used to the visceral way my body reacts to her, but it still takes me by surprise sometimes. The connection between us is a fucking lifeline, and I’ve craved it nonstop for the last three years. Now that we’re together again, I refuse to take one second of her proximity for granted.

She’s all dressed up, glowing and gorgeous, looking at me like there’s no one else in the entire fucking world.

“Ty. You okay?” she asks, concern etched on her face.

Shit. I glitched.

“Hi,” I croak out. “Ready—” I clear my throat. “Ready to go?”

“Almost. Don’t laugh…” Sawyer bites down on her bottom lip, her big brown eyes searching my face. “But I need your help.”

“Anything,” I reply, well and truly meaning it.

“Come in.” She holds out an arm and backs up, welcoming me into her space. “I texted Keira, but she hasn’t seen the message yet.”

Good. I hate Keira. She was a horrible influence when we were teenagers. Her boyfriend was a punk and low-level drug dealer, and any time anything went poorly for Sawyer, Keira was involved.

“Cameron and Kai have opposing opinions.” She flits over to her desk where her bag sits on her chair, packed and ready, and turns back to me, toying with the buttons on her sweater. “So, I guess you’re my tiebreaker.”

Brows raised, I slip my hands into my pockets and wait for her to explain.

“Cardigan,” she says, smoothing her hands down the thin cream fabric.

Right before my eyes, she peels the garment off her body, revealing expanses of smooth, pale skin covered in freckles, and I swear my heart stops.

“Or,” she continues, as if she has no idea how she affects me, “no cardigan?”

She props one hand on her hip, striking a pose.

Fuckin’ A.

Like this, her tits are pushed together, putting her ample cleavage on display. The dark green base layer is barely big enough to be considered a real shirt. It’s like a tank top and a crop top had a baby. Though the color goes well with the high-waisted dark brown skirt she’s paired it with. A skirt, I’m realizing, that’s perfectly molded to her body.

The stitches along the slit in the middle strain as she continues to stand like that, with one hip cocked. I can’t even fathom the danger they’ll be in once she sits down.

She’s a smoke show. On a scale of one to ten, she’s a fucking twenty. My hands physically ache with the desire to caress her hips and thighs, to wank open the stitches of the fucking slit that are already hanging on for dear life.

“Sawyer…” I’m at a loss for fucking words. There’s not a single appropriate thought in my head.