Page 3 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter three

Sawyer

M y heart pounds against my chest at a frenetic pace and my breaths come quickly. I’m too lost to my chaotic thoughts to be embarrassed. I’m too aware of his effect on me to pretend this isn’t happening.

On instinct, I pull back.

It’s stupid, my reaction. Because out of his grasp is the last place I want to be.

As if he knows, he tightens his grip. He brings his lips to my ear, the heat emanating off his body shrouding me like a warm blanket.

“Look at you, mon ange. I didn’t even have to chase you. You ran straight into my arms.”

My stomach flip-flops.

Mon ange.

He’s never called me that before.

And he sounds as pleased as I feel about our current predicament.

I tip my head back, giving him more of my weight, relishing the way his heart pounds against my back through our vests. The rhythm calls to me, plucking at my heartstrings and sparking every cell in my body to life until I’m buzzing with anticipation .

I’m so deeply affected by his proximity. By the way his fingers circle my wrists. By the way he stares at me through the dark, occasionally letting his gaze dip to my mouth, my neck, my heaving chest.

The lightest of touches inspires tingles all over my skin, an effervescence more powerful than I’ve ever experienced. He’s leaning forward. Inching closer. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what will happen if he actually kisses me right now.

“There.”

“Ew. What are they doing?”

“Get ’em.”

My vest vibrates between our bodies when the first hit registers, and I shudder impulsively.

With a scowl, Tytus pulls back. Then he snags my hand and takes off.

Between the intensity of his grasp and his natural speed, I have no choice but to follow.

The vest vibrates again, then again, setting a rapid rhythm, each hit sending a jolt through my body.

“Tytus,” I squeal, lifting one hand to my chest, as if that’ll shield me from the onslaught. “They’re nailing me.”

He growls, and before I can even register what’s happening, our positions are swapped. He’s behind me now, his back to mine.

“Keep running.” He raises his laser and takes aim.

I turn, and for one breath, I let myself admire his wide stance and the broad, tense shoulder muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. Then I get enough wits about me to actually help, firing a few shots at the kids on the edge of the group.

“Sawyer. Go.”

I pivot on my heel and take off, though I instantly slam a shoulder into a carpeted wall.

With a quiet umph, I steady myself. Once I’ve got my bearings, I make two lefts and dart into the shelter of a small alcove at the back of the arena.

With my hand to my chest, I will my heart rate to settle and take stock.

It’s darker back here, only the glow of one black light illuminating the space. I’m an easy target for anyone who stumbles upon me.

Hiding here is a terrible defensive strategy, but it’s more than ideal if Tytus’s head is where I think it is and he hopes to find me waiting .

My breaths continue to saw in and out of my lungs, but the constricting vest makes it nearly impossible to pull in enough air.

Groaning, I unbuckle the bottom clips, releasing the straps that dig into the soft part of my waist. Relief washes over me immediately, and I pull in the deepest breath I’ve taken all day. Closing my eyes, I focus on slow, steady inhales, even as my pulse continues to race.

When Tytus doesn’t immediately appear, apprehension floods my veins. I shift from hip to hip and roll my neck from side to side, all the while second-guessing my choice to hide here. Should I go back out there and find him? How much longer until the game is over?

I stick my laser gun between my thighs and adjust my bun, slicking back all the loose, frizzy tendrils.

Once that’s done, I still don’t know what to do with my hands.

Why didn’t I check the countdown clock before I hid?

It feels as though it’s stopped. I resort to cracking my knuckles, a bad habit I picked up way too young and have never been able to break.

So young, in fact, that I remember sitting on the hard, cold bleachers at Atty’s first U8 tournament and pressing down on each knuckle until my joints were so stiff I couldn’t make a fist.

Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I’ve just started the process over on my left hand when a whisper snags my attention.

“Rogue?”

My body tenses, aching from the inside out.

“Back here,” I choke out, my heart now taking up residence in my throat.

Then I wait.

Wait, and hold my breath.

Wait, and hope, and wonder. What are we doing? Why does today feel so different?

Tytus rounds the corner, his massive frame blocking out the black light and overtaking all my senses. He’s in my space, his scent in my nostrils. The heat radiating off his body serves as my own personal cocoon.

I gulp, tamping down on the intensity of my reaction, though mostly unsuccessfully.

I have no chill today, clearly.

“There you are. You’re okay?” He hovers close, one hand suspended as if he wants to caress my cheek. Like he needs the confirmation .

I roll my lips to keep from laughing at his earnestness. I’m fine. More than fine. It’s just laser tag.

“Sawyer?” he urges.

“I’m okay.” I push off the wall and inch closer. “Slightly salty you shot me earlier,” I hedge with the shrug of one shoulder. “But otherwise fine.”

He searches my face, his expression unreadable in the near dark. When his tongue darts out to wet his lips, my own does the same.

“Maybe I could make it up to you.” He brushes his fingers against mine and angles in impossibly closer.

I tilt my head back, silently welcoming the offer.

His eyes flit between mine with urgency as he shifts forward again, only to nudge the laser gun still lodged between my thighs.

Frowning, he peers into the inch of space between us. When understanding registers, he breaks into a wily smirk and snakes one large hand toward the weapon, allowing his fingertips to brush the waistline of my leggings.

I startle, my heart jumping into my throat, when his fingers brush along my stomach and keep traveling lower.

No one has ever touched me there , and suddenly, I’m anxious about what it might feel like.

Not just for me, but for him. I’m almost certain I’ve sweated through my underwear and that if he lingered there, he’d feel the warmth and the moisture I can’t control. Am I too wet? Too soft? Too–

“Fuck, mon ange,” he groans.

Breath catching, I zero in on his face. His eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, exposing the cords of muscle in his thick neck.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of touching you like this?”

Oh.

Exhaling, I will my muscles to relax. I roll my hips forward, straining to give him better access, and steal a desperate glance down between our bodies. In the dark, the details are impossible to make out, but I want to commit this visual to memory anyway.

“Eyes on me.”

As if he’s taken over control of my body, I obey.

His brows are furrowed in concentration, his lids hooded. He’s never looked more beautiful. With a heavy sigh, he rubs over my mound. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” I breathe. This is more than okay. It’s everything I’ve secretly wanted for so long .

Without breaking eye contact, he clutches my hip, steadying me, then adjusts the laser gun between my legs so the shaft is pressed firmly into the apex of my thighs. His hand is so large and so impossibly close to the warm, aching center above the gun.

He never breaks eye contact as he compresses the trigger, forcing the weapon to fire at his chest.

The vibration the gun makes as it recoils ricochets through my core, and a whimper escapes my lips.

His eyes light up. “How many times did I shoot you, mon ange?”

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

“Was it twice?” he asks, feigning innocence. Without waiting for a response, he fires the laser again.

Oh .

The vibration is mild, and yet I feel it in the deepest depths of my insides.

“Or was it three times?” He pulls the trigger again.

My body tenses, wound so tightly I can barely breathe.

He lowers his head until his lips are inches from mine. “Should we make it even, or do you think you should get a few extra shots on me?”

My erratic breathing is the only answer I can conjure.

Tytus pulls the trigger again. And again. And again.

I moan, loud and wanton, the sound unlike anything that’s ever come out of me before.

“ Fuckin’ A ,” he mumbles in response, pressing his forehead into mine. “Tell me not to kiss you, Sawyer. Tell me right fucking now.”

I shake my head. I want his kiss. Just like I want him to keep firing the laser gun until the vibrations send me free-falling over the edge.

Boldly, I grasp the wrist of the hand he’s using to pull the trigger.

“No, as in you don’t want this? Or no, you won’t tell me to stop?”

My finger finds his, and together, we compress it once more, sending pulses through my core as well as his chest.

My knees nearly buckle beneath me.

“Words, mon ange. I need to hear you say it.”

“The—the second one. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop,” I beg.

He presses his entire body into mine until my back hits the wall. The laser tag gun digs into my thighs, the sensation of the barrel against my core making my insides clench .

Just one more hit. That’s all I want. All I need …

“Tytus.” I lick my lips and tip my head back to grant him better access. “Kiss me.”

Time stands still. We’re locked together like this, his scent engulfing me, our bodies so close I don’t know where his ends and mine begins. I part my lips on instinct, desperate to taste him.

His lips ghost over mine, hovering on the precipice.

I close my eyes, prepared to surrender to what I’ve secretly craved for so long.

It’s happening. This is really happening.

A buzzer sounds in the distance, and the overhead lights illuminate the arena. I startle, and Tytus pulls back, eyes wide and panicked.

The game is officially over.