Page 28 of Infatuated as They Come (Sinful Trilogy #2)

Holly

I was staring at the clock like it was the most entertaining thing in the apartment.

It was close to ten and my body was begging me to go to bed already.

The day had been a long one and had started off with a trip to the doctor, because Sawyer had been absolutely right about me getting a little stupid during sex. I blamed him for being so good at it.

My legs were throbbing from the intense cheer practice session I had in the morning and my eyes were strained from staring at my laptop and writing my new article for the paper, but it didn’t feel right going to bed without my boyfriend.

Coming home to an empty apartment had become routine over the past month. The place felt too cold and empty, like it didn’t feel right, like someone was missing—and he was. Sawyer was running late again, and like every other night the last four weeks, I had ended up eating dinner alone.

My eyes closed. I couldn’t and wouldn’t say anything.

It had taken Sawyer so long to focus on his art, and now that he was finally doing it, I couldn’t burden him with my feelings, because I already knew what he’d do: he’d give up his weekends, his only time of the week that he had dedicated to himself and his art.

I fidgeted with the blanket that was wrapped around me tighter, hating how the thick, heavy wool wasn’t heating me up in the slightest. Sawyer had a special way of making me feel warmer than anything or anyone ever could.

I missed him. I missed summer. I missed fighting with him at school every two seconds over the dumbest, most idiotic things.

A smile tugged at my lips as I remembered how things used to be.

Just the two of us sitting together was usually enough for one of us to lose it at the other, and so much had changed since then, but all I could think about was the fact that the conversations we had when we were at each other’s throats were longer than the ones we had been having lately.

I had no right to feel lonely. Not when my boyfriend was out there on his feet all day with strained muscles from top to bottom.

But wasn’t I allowed to miss the way things were before?

Even when Sawyer was busy over the summer with his art projects, we were still able to spend time together.

There were days where I’d be at his place when he worked on his paintings, just lying on his bed while I watched him work, his sleeves pushed up and his hands streaked with paint and his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Then we’d head out somewhere and go for some long relaxing drive and sit out in the hot sun, or he’d take me to some place around Dallas I had never been before, or we’d just lie in his bed and kiss all afternoon long, his lips all soft but his hands wonderfully firm as he touched my waist and hips and hands. I missed that.

My eyes closed as I got lost in the memories of summer, of him, of how happy I was to just be with him no matter the place, no matter the time.

It was a blur of memories. Of kisses and dates.

Of heat and his voice. Of his touch and late nights where he was supposed to be anywhere but in my bedroom, his lips right by my ear as he muttered out the filthiest of words as he made me all his, one of his hands pressed to my mouth to keep my whines muffled.

I thought I was imagining something soft and gentle stroking at my face, the touch almost featherlight, but then I felt something else slide under my body and I realized they were hands. Sawyer’s hands. I was in bed a moment later, just barely able to open my eyes as he pulled the blankets over me.

“It’s so late,” I said, voice laced with sleep, and I couldn’t fight off my yawn .

“I know.” He kissed one of my cheeks. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“What happened?”

“Long shift.”

“You left so early.”

“I know,” he said with a sigh.

“And now it’s so late.”

“I know,” he said again.

“You’re so tired. I can hear it in your voice. Come sleep. I miss sleeping next to you.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I miss that too. Miss those grabby little hands. You can’t seem to keep ‘em to yourself.”

“I’m not grabby,” I said with a smile.

“You are. I don’t mind, though. I meant it when I said that you can do whatever you want to me when I’m asleep.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Will you come to bed now please?”

“Let me shower first and I will. But you don’t have to wait for me. Just go to sleep.”

“I don’t mind waiting for you. You work so hard. And then you’re gone all day…” And I wanted to say that I missed him again, that I felt a stupid ache in my chest not seeing him all afternoon and night, but he didn’t deserve to feel even the tiniest bit of guilt.

“You look tired too.” He kissed my lips gently. “Go to sleep. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I was so exhausted from practice and my classes and my stupid long list of readings and the articles I had been working on for The Daily Post. I was tired from staying up so late and tired from missing Sawyer as he gave me one last kiss to the forehead, his footsteps soft as he left the room.

I fell asleep before I knew it and woke up the next morning to an empty bed.

I stayed there, turned on my side, hand outreached to feel nothing.

The spot was completely cold, which meant Sawyer had left long ago.

I trudged out of bed, feeling miserable and lonely and stupid as I made my way to the kitchen, hoping the drawing Sawyer always stuck to the fridge would cheer me up, but all I saw were the little pink magnets attached to nothing.

I was being so dumb and selfish and childish. Did I need some little drawing to wake up to just to get me through the day? No. My boyfriend had better things to do, and I had to grow up.