Should He Just Wake Her Up?

No response.

Sawyer pulled his fingers out slowly, a string of her arousal that was thick, pearly, and translucent. It was trailing down his knuckles, dripping onto the leather. Her pussy made a wet, sucking sound as his digits left her, as if reluctant to let go.

His cock was agonizing. Hard, aching, straining against the confinement of his jeans—a painful, throbbing need that had nowhere to go. The tip was wet, the denim dark with pre-cum. His balls ached, drawn tight, demanding release. He could feel his pulse in his shaft, a hot, insistent beat that screamed for relief.

He let out a curse, low and bitter, and ran his wet hand through his hair, the scent of her cunt clinging to his skin. He was in his forties, a man who'd had his fair share of women, who prided himself on control. And here he was, high and dry, his fingers still slick with her come, while she snored softly on his couch.

He could wake her.

He could take what he wanted because she had offered, she had begged, and she had been right there. Her cunt was still wet, still open, still ready. He could push her legs apart, unzip his jeans, and bury himself inside her. She wouldn't even wake as she would just moan in her sleep, her body taking him without her mind even knowing. The thought made his cock twitch, a bead of pre-cum leaking through the denim.

But the way she was sleeping. It was soft and vulnerable and utterly drunken, her lips curved in a faint smile, as if she knew exactly what she'd done to him. He could bet she fucking knew and it killed the impulse. Not out of decency, but out of sheer frustration. He wasn't going to fuck a woman who couldn't even keep her eyes open. That wasn't the kind of man he was.

Even if his body screamed otherwise.

Sawyer stood, the bulge in his jeans a cruel monument to his unfulfilled need. He adjusted himself, grimacing, the fabric rubbing against his sensitive cockhead. Then he grabbed a throw blanket from the armchair and draped it over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She sighed in her sleep, her hand reaching out blindly, as if searching for him.

Vanessa's eyelids flutter, her words slurring further as she stroked him drowsily. "I feel... safe with you. Safer than I've felt in months. Don't let me go, okay?"

Her hand that had been stroking him slowed, then slipped away entirely. Her body grew heavier against him, the tension in her muscles easing as sleep pulled her under.

Sawyer who was already charged up earlier, felt like crying.

" Tigress, you really are good at punishing me."

"Fucking tease," he muttered again, and stalked off to the bathroom, his footsteps heavy with frustration.

He locked the door, dropped his jeans to his ankles, and took his cock in hand. It was thick, flushed dark red, the veins prominent, the tip glistening. He gripped the base, squeezed, then stroked upward, his fist tight and fast. The sound of his palm sliding over his shaft was wet, slick with pre-cum. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was her—the way her pussy had gripped his fingers, the way she'd bucked and moaned, the taste of her on his tongue.

He imagined pushing her legs apart, sliding into that tight, wet heat, feeling her walls clench around him. He imagined her waking to the sensation of being fucked, her eyes fluttering open, her mouth finding his. He stroked faster, his breath ragged, his balls drawing tight. The image of her sleeping, innocent and oblivious, only made it hotter.

"Fuck—Vanessa—" he groaned, his hips thrusting into his fist as he came, hot and thick and violent, his cum splattering against the bathroom tile in long, pulsing ropes. He kept stroking, milking every drop, until his knees went weak and he had to brace himself against the sink.

He stood there, panting, his hand sticky, the smell of sex and release filling the room. And even then, even after he'd taken the edge off, he knew it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted her, awake and willing and completely his.

But she was passed out on his couch, dreaming of god knows what, with a smile on her lips that promised nothing but trouble.

When he got back to the living room, he saw her dress had ridden up further, exposing the smooth line of her thigh and the edge of her underwear, but he didn't look away. Instead, he grabbed the blanket and draped it over her again, tucking it gently around her shoulders.

"Sleep well, trouble," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her damp cheek. "We'll talk when you're sober."

Vanessa murmured something incoherent in her sleep, one hand twitching as if still reaching for him, before she settled completely. Sawyer stood there a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, the way a single strand of hair clung to her damp cheek.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to steady himself, the taste of her kiss still lingering on his skin and the memory of her touch burning through every nerve. The night had promised more, but for now, all he could do was watch her sleep and wonder what tomorrow would bring when she woke up in his home, still caught between the mess she'd left behind and the pull she clearly felt toward him.

As Vanessa fell into a deep slumber, Sawyer kissed her before taking his phone into his room. He lit a cigarette, puffing while he looked around. As he continued puffing, a shadow dropped from nowhere.

It was a different version of Eric. He looked fierce, commanding a scary aura and now visible slash on his handsome face. One would think he was an entire different person from the driver who had a coat and a deep bow not too long ago.

Sawyer took the last puff before blurting out the words.

“ I will give you one hour. Castrate him. Make the Kurts disappear. All of them.”

The shadow bowed, something unreadable flashing through his expression, “ Got it, Alp…”

Sawyer cut him off with a wave and a stern gaze, “ Leave. Don't wake her up.”

As the shadow disappeared, a drowsy voice cracked through the night.

“ Sawyer, who are you talking to?”