Page 114 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

The single word undid me.

I reached back and unclasped it myself, letting the straps slide down. He helped, reverent, setting the bra aside on the nightstand like it was something precious.

My breasts spilled free, nipples already tight from the cool air and the weight of his stare.

Sawyer’s breath hitched.

“Beautiful,” he said simply, and lowered his head.

His mouth closed over one nipple, warm and wet, tongue circling slow. I moaned, the sound surprising me with its depth. He hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight between my legs.

“From now on,” he muttered against my flesh, switching to the other side with the same unhurried care, “your comfort is my priority. Yours. No more putting everyone else’s needs first. Not tonight. Not ever again if I have anything to say about it.”

I arched into his mouth, fingers threading through his curls.

“Sawyer—”

“Say it again.” He sucked harder, just enough to make my toes curl. “My name. Like you mean it.”

“Sawyer.” It came out breathy, half plea, half discovery.

He stripped the pajama top the rest of the way off, tossing it toward the chair in the corner. Then his hands moved lower, hooking into the waistband of my shorts.

He paused, eyes meeting mine.

“Still good?”

“Still good,” I confirmed, lifting my hips to help him.

Shorts and panties slid down together. He took his time, kissing every new inch of skin he uncovered—hip bone, inner thigh, the sensitive crease where leg met body.

When the fabric finally cleared my ankles he sat back on his heels at the end of the bed and just looked.

I fought the instinct to cover myself.

Instead, I let him see me—flushed skin, the soft curve of my stomach, the way my thighs pressed together instinctively before I forced them to relax. His gaze traveled every inch, slow and appreciative, like he was committing a painting to memory.

“You’re getting redder by the second,” he observed, voice husky. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Only nerves and building want.

He grinned and reached for the hem of his own shirt, peeling it off in one fluid motion. My mouth went dry.

Chiseled was an understatement—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined muscle that spoke of real work, not just gym vanity. A faint scar crossed one rib. Dark hair dusted his chest and trailed lower.

“I didn’t think you were that fit,” I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

He laughed, unbuckling his belt with deliberate movements.

“A wedding planner who isn’t fit shows a lack of discipline.” He winked, stepping out of his pants and boxers in one go. “Can’t very well keep up with you if I’m winded after one dance at the reception, can I?”

Naked, he was breathtaking.

Thick, hard, already flushed at the tip. I held my breath as he stood at the end of the bed, both of us bare now under the lamplight. Anticipation coiled tight in my chest, sharper and sweeter than anything I had felt in years. This wasn’t rushed efficiency.

This was deliberate, chosen, savored.