Sawyer: Quintessence: The Sequel

by Serena Akeroyd

  Sawyer

  Quintessence: The Sequel

  Serena Akeroyd

  The right of Gemma Mazurke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © Gemma Mazurke 2018

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  DEDICATION

  To the usual gang who help shape these books: Deanna, Heather, Caitlin, Trenda. As always, thank you. And a new addition: Chantal!

  But, this time, I have some other ladies to thank. And a gentleman too.

  Erin Lyons, Kelsey McInnes and her husband, Luke. To the three of you. Without your invaluable help, the scenarios detailed within this story would have been completely inaccurate. Your advice shaped this book.

  And thank you too for all the work you do for ladies like Sascha. For the work you put in, the hours and the dedication, the joy and the tears that come with every patient. Thank you.

  To Stephanie Thomas, who helped me figure out Glasgow—I really need to visit Buchanan Street now.

  Also, to Jess. My new bud and quick-as-lightning proofreader.

  The music was sultry and sexy.

  The beat throbbed around them, turbocharging it with a storm of sensation that seemed to power the air itself. The heat was oppressive in the tight confines of the bar, and her skin was slick with it, her hair clinging in unfurling tendrils to her throat, her skin-tight dress hugged her in places she didn’t even want to think about—but she didn’t care.

  Nothing mattered.

  Sandwiched between Devon Jerome and Sawyer Bennett, Sascha Dubois was in her element.

  If a person had more than one element, she’d found it.

  Not only was she the stuffing in a genius sandwich, she was also on the dancefloor, wriggling, writhing, and generally strutting her stuff as they danced to a beat that was most definitely of their own making. Tango, of course, was not known for requiring three dance partners to move together. She and her guys had improvised and created something that made her feel like she was having sex on the dance floor.

  Behind her, Sawyer bumped and ground into her. His hands were on her hips, and each time he rippled with a new move, stepping in a perfect rhythm with her and Devon that was years in the making, his cock dug deep into her butt. She loved that feeling. Loved it. Wanted to roll around in it like a kid intent on diving into a new mound of fresh snow, with snow angels at the top of their to-do list.

  Devon moved like a pro.

  She was the crappiest dancer among them, but being in the middle had its benefits. She didn’t have to move all that much, just had to roll her hips and sway and wriggle against them, letting her guys do the work.

  The thought had laughter rippling from her, and she let her head fall back against Sawyer’s shoulders, not surprised when he leaned down to nip her ear and growl, “What are you laughing at?”

  The ‘you’ came out more as a ‘yoo’ and the ‘are’ had such a roll on the letter ‘r’ that her pussy spasmed in response. His Scottish brogue felt like a sensory fireworks display on most days, but when they were so close to having sex? It was like the start of a detonation sequence that ended with her coming all over his face.

  Because, Sascha knew, there was no way today was ending any way other than with her spit roasted between them.

  Tango led to sex.

  It was her incentive to remember the steps.

  Devon had told her so.

  Her lips curved in a smile at that particular memory; Devon’s incentivizing strategy had been born out of her inability to put the steps together. With his usual problem-solving brain, he’d decided that orgasms were the solution.

  He hadn’t been wrong. Now, she could remember the steps, but she wasn’t any good at them.

  Positive reinforcement didn’t a dancer make.

  “I’m just thinking,” she half-shouted, loud enough to be heard over the music.

  “Always dangerous,” Sawyer grumbled, but she heard the amusement in his tone.

  She looked over at Devon whose focus was on her tits. Since they’d found out she was pregnant, he was monitoring the stages of pregnancy through her breasts—at least, that’s what she told herself.

  Could she help it that they’d doubled?

  Carrying her son, Valentin, had proven that! Now, Devon’s already bizarre hyper focus had been captured by her cleavage, which meant she was used to speaking to him with his eyes anywhere but on hers.

  There was something sexy about his intensity though.

  The way he looked at her made her feel primal and raw, and no matter how round she got, or how huge she felt, his desire for her never lessened. If anything, his sexual appetite seemed to increase.

  And she wasn’t about to complain on that score.

  Like her, his hair was mussed and sweaty. Though Glasgow was freezing—and boy, that was no understatement—inside the tango club it was sweltering hot, the temperature close to tropical. Which meant his face was as slick as hers, the cowlick that made her heart melt had wilted, and, though his hair was closely shorn, it had still slipped down to cover his forehead. His face, so beautiful with his firm lips, strong jaw, wide brow, and eyes so blue she felt she could dive into them, was set in stern lines as he split his focus between her breasts and the moves he’d learned years before—and still had to teach her from time to time.

  He’d made the dance into some kind of math exercise. She had no idea how he did it, no idea how he’d used that to teach Sawyer the steps, but either way, she was monkey in the middle and she sucked at it. But she’d carry on sucking, just because it made him look at her like that.

  He was leading them, making sure they moved in a pattern that followed the tango steps. He was the driving force behind the dance and when his mouth was set, his brow furrowed, and his eyes burned, Sascha could drop to her knees and just…

  She groaned inwardly.

  Thoughts of tasting his cock, of having Sawyer’s in her fist, plagued her. Yes, plagued, because there was no way, when he still looked so focused, that they were getting out of here any time soon.

  “You getting wet, lass?”

  The words were a rumble along her nerve endings, an added sensation she didn’t need in her already overwhelmed system. She’d thought she’d hidden her groan, but she must have made a sound. Sometimes, being the center of their attention was a nuisance.

  They missed nothing, because her men were, in every way, shape, and form, unlike the rest of the male population.

  She cut her hair? They noticed, and would demand she account for every lost inch—not because they were controlling, but because most of them had a ‘thing’ about her bright au
burn locks. Devon especially. He liked it when she wrapped it around his cock as she sucked him off. She couldn’t do that after a haircut. And Devon didn’t accept ‘split ends’ as a justifiable excuse. Even Kurt, the most chilled of her men, would stare at the shorter length with disappointment in his gaze—reminding her of Tin when she informed him it was time for bed.

  Sawyer’s chin scraped against hers, nudging her thoughts to the issue at hand, and she licked her lips as his words hit home. Was she wet? Yes! She tilted her face to slide her sweaty forehead against Sawyer’s equally slick throat. She felt the faint burn as the tender skin of her temple rubbed lightly over his five o’clock shadow, but she didn’t stop. The sensation grounded her, and she seriously needed to be grounded.

  “Yes,” she whispered, softly enough she couldn’t be heard over the music.

  Still, he laughed, the sound so cocksure and satisfied she wanted to throat punch him then kiss it better. He rocked his pelvis forward, nudging her with his thickness again—God, they were all so big. It drove her fucking wild. “No chance we’re getting out of here for another hour, at least,” Sawyer said directly into her ear, having read Devon’s intent look with an accuracy that made her want to groan because it confirmed her own. “Torture.”

  Licking her lips again, she tried to speak but words failed her, so she just nodded.

  “Unless…” His statement trailed off and her eyes flared wide as he reached up, moving his hands from her waist to curve them over her tits. She moaned a little, their sensitivity making her freeze in Devon’s grasp. Her sudden lack of motion had broken that hyper focus of his, or given it a new target—Sascha figured that was more accurate.

  His head tilted to the side, and his brow puckered. “What’s wrong?”

  His voice was barely audible over the music. A sudden guitar solo pierced the dark nightclub. It was close to pitch black with only a rosy red light shimmering over the packed floor. Dancers were crammed together, uncaring of the close quarters, just loving the opportunity to revel in the freedom that came with this sexy tangle of arms and legs, the vibrant delight of being in a lover’s arms.

  The wraparound dress she wore was skin-tight, hugging her belly and her ass, cupping her breasts in a firm hold. She felt sassy and sultry, but under Devon’s deep stare?

  She felt like a Queen.

  He made her feel like that.

  This man. This brilliant, gifted man, who could and had solved mathematical mysteries that had confounded a whole generation of mathematicians, looked at her as though she were his be-all and end-all.

  As if without her in his life, he had no reason to live.

  Under that heady appraisal, she was about to speak when Sawyer leaned forward, pushing Sascha with him, and urging her closer to Devon’s chest where her tits connected with his pecs. The move brought him closer to his best friend of three decades, as he’d sandwiched her even more deeply between them, and he hollered, “Sascha’s ready for bed.”

  She had to hide a grin at that clever wording—you had to be smart where Devon was concerned. He had the brain of a lawyer with the disinterest of a zit-pocked adolescent in doing chores. So, sure, she was ready for bed. Just not for sleep.

  “You are? What’s wrong?” It was like Sawyer hadn’t spoken, his focus on her was absolute.

  “Just ready to get off my feet,” she said, aiming for airy, and unsure if she hit the target. At her back, she could feel Sawyer shake with laughter, but he grabbed her elbow before she could nudge him in his belly.

  Devon scowled. “I knew we shouldn’t have taken her dancing,” he grumbled, scowling at Sawyer. “But you said she’d be fine.”

  “She is fine, ain’t you, lass?” Sawyer purred, and the double entendre had her snickering.

  Finally, Devon seemed to get with the program. “What’s going on?” he demanded, pulling away to plant his hands on his hips.

  She reached for him with a welcoming smile, then when he neared, she slipped her hand down his front. The black tee was stuck to him, clinging to his taut abs in a way that let her feel his muscles, before she reached his cock and cupped him over his jeans. “I’m hungry,” she told him, looking up into his eyes, wishing she could see the true blue of them, but in this light it was impossible.

  He clucked his tongue. “First you’re sleepy, now you’re hungry? Make up your mind, Sascha.”

  “How about she’s horny?” Sawyer grunted, his patience gone now.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” Devon groused in return, and just like that, he grabbed the hand that was holding his cock, and tugged her off the dancefloor.

  One thing that could be said for tunnel vision, it moved mountains.

  Within seconds, she was away from the writhing bodies who were making a frantic kind of love to the rhythmic Hispanic beats, and was heading for the exit.

  Sawyer disappeared at her back, and she knew he was heading for the seats they’d claimed as their own a while ago. Whether their coats would still be hanging on the backs of their chairs, she wasn’t sure, but she hoped so. It was going to be freezing outside, or as Sawyer’s mom, Jacinta, called it, “A wee bit nippy.”

  “Nippy, my ass,” she grumbled under her breath.

  Nippy?

  Definitely nipply. Her tits felt bright pink from the cold, and her nipples were beaded to a prominence that bordered on the ridiculous—another sin to lay at Valentin’s door. Her tits had never been the same after breastfeeding him.

  This was the kind of cold that made your bones freeze.

  Yet Jacinta considered these temperatures to be quite mild. And considering there was no snow, Sascha guessed she wasn’t wrong.

  Thankfully, they’d yet to stay in Scotland when the weather was so inclement, and if she had her way, she would live without that particular experience.

  It certainly wasn’t on her bucket list. Glasgow rocked, but if they could just raise the temperature a few degrees? She’d be happier than a camel on Wednesday.

  She clenched her fingers around Devon’s as he moved them toward the vestibule. This was her surprise; they’d only arrived last night, and she’d spent most of the day sleeping because this baby made her want to live during the night and pass out through the day. This was her witching hour, and the first thing they’d done was bring her here.

  It was a new club, Devon had told her. Looking proud as punch to have used the wonderful invention that was something called ‘Google.’ He’d told her about the new search engine, declaring it would change the world.

  Like it hadn’t been around for a decade or more.

  Yeah, living with Devon presented certain issues.

  Certain she’d seen Devon on the internet, and even surer he’d had to have used it at some point to search for something, she’d asked Sawyer about Devon’s sudden discovery of Google, and Sawyer had merely said, “Bing.”

  Like no further words were required.

  Which took her into a labyrinth of questions like exactly how Devon had avoided Google for so long? She knew for a fact he didn’t live in a cave…

  Seriously, though, what woman had the time to figure out why her savant partner worked the way he did?

  So, while the man could recite complex economical and mathematical theories in his sleep, he barely remembered to brush his teeth and hair without setting alarms for everything on his phone—or Sawyer setting those alarms. Even she’d started doing it.

  Shit, it was the only way to get anything done where Devon was concerned, and even then, if he was totally focused on work, there was no guarantee he’d even hear the alarm.

  That’s why she’d started setting five or six at a time.

  A woman had to have some wiles on her side, didn’t she?

  When a hand cupped her shoulder, she smiled up at Sawyer. He’d shoved their coats at Devon while holding onto hers. Wrapping the quilted down around her, he tucked her up tight then draped her scarf across her shoulders. After Devon gave Sawyer his jacket, they both dressed aga
inst the cold weather and pulled on gloves. She found a pair of her own in her pocket.

  The slinky black dress certainly hadn’t been made for the Scottish midwinter, even if the peacoat Devon had bought for her at the same time was cozier than a quilt.

  “She’ll freeze her tatties off,” Jacinta had declared earlier after giving her the once over.

  Devon had sniffed and tucked her into the rather marvelous down-stuffed coat he’d also bought her.

  “That’s more like it,” Jacinta had told him, her approval evident, then she’d beamed at her. “You look bonnier than I can tell ye, Sascha.”

  Now, surrounded by the enveloping folds, she wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by him. Them. Screw the coat.

  A wicked thought came to her as they walked out into the cold night air. Lips curving, she asked, “Know what I want to do now?”

  Sawyer choked out a laugh. “Go to McDonald’s like last night?”

  She snorted. “I was desperate and pregnant. What’s a girl to do?”

  “Wait the twenty minute ride to Jacinta’s house?” Devon asked, his tone caustic.

  Since they’d found out she was pregnant again, he’d turned into a health nut. Two in the house were way too many.

  “I was starving,” she grumbled. “And no, this has nothing to do with French fries.” Although, the more she thought about it, the more she actually did want a burger.

  Fuck.

  Ooh, and fries to dip into a chocolate milkshake.

  Epic.

  Scrunching her nose as she nixed the idea, she mumbled, “You just spoiled my suggestion.”

  Sawyer tugged her into his side and he curled his arm over her shoulder. He nipped at her ear. “Spit it out, lass.”

  But she pouted. “No. You spoiled it.”

  Sawyer stilled. “Wait a minute. Was it a sex thing?”

  “It totally was.”

  He groaned. “But you’re always hungry at this time.”

  “Well, I was hungry for something else.”

  Devon, brows high and his expression hopeful under the amber streetlamps, asked, “For cock?”