That’s all it takes.
He kisses me again, deeper, his hands sliding down to my hips as he walks me backward toward the couch. My camera bag hits the floor. My coat goes next. His mouth trails along my jaw, my neck, everywhere I didn’t realize I ached for him to touch.
I tug at his jacket, and he helps me peel it off, our breaths mingling, our bodies close enough that I can feel the steady, building heat rolling between us.
When he lifts me—effortless, sure—and lowers me onto the couch, a soft sound escapes my throat, half want, half disbelief that this is happening, that he is happening.
Kendrick leans over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing the line of my waist with reverence that floors me.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low, eyes fixed on mine.
“More than sure,” I whisper.
And then there’s no space left between us at all.
Kendrick kisses me again—slow at first, savoring, like he’s learning me one breath at a time. His hand slides up my ribcage, fingertips brushing along the edge of my sweater before slipping beneath it in a gliding stroke that sends heat flooding through me.
I arch into his touch, a soft sound escaping before I can stop it. His answering groan vibrates through both of us.
“Emma…” My name sounds different on his tongue. Rougher. Needier. Like he’s been holding onto something for too long.
His mouth trails down my neck, over the slope of my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. I grab fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting the solid weight of him, the heat, the way he seems to steady me and unravel me at the exact same time.
He pulls my sweater up, giving me enough time to nod before he lifts it over my head. He pauses—not moving, not rushing—just looking at me like he wants to remember this.
My pulse trips hard. “Kendrick…”
He lowers himself slowly, pressing his mouth to the center of my chest, then just beneath my collarbone, then lower. My back arches again as his hands slide down my sides, firm and sure, guiding me deeper into the cushions.
I tug him back up, kissing him with more urgency now. He responds instantly, matching my pace, matching the need building hot and fast between us. His hands explore every curve, every edge, every place that makes my breath hitch.
I reach for the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms without question. The fabric slips away, revealing warm, solid muscle and smooth skin. My palms glide over his chest, his shoulders, the strong lines of his back.
He shivers at the touch of my hands.
The sound he makes when I draw him closer again goes straight through me.
We lose ourselves in the moment—each kiss deeper, each touch more deliberate. He eases me down fully onto the couch, his body aligning with mine, braced on one arm while the other explores slowly, reverently, like he’s mapping a place he’s only dreamed about.
“You feel…” He stops, breath breaking a little. “Hell.”
I kiss him again, tugging him closer until his forehead drops to mine. His breathing is uneven, warm against my lips.
“I want you,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, something fierce and tender pulling at the same time. “Emma, if we do this…” His thumb strokes my cheek, slow and careful. “I’m not going to forget it tomorrow.”
My heartbeat stutters.
“Good,” I breathe.
The control he’s been clinging to slips. I feel it in the way he lowers his mouth to mine again, in the way our bodies move together, in the way he touches me like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
By the time he finally thrusts into me, filling me with his cock, it’s too much, yet not enough.
Whatever he’s doing to me, the way he’s turning my whole world upside down, it should be illegal.
He rests his forehead against mine and whispers my name.
