Craves to.
I pull back, breathless, and rest my forehead against his. “I want this. Want you.” The words leave my mouth in a rush, making me a little dizzy, like standing too fast. “But I should tell you”—I swallow hard—“I haven’t. Before.”
Wyatt’s eyes flare, and his breath whooshes out. “Jesus, Sadie.”
Heat climbs my throat, but I don’t look away. “I choose this with you, Wyatt.”
“Are you sure? Because I plan to make you fall apart with my hands and mouth before I put you back together.”
Heat pools between my thighs.
“Words?” he prompts with a ghost of a smile because he knows what that does to me.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
Wyatt exhales as if he’s been holding that breath for years.
Reaching for my hand, he presses his mouth to the inside of my wrist, a kiss so gentle my eyes sting. He ghosts both palms up my forearms to my shoulders, over the flannel, to cup my face. My body leans into him like it’s been waiting for this. For him.
His mouth claims mine, and his thumb traces the edge of my mouth. “Open.”
I do. I part my lips to the slow coax of his tongue. His stubble scratches my chin. The first whimper escapes me when he changes the angle, and his tongue rubs slickly against mine.
“Good girl,” he murmurs into my mouth.
My brain short-circuits so sweetly I could weep.
I pull back a fraction. “Clothes,” I whisper, my body on fire from one kiss. “Too many.”
He laughs quietly, touching his forehead to mine, before he stands with me in his arms and carries me to the bedroom.
I barely notice the large bed and heavy oak furniture as he sets me on my feet because he’s peeling off his shirt. How could I possibly look anywhere else but at this man? Light and shadow make a map of him: broad chest, scars like old stories, strength in firm muscle.
My gaze moves down his stomach, hard and ridged, to his thighs.
His joggers do a terrible job of hiding how hard he is.
Dear God. He’s big. Everywhere.
My body flames. My breasts swell, nipples tingling into tight peaks. My hands twitch greedily.
He notices. Taking my hands, he sets my palms where I’m already looking.
“Touch,” he says. “Anywhere.”
I do. Careful at first, then relishing the give and heat of him, the way his breath hitches when I drag my nails lightly down his ribs. He’s solid, but he shivers when I trace the scar at his side. I press a kiss there without thinking. His soft, surprised curse sends heat rushing between my thighs.
I circle him, pressing another kiss to the scar on his shoulder blade, wondering if this is where the bullet exited his body. I still don’t know the full story, but the thought of him injured, almost dying, shatters something inside me.
He turns his head slightly as if he senses the shift in me, as if he hears the way my breath catches even before I say a word.
“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at me like I’m broken.”
I press my lips between his shoulder blades. “Not broken,” I whisper. “Beautiful.”
His inhale is shaky. His hands reach behind to find my hips, anchoring me to him as I lay my cheek against his back, breathing him in—soap, skin, heat. My arms wrap around his waist, and he covers them with his.
For a long moment, we stand there, my front pressed to his back, his hands over mine.
