No hesitation. No fear. Just her—hazel eyes dark, mouth soft, breathing slow like she’s made a decision and isn’t letting herself back out.
My spine locks. Every muscle. Every instinct.
"Emma…" My voice is low, warning and want all wrapped together.
She leans in, her lips barely brushing mine as she exhales.
God.
“You shouldn’t do this, you need to rest,” I say, even as my hands slide to her waist, and her mouth curves—dangerous. Determined.
“You’re not stopping me,” she whispers,and I don’t.
She kisses me—and it’s not soft. Not careful. It’s her taking control for exactly two seconds before handing it right back. And I deepen the kiss instantly, my hands threading into her hair, tilting her chin the way I want, forcing a slow exhale out of her.
“You have any idea what you’re doing to me?” I rasp.
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
I let out a breath I’ve been holding for weeks. “You ruined me that night in Miami, and I thought about you everyday after it—convinced I’d never see you again. Then spent three weeks watching you pretend you don’t feel this, too." My forehead presses to hers. “Biting my tongue in boardrooms and elevators, trying to act like I don’t want you in my lap exactly like this.”
Her breath stumbles. “Don—”
“Don’t,” I murmur, my mouth just beside her ear. “Let menotbe the problem for one minute.”
Her body responds instantly, a soft sound escaping that tightens something deep in my chest.
“Still want this?” I ask, trailing my knuckles along her jawline, down her neck. “No takebacks.”
She meets my eyes—clear, steady. “Yes, I do— Please.”
That “please” is my undoing.
I grab the back of her neck and drag her into a kiss that’s anything but polite.
It’s filthy. Hungry. Possessive.
One hand slides under her sweater, finding warm, bare skin and a perfect, bra-less breast.
“Jesus, sweetheart.” I groan against her mouth. “You trying to kill me?”
She shimmies out of her jeans, and I help her, even as her cotton underwear catches at her knees as she wriggles impatiently in my lap.
“No.” Her lips brush mine. “I’m trying tosave myself.”
She works my zipper, and when she reaches into my pants and wraps her fingers around me, I see white. Every restraint I’ve built since the hotel room crumbles like ash.
She lifts up, and I guide her down over me—slow, aching, inch by inch, a groan ripping through my chest that is positively feral.
“Christ, Emma.” I grip her waist, head falling back. “You feel so fucking good.”
She begins to move, setting a rhythm that’s slow and deep and torturous in the best way.
“You’ve been thinking about me since Miami?” she breathes.
“Sweetheart, every time I shut my eyes, it’s been you.”
She gasps, nails digging into my shoulders.
