I reached up, slid my fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down until our foreheads touched.
“I’ve been sure since we kissed at Dusty’s,” I whispered. “I just didn’t know how to say it then.”
His exhale was ragged. Then his mouth was on mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Hungry.
Years of restraint cracked open in that kiss.
His tongue swept past my lips like he’d been starving for the taste of me, and I met him with the same desperation. My hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer, needing him against every inch of me.
He groaned into my mouth—a low, broken sound that vibrated through my chest—and backed me toward the bedroom.
We didn’t make it far.
Halfway there, he lifted me again, this time pinning me against the wall beside the doorway. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. The hard length of him pressed right where I ached, and I whimpered against his lips.
“God, Soph,” he rasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth down my throat. “You feel so fucking good.”
His teeth grazed my pulse point. I arched, offering more, and he took it—sucking hard enough to leave a mark I knew would bloom purple by morning. The thought of wearing his claim sent a fresh wave of wetness between my thighs.
He carried me the rest of the way to the bed, laid me down like I was something precious, then stepped back.
Just looked.
The emerald satin of my dress had ridden up my thighs. My breasts rose and fell with every shallow breath. My hair spilled across the white duvet like fire.
Wyatt’s eyes darkened. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, it hurts.”
I reached for him. “Come here.”
He stripped first—methodical, unhurried, like he wanted me to see every inch he was giving me. Sport coat. Shirt buttons undone one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of old scars, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath his belt. Boots kicked off. Belt unbuckled with a soft clink that made my core clench.
When he shoved his jeans and briefs down in one motion, I couldn’t look away.
He was thick. Long. Heavy. Already leaking at the tip.
My God.
My mouth watered.
He crawled over me, caging me with his arms, and kissed me again—slower this time, deeper, like he was pouring every unsaid word into it. His hand slid down my side, found the slit in my dress, and pushed the fabric up until it bunched at my waist.
“These,” he muttered against my lips, fingers tracing the lace edge of my panties, “are in my way.”
I lifted my hips. He hooked his fingers under the sides and dragged them down my legs, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he settled between my thighs, spreading me open with gentle pressure.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice reverent. “So wet for me already.”
His finger brushed my clit—once, feather-light—and I jolted, a broken moan escaping me.
“Please,” I whispered.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t make me beg more than that.
He lowered his head and put his mouth on me.
