Page 101 of The Backup Plan

“Emery,” he says again, like my name tastes different now. Like it means something more.

I’m dizzy with it. With him.

He trails his mouth along my jaw and down the side of my neck. I suck in a sharp breath, my hands tightening in his shirt as the world narrows to just him and as my brain finally accepts the undeniable truth that I want this.

Want him.

His forehead rests against mine for a moment, breath uneven, voice rough. “This is going to change everything.”

I don’t flinch.

I don’t pull away.

“I know.” It’s an admission as much as it is a promise. One I can’t think about regretting in this moment.

His mouth traces my jaw, my throat, my shoulder, and I mewl at the way it feels—too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide along my back, drawing me closer until there’s no space left to pretend we aren’t already crossing every line that matters.

I feel the strength in him. The gentleness beneath it. The desire that’s edging around both of them. The care he’s shown me in a hundred quiet ways layered beneath the hunger of his touch.

And I realize this isn’t reckless.

This is honest.

I follow him into the dark of his apartment. The door closes behind us with a deliberate click that feels like a decision made out loud.

His mouth finds mine again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he’s committing everything about it to memory.

I melt into the arms that held back until I asked him not to.

But now there’s no holding back.

His hands slide up my spine, more possessive this time as my fingers fist in his shirt. Our lips express all the pent-up sexual frustration.

The kisses are hungry. Desperate. Urgent. As if we can’t get enough and want to savor it simultaneously.

Everything is breath and movement and the sound of his name on my lips.

No thinking.

No rules.

No space.

Just this.

Just him.

He walks me backward without breaking the kiss, urgency in every step. We bump into the doorframe of his bedroom. Our kisses turn to laughter while my pulse pounds everywhere.

In the bedroom he barely pauses. His mouth is back as his hands skim under my dress, over my hips, up my ribs, like he can’t decide where to touch first. It makes me feel sexy. Desirable.

Clothes become obstacles, coming off in between kisses and touching. It’s awkward. It’s fast. Our fingers fumble but we don’t care. Every brush of skin sends heat racing through me like my body has been waiting for permission and now has free rein.

“Let me look at you,” he says as he tugs on my earlobe with his teeth before stepping back and groaning in appreciation.

Normally, I’d feel self-conscious at the request, but I’m so mesmerized by the way he looks at me, by the sight of him standing naked before me, that the only thought I have is how much I want this.

He stands feet from me with broad shoulders and a trim waist, a man who has dedicated his life and his body to perform grueling physical tasks. And yes, while I admire every delicious inch of his honed perfection, I’m fixated on his sizable cock that stands at full attention.