Page 114 of The Backup Plan

I want to empty everything I have into her.

I want to claim every fucking part of her.

“Em,” I groan as my body heats and my balls ache. As the clenching of her pussy draws me over the edge into a free fall of white-hot heat that detonates every nerve in my body.

My hips jerk and my head dizzies as the orgasm hits. The noise I make is not human—it’s ragged, unrestrained, a total surrender to the need that’s consumed me when it comes to her. My world narrows to the heat and the slick and the ungodly perfection of how she fits around me.

My vision whites out for a second, but she’s still there, still shuddering under my grip, leaving me with the desire to never let her go.

I collapse against her, cock still pulsing. She’s limp beneath me, every muscle slack and spent, as I press absent kisses to her spine, waiting for us to both catch our breaths before I say anything.

She shifts, turning some for comfort. I shift off her and catch her profile—flushed cheeks, dark lashes, and the unmistakable glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“You alive?” I manage, my voice a smirk and a rasp all at once. I slide out of her, and she emits a soft whimper.

“I’ll let you know when I regain the ability to form complete sentences.”

“Doc, you come to my door in that outfit, you best expect to be incoherent for a few hours.”

“Is that a promise?” she murmurs.

“That is most definitely a promise.”

Emery

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of Lucas’s apartment. I’m wrapped in another one of his T-shirts because putting the trench coat back on for clothing is rather ridiculous. I have a carton of lo mein balanced on my knee.

The room smells like sex and soy sauce. It’s oddly perfect and yet . . . it doesn’t quite go together, just like we don’t.

Lucas is leaning against the front of the couch, bare chest, a pair of gym shorts hung low on his waist, and chopsticks held loosely in his fingers like he forgot they were even there. His attention isn’t on food anyway. It’s been on me.

And it has been ever since we slid off the kitchen counter and stopped panting like we’d just finished a marathon.

“You’re staring,” I say, lifting my wineglass and taking a sip.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Can’t help it.”

I twirl noodles around my chopsticks, pretending those three words don’t make my stomach flutter. “You could try.”

“Why would I do that?” His fingers reach for me, slow and lazy, catching a strand of my hair and sliding it through them. Just touching me in the simplest way.

And if I’m honest with myself, this is the part I’m not used to.

Not the hunger. Not the sex. This. The quiet absent-minded affection that doesn’t seem to want anything in return.

With Jared, a touch always meant he wanted sex. There was no touching just to touch. There was no kissing without an endgame in mind. But Lucas is tactile. It’s as though he touches me to reassure me of his attention.

It’s refreshing and new and definitely something to get used to.

It makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerous. And exhilarating.

I take another sip of my wine simply to give myself something to do. “You’re going to spill your food if you keep doing too many things with your hands.”

His eyebrows quirk up as a devilish smile slides across his lips.

“That is not what I mean,” I say and swat at him.

“It would be worth it on so many levels though.”