Page 54 of Coming Home

Before a gasp could leave my throat, Ralph scooped me into his arms. He lifted my thighs against his waist, his bicep supporting my back, carrying me across the small room as if I were weightless. When he lowered me onto the crisp sheets, his heavy body followed me down, pinning me into the mattress, the friction of his bare chest against mine creating a current of pure static electricity.

"Emma," he growled, his mouth buried in the hollow of my throat, his fingers tangling deep into my damp hair, pinning my head to the pillow. "I've been dying for this. I've been waiting a lifetime for you."

I arched into him, my hands mapping the broad, heavy muscles of his back, the deep ridges of his shoulders, the small jagged scar on his shoulder blade from an old training mishap. His skin burned under my fingertips, a magnificent, golden landscape of iron and heat.

He was masterful, controlling the rhythm, yet the passion in his mouth was so overwhelming it made me weep. He was a merciless tease, dragging his lips down the center of my chest, kissing the hypersensitive skin just below my breast until I was writhing beneath him, begging for him to close the distance. Every time a broken sob or a gasp escaped my lips, he would pause, his gaze hovering over mine, making sure I was with him—a fierce focus that made me feel like the center of his universe.

When he finally drove into me, the sheer, blinding intensity of the connection shattered whatever remained of my isolation. His forehead was pressed against mine, our eyes wide open, locked in a silent, breathless collision. For the first time in my life, I didn't close my eyes. I didn't hide in the dark. I let him see every ounce of the pleasure, the vulnerability, and the terrifying, beautiful ecstasy of being claimed by Ralph, who wanted me precisely as I was.

Afterward, we lay tightly bound in the tangled sheets, his arm draped possessively over my hip, my cheek resting against the steady, rhythmic thumping of his chest. The rain outside had settled into a soft, hypnotic patter against the glass. The amber light of the bedside lamp cast a warm, golden perimeter around us, transforming the depressing motel room into a sanctuary.

"Come home with me," he murmured, his lips pressing a lingering kiss into the crown of my damp hair.

"I will," I whispered, tracing a circle over his ribs.

"When?"

"Soon, Ralph."

"Emma." His tone held that low, warning vibration that always made my stomach flip.

"Fine," I laughed softly, burying my face into his warm chest. "I'll come back with you right now. Just stop talking."

"One more crucial detail," he teased, a low chuckle vibrating against my cheek.

"What?"

"The sheets in my bedroom are significantly higher quality than these, Ems. You deserve the best."

I let out a real, unhindered laugh against his skin, and his arm tightened around me, his lips curving against my forehead. For the first time, I realized what love was supposed to feel like. It wasn't something you earned through good behavior. It wasn't a negotiation based on how small or compliant you could make yourself to fit into someone's approval. It was just given.

Generously. Intensely. Like oxygen.

The drive back to the valley was a blur of wet asphalt and flashing city lights. Ralph let me drive.

When we finally walked through his front door, the house was warm and quiet. The kitchen light was illuminating the hallway, casting long shadows across the hardwood. I set my pink suitcase down by the entryway, the click of the latch echoing in the silence. I turned around to say something—to ask him what happened next—but the words were instantly stolen from my lungs.

Ralph was already there.

He slammed his hand against the wall beside my head, his broad, golden frame blocking out the hallway light, trapping me between the cool plaster and the inferno of his body. His mouth crashed onto mine before I could even draw breath.

This kiss was different from the hotel. The restraint he'd shown earlier was gone, burned through the moment I'd chosen to walk back through his door and stay. He tasted hungry, possessive, and desperately wild. His hands gripped my hips, lifting me slightly and pressing my lower back hard against the wall until my legs wrapped around his waist on sheer instinct.

"The bedroom," I whined against his lips, my fingers digging into his shoulders as a wave of liquid heat pooled between my thighs.

"I'm working on it," he muttered against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my pulse point, his hands sliding beneath the hem of my sweater to grip my bare skin. My brain was misfiring, rational thought disintegrating under the touch of his fingers.

"Ralph... the hallway... isn't the room."

"I'm taking the scenic route, sweetheart."

We barely made it to his bedroom. His actual room, the one I'd been circling for weeks without ever being asked inside. The sheets were dark, the air smelled uniquely of him—sandalwood, rain, and clean musk—and he was bringing me right into the center of it.

He grabbed the edge of my sweater and ripped it over my head in one fluid motion. His hands went to the button of my shorts, and I helped him, kicking them away with an ungraceful, frantic urgency that made a wicked grin break across his handsome face.

Then, I was standing before him in the amber glow of his bedside lamp. And the old, toxic instinct tried to claw its way back to the surface again. My shoulders tensed.

I wanted to cross my arms over my chest. I wanted to find a shadow to hide the fuller curves of my waist.