Page 196 of The Wright Man

Damn Bella and her confetti cannon. I was gonna find her and throw this shit in her glove compartment.

When I finished cleaning up, the air was still warm, thick with the scent of takeout and her favorite vanilla body butter. I sipped water from a bottle, swallowing against the ache in my throat that hadn't gone away since she said I almost told you I loved you. That shit was still echoing through my head.

I didn't hear her footsteps.

Didn't hear a damn thing until I felt her behind me—bare arms sliding around my waist. Her body molded into my back like she'd been made for it. I felt her nose in my neck, and then—low and sultry, breathy and warm—she moaned my name.

"Maleek..."

Fuck.

My whole body went tight. Every hair on my arms stood at attention. That voice... husky and sweet like honey left out in the sun. And then her hands—one sliding up my chest, fingers grazing the edge of my tank top. The other? Lower. Too low.

I nearly choked on my damn water.

"Angel," I said, breath catching in my throat. I turned, my hands going instinctively to her hips—intending to steady her, to put some space between us—But I froze the second my palms met skin. Bare skin.

No waistband. No shorts. No panties.

She was naked. Naked and still drunk.

Shit.

"Angelica," I warned, gripping her arms and holding her back enough to meet her eyes.

She blinked up at me, face soft and sleepy. "Hmm?"

"Where are your clothes?"

She leaned in, smile turning coy, her lips brushing my ear. "On the floor," she whispered, right before she nibbled the edge of my earlobe like she had every intention of dragging me straight to hell.

I clenched my jaw, gripping her arms, steadying her before I lost every ounce of willpower I had left. I gritted my teeth. "Jesus."

She giggled again and pressed her chest to mine. Bare breasts against my tank. I could feel every curve, every inch of heat radiating off her. My hands were on her arms, but my palms itched to move, to explore, to memorize.

My whole body was screaming. She was warm and soft and right there...

And I was hard enough to split concrete.

"Baby, you need to go lay down," I said. My voice came out thick, rough.

"I don't wanna lay down," she whispered, giggling. She pressed her body against me, soft breasts brushing my chest, her bare core grinding against my dick through my pajama pants. I hissed, squeezing my eyes shut.

She reached for me again, stroking me through the thin fabric, her touch slow and deliberate, like she already owned it.

Fuck.

"Angelica..." I stepped back. Barely. My hands dropped to my sides like they were guilty. "You're drunk. You need to sleep."

She cocked her head, eyes gleaming with mischief and moonlight. "How about you put me to sleep?"

Her voice was pure sin. It wrapped around me, soaked into my pores.

She kissed me before I could even respond. Fast and hungry. Her mouth opened under mine, tongue tangling, fingers curling in my hair as she pressed against my erection, hips grinding against my dick like she was trying to ride me standing up. She let out a loud moan that almost undid me.

I kissed her back. I kissed her like I'd been starving for her—which, let's be real, I had. Her lips were warm, her tongue sweet with wine and lust and something deeper. My hands found her hips again. My fingers dug in. She ground against me, and for a second, I let myself drown in it.

I'm only human. And she tasted like Thai food and want and every wet dream I've had since I was sixteen.