Page 197 of The Wright Man

But then I pulled away. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to stop.

"No." My voice came out ragged. I held her at arm's length even though every part of me wanted to bend her over and take her right there on the damn kitchen counter. "We're not doing this while you're drunk."

She looked up at me through her lashes, pouty, lips full and glistening. "But I want you when I'm sober too... Don't you want me?"

That pout. That goddamn fingertip sliding into her mouth like she knew it was my weakness. I damn near dropped to my knees.

"Angel." I ran a hand down my face, trying to collect what little dignity I had left. "I've never wanted anyone more. Ever. But you're not ready. You're still married, still figuring things out. And you're drunk. I'm not about to be that guy."

She opened her mouth to argue, but I beat her to it.

"Especially not with someone I'm in love with."

That shut her up.

Her eyes went soft, wide. She looked at me like she didn't expect me to say it. Like she hadn't already known.

Her smile turned into an adorable little pout. "But I'm horny."

I snorted, laughing despite myself. "You're a mess."

"You love it."

"I do," I admitted, brushing her hair back. I stepped forward, gently pulled my shirt off and slipped it over her head. It fell to mid-thigh on her. She looked small in it. Beautiful. Mine.

I cupped her chin with one hand and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, one that didn't ask for anything. Just gave.

"I'll take you," I said, my voice low and firm, "when you're ready. When you're free. When you're sober. When you know without a doubt that you want me, all of me, without all the Gavin-shaped bullshit in the way."

"Promise?" she whispered, nipping at my bottom lip.

"Promise," I murmured, kissing her again. Then I smacked her ass. "Now take your fine drunk ass to bed."

She giggled, stumbling off toward my room, swaying a little as she went. "'Night, Leek," she called over her shoulder, her voice sleepy and satisfied.

When I heard the bedroom door click shut, I finally exhaled.

I dragged a hand down my face, then let myself collapse onto the couch. My dick was still hard as hell, aching behind my waistband. I stared at the ceiling for a full minute, breathing deep, praying for the strength to calm down. To be decent. To sleep.

It didn't work.

All I could feel was the press of her body, the sound of her moan in my ear, the taste of her mouth on mine. The way her hands had fit around me like they knew exactly what they were doing. The curve of her breasts, the heat of her thighs, the hunger in her kiss.

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the couch.

Then I slipped my hand down and took myself in my grip. No point pretending I could sleep like this. My skin still burned from where she touched me. I closed my eyes, her scent and voice wrapping around me, and stroked slow and steady, imagining her hips rocking above me, those lips wrapped around my name.

I came hard, jaw clenched, her name the only thing in my head as everything released at once — twenty-one years of wanting, the weight of tonight, the cost of doing the right thing.

Afterward, I laid there for a while in the dark, sweaty and spent, but still smiling.

Because no matter how bad I wanted her—and fuck, I wanted her—it was worth the wait. She was worth the wait.

And the second the ink dried on those divorce papers, I was making good on that promise.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Angelica