Page 222 of The Wright Man

"Angel."

"—and it's not even just stuff. It's me. All of me. With my shitty husband and my baggage and my history and my bad decisions—"

"Angel."

"I shouldn't have come here like this. I should've gotten a hotel or something. Rented a damn U-Haul and figured it out. This isn't fair to you. I'm not fair to you. Maybe Gavin was right. Maybe I—"

His mouth was on mine before I could even blink.

Hot. Possessive. Devastating.

His hand slid behind my neck, anchoring me in place like I was something precious. And I kissed him back like my life depended on it. Like my lungs only worked when he was pressed against me. I melted into his chest, my hands curling into the soft cotton of his T-shirt as a soft, embarrassing moan slipped past my lips. Heat flooded my body, pooling low, turning every nerve ending into an exposed wire.

He kissed me like he was reminding me—claiming me. Like he could taste every word I hadn't meant to say and was burning them out of my mouth one by one.

By the time he pulled back, I was breathless. Wrecked. Floating.

He leaned down and brushed his nose against mine, lips still close enough to feel. "That's the third time today I've had to do that," he murmured with a smirk. "I'm startin' to think you like making me shut you up."

I let out a shaky laugh, pressing my forehead to his chest. "I can't help it," I whispered, voice small. "I've been doing everything on my own for so long… I don't know how to let myself be taken care of."

He lifted my chin with two fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze.

There was heat there, yes. That simmering, dominant energy that always made my knees weak and my mouth dry.

But there was something else too—something softer. Fiercer.

"You deserve it, Angel," he said, voice low and reverent. "You just forgot."

I shook my head, the shame still clawing at my chest. "I don't know if I ever believed I did."

His eyes dropped to my mouth. Then lower. Then back up, dark with something sinful.

"Oh, we gon' have to fix that," he said.

My breath caught. Just like that, the guilt shut up.

The moment I caught the look in his eyes, I knew I was done for.

It was that same dangerous heat that had scorched me after we got back from Annapolis, across years of friendship we'd both tried so hard to keep platonic. But this time, it wasn't just desire burning in his stare. It was something deeper. Wilder. Like he'd made up his mind that every single doubt I'd ever had about myself was about to be undone.

And I was about to let him.

He dipped his head and kissed me again—slowly, deeply, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second to drive me out of mine. His tongue slid against mine in a rhythm that made my knees weak, and before I could remember how to breathe, he bent down and scooped me up, wrapping my legs around his waist like I weighed nothing. His hands slid under my dress to cup my ass, fingers flexing with every step as he carried me down the hall.

I clung to him, heart thudding, lips locked to his like I could kiss away the parts of me that still doubted this was real.

He didn't stop until we were in his bedroom—his scent, his energy, everything in here steeped in him. He laid me down gently on the bed, kissing me through it, never breaking contact like he needed to be tethered to me.

And then he started peeling me open.

Literally.

First, he dragged my dress up my body, slowly, his fingers grazing the skin of my thighs, hips, and waist. His eyes stayed on mine, his lips brushing over my jaw, my throat, the hollow at the base of it.

Then my panties—eased down and off, soft and reverent.

Next came my bra. One-handed. Smooth. Effortless.