Page 144 of The Wild Card

“Too much?”

“Not enough.” I pull her down for another kiss. “Never enough.”

Her mouth opens under mine, and I take full advantage, tasting her, learning the shape of her all over again. She makes a sound—half sigh, half whimper—and shifts against me in a way that makes my brain go fuzzy.

“Wait.” I pull back, breathing hard. “Not here.”

“What?”

“The loft. It’s more—” I glance at the front door. “Private.”

She follows my gaze, then grins. “Lead the way.”

The ladder to the loft is not designed for two people in a hurry. I go first, and she follows close behind, her hand grabbing my ass halfway up.

“Emmie.”

“What? It was right there.”

The loft is small—just enough room for the air mattress and a reading lamp. The ceiling slopes so low I have to duck. It’s not exactly romantic.

She climbs up after me and surveys the space. “Cozy.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Maybe a better word is ‘intimate.’” She crawls onto the air mattress, and it wobbles dramatically, making her laugh. “Oh, this is going to be interesting.”

I follow her down, and the mattress dips and sways beneath us like a waterbed. She rolls toward me involuntarily, colliding with my chest. I roll us until she’s underneath me and then prop myself on my elbows above her.

“Hi,” I murmur.

“Hi.” Her expression is filled with wonder and a little amusement.

Something loosens in my chest. Because of course she does. Of course Emmie Marshall would find joy in an awkward makeout session on a wobbly air mattress in a cramped loft. That’s who she is. That’s why I—

“Stop thinking,” she murmurs, pulling me back down. “I can hear it from here.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” She cups my face, holding me still. “Just be here. With me.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

This time when I kiss her, I don’t overthink it. I just… feel.

The give of the mattress beneath us as I settle my weight between her thighs. The hitch in her breath when my hand slides under her shirt. The softness of her stomach, the curve of her waist, the lace edge of her bra under my fingertips.

“Missed this,” I whisper against her throat.

“Me too.”

I kiss my way down her neck, finding that spot below her ear that makes her gasp. Her back arches off the mattress—which makes the whole thing wobble again—and her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer.

“Crew—”

I rock against her, and we both groan. The friction is maddening, layers of denim between us, not nearly enough and way too much at the same time.