Page 161 of The Wild Card

“I want that too,” I tell him. “I’ve wanted it since you handed me that ridiculous seventeen-page roommate agreement.”

“We’d only just met.”

“What can I say? I have a thing for emotionally unavailable men with control issues.”

He huffs a laugh. “Lucky me.”

“Very lucky.” I lean down and kiss him, soft and slow. “So what now?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his hands settling on my hips. “I want—” He stops. Tries again. “Fuck. I’m not good at this.”

“Just say it.” I touch his cheek, stroking the stubbled skin.

He takes a breath. “I want to take you to bed. I want to take my time with you. I want to learn every sound you make and every way you like to be touched.” His grip tightens on my hips. “But I don’t know how to say that without sounding like—”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m only interested in one thing. Because I’m not. I want everything. But right now, I also really want—”

I can’t help my smile. “I want that too.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Suddenly, he stands, lifts me, and tosses me over one shoulder like an absolute caveman and starts walking toward the exit as I laugh and bounce against his shoulder.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Home

Crew

The elevator ride down from the rooftop takes approximately seven thousand years.

Emmie is pressed against me, her back to my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist. I can feel her heartbeat through her shirt—or maybe that’s mine. I can’t tell anymore.

The doors open. We stumble down the hallway, stopping twice because I can’t make it ten feet without kissing her. She laughs against my mouth when I fumble with the keys.

The door finally opens. Murphy greets us with an indignant meow, but I barely register him. All I can see is Emmie, backlit by the lamp she left on, looking at me like she wants this as badly as I do.

She takes my hand and walks backward toward my bedroom, pulling me with her. I follow because I’d follow her anywhere.

My bedroom is dark, just the faint glow of city lights through the window. She stops at the foot of my bed and turns to face me.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she says softly, “it’s not just physical for me. I need you to know that.”

“It’s not for me either.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Emmie, I haven’t—it’s been a long time since, uh. And never really, uh, done this with someone I actually—” I stop, frustrated with my own inability to articulate. “Someone who matters. You matter. This matters. And I don’t want to mess it up.”

She takes my hands in hers. They’re shaking. I didn’t realize they were shaking.

“We go slow,” she says. “We check in. If something doesn’t feel right, we stop.”

“Okay.”

“And Crew?” She presses my palm flat against her chest, right over her heart. “I trust you.”

Something cracks open inside me.

I kiss her.

Her hands slide up my chest and start working the buttons of my shirt. When she pushes it off my shoulders, her palms flatten against my bare skin and I shudder.