Page 163 of The Wild Card

“Crew—”

I kiss lower. And lower. Until I’m settled between her thighs, and she’s looking down at me with wide eyes.

“Can I?”

“Yes. Please, yes.”

I taste her, and she cries out, her hands flying to my hair. I learn her like this too—what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her thighs clamp around my head like she’s trying to keep me there forever.

“Right there—don’t stop—Crew, please, I’m—”

I don’t stop. I work her through it, gentling only when she starts to shake, when her fingers loosen in my hair and her breathing comes in ragged gasps.

“Holy shit,” she manages.

I press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh. “Good?”

“You killed me.” She huffs out a soft laugh. “Get up here.”

I crawl back up her body, and she pulls me into a kiss, tasting herself on my lips. The intimacy of it hits me somewhere deep.

“I want you,” she breathes. “Inside me. Now.”

“Emmie—”

“Now, Crew.”

I reach for the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. She takes it from me when my hands prove too unsteady, rolls it on herself, and the sight of her touching me, taking care of me, even in this small way, is somehow… sweet. Very her.

“Good?” I ask.

She nods, eyes heavy-lidded.

I push into her slowly, watching her face. Her eyes flutter closed. Her lips part. She’s tight, and I’m not small, and I pause to let her adjust. Pleasure rushes through me at the feeling of being joined with her. Fuck.

“Okay?”

“More than okay.” She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper. “You’re perfect.”

I go slow at first, savoring every sensation—the way she clenches around me, the sounds she makes, the dig of her nails into my shoulders.

“You feel incredible,” I tell her, because I can’t not tell her. “So tight. So warm. I’ve thought about this—about you—for so long. Wanted you so badly. Every time you walked past me in the apartment, every time you smiled at me, I wanted—”

“Crew.” Her voice is strained. “Less talking. More moving.”

I pick up the pace, and she matches me, her hips rising to meet each thrust. We find a rhythm together, and it’s good, it’s so good, but then—

“Wait.” She pushes at my chest. “I want—can we—”

“What? What do you need?”

“I want to be on top.”

All the blood in my body rushes south.

“Yeah.” My voice comes out hoarse. “Yeah, we can do that.”

We flip, and suddenly she’s straddling me, sinking down onto me, and I can see all of her—the flush spreading across her chest, the way she bites her lip as she starts to move.