Page 181 of The Wild Card

Real, actual, nobody-is-here silence.

I turn to Crew.

He turns to me.

We stare at each other for maybe two seconds, and in those two seconds, I watch his expression shift from polite son-in-law to something significantly less polite. His eyes drop to my mouth. Then lower. Then back up.

“Inside,” he says. “Now.”

I don’t need to be told twice.

We barely make it through the door. His mouth is on mine before it swings shut, his hands gripping my waist, walking me backward through the cabin. I’m already pulling at his shirt—the one he put on in a panic ninety minutes ago—and he’s working the buttons on my flannel.

“Bed,” I manage against his mouth.

“Too far.”

He’s not wrong. The bedroom is down the hall and around the corner, and that’s approximately fifteen feet too many. My back hits the wall next to the bookshelf—the one he built, because Crew Jensen builds things—and right now, I’m very grateful for his craftsmanship because I need something solid behind me.

His shirt comes off. My sports bra gets dragged over my head. His hands are on my skin, and his mouth is on my neck, and I’m making sounds that would be embarrassing if I had any shame left, which I don’t, because my mother already identified the hickey, so really, what’s the point of dignity?

“I’ve been thinking about this,” I tell him between kisses, “for the entire brunch.”

“You were talking about blue napkins.”

“And underneath the dusty blue napkin conversation, I was thinking about riding you on this wall.”

The sound he makes is gratifying.

“Your father was sitting three feet from me, Emmie.”

“I know. I’m a monster.” I grab his waistband. “Take these off.”

He does. I shimmy out of the leggings. We’re both naked in the hallway of our cabin in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, at 11:47 on a Saturday morning, and honestly? This is the most myself I’ve ever felt.

He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, my back presses against the wall, and his forehead drops to mine.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi.” His voice is wrecked.

“You sure the wall can hold us? I don’t want to bust through the drywall and end up in the closet.”

“I reinforced the studs.”

“Of course you did.” I grin at him. “That’s so hot.”

“Structural integrity turns you on?”

“You turn me on. The structural integrity is a bonus.” I shift my hips. “Now please, for the love of God, finish what you started this morning before someone else shows up. The mailman. A yeti. I don’t even care. If we get interrupted again, I’m going to lose my mind.”

He slides into me, and every thought I’ve ever had exits my brain.

My head falls back against the wall. His grip tightens on my thighs. We both just… breathe for a second, adjusting, savoring, and then he starts to move, and I forget about blue napkins and my mother’s Pinterest board and every single thing that isn’t the way this man feels inside me.

“There,” I gasp. “Right there. Don’t you dare stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”