Page 86 of The Wild Card

I’ve never let anyone be in control before.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.”

She frames my face with her hands and kisses me again. Softer this time. Slower. Learning the shape of my mouth like she has all the time in the world. Her thumbs trace my cheekbones, my jaw, the scar through my eyebrow. Gentle. So unbearably gentle.

I don’t know what to do with gentle.

My hands settle on her hips—safe territory—but she shifts in my lap, pressing down, and I feel the heat of her through our jeans. My fingers dig into her involuntarily.

“This okay?” she murmurs against my lips.

“Uh-huh.”

“What about this?” She rolls her hips, a slow grind that drags her center right over the growing hardness in my jeans.

I make a sound I’ve never made before—something between a groan and a gasp—and feel her smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She does it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that has me gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, my head falling back against the couch cushions.

“Emmie—”

“I know.” She kisses my jaw, my neck. “I just want you to feel good. Don’t think.”

Don’t think? Easier said than done when my whole life has been about thinking, analyzing, preparing. But with her moving on top of me, with her mouth hot against my throat, thinking becomes impossible.

Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair, and I shudder at the contact.

“You like that?” Her fingers scratch lightly against my scalp.

“Yeah.” It’s the most articulate I can manage.

She grinds down harder, and I thrust up to meet her, and the friction is maddening—not enough, too much, I need more, I need—

“Fuck,” I breathe. “Emmie, I—”

“I’ve got you.” She kisses me deep, her tongue sliding against mine, and keeps moving. Keeps grinding. The denim between us is torture and salvation all at once.

Her mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. She finds a spot just below my Adam’s apple and sucks gently, and my hips jerk up involuntarily, pressing hard against her.

“Sorry,” I manage. “I—”

“Don’t apologize.” She pulls back, meets my eyes. “I like knowing I affect you.”

Affect me. That’s one word for it. I’m coming apart at the seams, and we’re both still fully clothed.

“Can I…?” Her fingers move under the hem of my shirt, and her palms flatten against my abs.

I nod, and she tugs the fabric up. I help her pull it over my head, and then she’s looking at me like she’s mesmerized by what she sees.

“God, Crew.” Her hands flatten against my chest, exploring. Tracing the lines of muscle, the scattered scars I’ve never explained. “You’re…”

“I’m what?”

“Beautiful.” She says it simply, like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.