Page 87 of The Wild Card

No one’s ever called me that before.

She leans down and presses a kiss to my collarbone. Then lower, to the center of my chest. Then lower still, her lips tracing a path down my sternum.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. I settle them on her thighs, squeezing gently, and she hums in approval.

“Your turn,” I say. “Can I—”

“Yes.” She’s already reaching for her own shirt, pulling it over her head before I can finish the question.

She’s wearing a simple cotton bra. Light blue. Nothing fancy. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re staring,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“Is that okay? That I’m—”

“Emmie.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You’re gorgeous. You have to know that.”

She bites her lip. “I know I’m not—I mean, I’m soft in places, and my stomach is—”

“Perfect,” I finish for her. Then I kiss her. Hard. Trying to pour everything I can’t say into it. Because she really is.

When I pull back, she’s breathing fast.

“Your turn to stop apologizing,” I tell her.

She laughs, a little shaky. “Fair enough.”

I kiss her again, slower this time, and let my hands explore. The curve of her waist. The soft swell of her hips. The warm skin of her stomach that she was just criticizing, and I want to worship.

She starts moving again, grinding against me with more purpose now, and I can feel the heat of her even through both layers of denim. My hands slide to her ass, pulling her tighter against me, guiding her rhythm.

“Crew.” Her voice is lower now. Breathless.

I’ve done this before. I know the mechanics. But it’s never felt like this—urgent and tender at the same time, her little sounds of pleasure rewiring something in my brain.

“Can I take these off?” I touch the waistband of her jeans.

“Please.”

My hands are shaking as I unbutton them. She notices—of course she notices—and covers my hands with hers.

She stands just long enough to shimmy out of her jeans, and then she’s climbing back into my lap in just her bra and underwear—light blue, matching—and looking at me with so much trust it makes my throat tight.

“You’re sure?” I ask.

“Crew.” She settles over me, knees bracketing my hips. “I’m sure. Please touch me.”

I slide my hand up her inner thigh, watching her face. Her eyes flutter closed. Her lips part.

When my fingers brush against her over the thin cotton, she whimpers.

“More,” she breathes. “Please.”

I push her underwear aside and touch her properly, and the sound she makes goes straight through me.

“Fuck, Emmie.”