Page 138

I lift my hips, and he pulls my pants down, underwear with them, tossing them aside.

His palm skims up my thigh, rough calluses catching on soft skin, and I shiver.

He settles between my legs, and I feel his breath, warm and close, against my inner thigh. My fingers twist in the sheets.

"Look at me," he says.

I do. Our eyes meet in the dim light, and his expression…God, his expression. Open, hungry, reverent. Like I'm something he can't believe is his.

"So lucky," he whispers, and then his mouth is on me.

The first touch of his tongue makes my back arch off the mattress.

He takes his time, slow and thorough, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me steady. He knows exactly what I like, knows the rhythm that drives me crazy, and he uses every bit of that knowledge now.

My hands fly to his hair, gripping, and I hear him moan against me, the sound vibrating through my core.

"Wyatt, please—" The words come out broken, breathless.

He doesn't stop.

If anything, he doubles down, his tongue circling, pressing, finding that spot that makes my vision blur. My thighs shake against his hands, and I'm babbling now, words that don't make sense, his name mixed with sounds I didn't know I could make.

He pulls back just as I'm about to tip over the edge, and I whimper at the loss.

But he's already moving, shoving his own pants down, and then he's there with a condom, pressing against me, hot and hard. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.

"You ready?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked.

I nod, and he pushes in, slow, inch by inch. The stretch, the fullness—I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He stills once he's fully inside, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling.

"Christ, Quinn." His voice shakes. "You feel so good. So fucking good."

I clench around him, and he groans, his hips twitching.

I can tell he's holding back, trying to go slow, trying to make this last. I roll my hips, and his control fractures.

He starts to move, and the pace is perfect: not too fast, not too slow, just that steady rhythm that builds heat in my belly with every thrust.

His mouth finds mine, and we kiss, messy and wet, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hips. My hands slide down his back, gripping his ass, pulling him deeper.

"Every day," he says against my lips, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Every day. You're mine. And I'm so fucking lucky."

I'm losing coherence, my thoughts scattering like startled birds.

All I can focus on is the sensation—his body moving in mine, the slide and friction, the way he fills me completely. My legs tighten around his waist, and I meet his thrusts, chasing that building pressure.

"Right there," I gasp. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

He doesn't.

His rhythm stays steady, but his thrusts deepen, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes. I'm close, so close, and he must feel it because he shifts his angle slightly, and that's it. That's all it takes.

I come apart beneath him, my whole body clenching, my mouth open in a silent scream.

He follows me over, his hips stuttering, his face buried in my neck, and I feel him pulsing inside me, hot and thick.