Page 63

I stop thinking at all, actually, except for the specific, devastating fact of his mouth and his hands and the sound he makes, quiet, almost startled, when I pull him closer.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him without hesitation. The kiss changes then, deepens into something messier, more desperate.

There's nothing careful about it anymore – just raw, hungry need that matches the ache building between my thighs.

He shifts, one hand braced on the floor by my hip, and I feel the difference.

He's holding himself back, testing the edges of what I want without pushing past them. His body is tense with restraint, muscles coiled tight as he fights against his own instincts. I can feel the effort it costs him, the way his breathing hitches every time I arch against him.

I answer that by not letting him hold back.

My fingers curl tighter in his shirt, pulling until the fabric stretches taut across his shoulders.

He exhales against my mouth, something between a laugh and a groan, and the kiss goes deeper, slower, like he finally believes I'm not going anywhere either.

His tongue sweeps against mine, exploring, claiming, and I meet him stroke for stroke. The mint taste is gone now, replaced by something darker, uniquely Wyatt that makes my head spin.

"Quinn," he murmurs against my lips, and the way he says my name – like it's something precious, something he's been saving – sends a fresh wave of heat through my veins.

Then his hands are on my waist, no longer hovering but gripping tight, pulling me across his lap until I'm straddling him.

The movement is fluid, practiced, and suddenly I can feel his unmistakable erection pressing against my core through the layers of our clothes.

He's hard, and the realization that I did this to him, that I'm the reason his breath is coming in ragged bursts against my neck, makes me dizzy with power.

His hands slide under my hoodie, tracing the curve of my spine beneath the fabric. God, this feels amazing.

I rock my hips experimentally. His fingers dig into my skin, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "Fuck," he breathes—a raw, guttural sound, stripped of all pretense.

Leaning forward, I press open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, nipping at his light stubble. His hands find my ass, squeezing, kneading, pulling me flush against him. The friction is maddening—not nearly enough, yet almost too much to bear. Wetness soaks through my panties, my body answering his touch with an urgency that borders on embarrassing.

"Wyatt," I gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive skin below my ear. "Please."

He doesn't ask what I'm begging for; he already knows. One hand slides around my stomach, tracing electric patterns just above the waistband of my leggings. I tremble, shivers racing across my skin as his fingers dip lower, toying with the waistband.

I freeze, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant wail of a siren, the sheer weight of his body beneath mine.

Then his thumb strokes over the fabric right at my core—slow, deliberate circles that somehow ground me even as they wind me tighter. I give a small, jerky nod. He understands immediately.

His fingers dip under the elastic, tracing the damp lace of my panties. I hold my breath, waiting, wanting, needing him to just—finally—touch me.

And then he does.

Sliding beneath the lace, his fingers comb through the curls before finding my clit.

I cry out, my hips bucking instinctively. He circles the sensitive nub once, twice, then slides lower to gather my slick heat on his fingertips. He groans—a low, deep vibration in his chest—and the sound alone nearly undoes me.

"God, Quinn," he breathes against my neck. "You're so fucking wet for me."

He keeps rubbing, driving me toward the edge. I'm spiraling, completely helpless to it—I don't think I can take much more—

A knock at the door makes me jump.

Wyatt pulls back, his hand still resting against my waist.

Another knock follows, then my phone starts buzzing on the coffee table.

Oh, shit.