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His fingers wrap around my wrist—not rough, but firm enough to check my movement—and he gently guides my hand out of his pants, sliding it back up past his hip until my palm rests over his heart. He’s breathing hard, his ribs expanding violently against my hand, his skin slick and burning.

"I want to take my time with you," he murmurs against my temple, his forehead resting against mine as he fights for control. "If you keep doing that right now, I’m not going to last two minutes."

A slow, secret smile touches my lips at the admission.

I’m still trying to catch my breath when he pulls me closer until we’re pressed together from chest to thigh, and I don’t mind that at all.

His mouth finds mine again, harder this time, his tongue tracing mine with a slow thoroughness that steals whatever air I have left.

My leg is still hooked over his and I can feel the solid, unmistakable weight of his erection pressed against me through the fabric of our clothes.

The ache low in my belly gets stronger.

Wyatt’s mouth moves down the side of my neck, taking its time like he’s suddenly mastered a kind of patience I didn’t know he possessed. When he reaches the hollow of my throat, where my pulse is hammering hard enough that I’m sure he can feel it against his lips, he pauses there.

Stays.

The heat of his breath makes everything inside me tighten.

His hands move over me slowly, deliberately, fingertips tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, then skimming the bare skin where my shirt has ridden up. I explore him in return, running my hands over his shoulders, his back, the firm muscles of his chest.

but my hands stay on his upper body only.

My elbow catches him in the ribs harder than I mean to, and we both freeze.

Then Wyatt laughs against my mouth.

I do too, burying my face against his shoulder for a second.

“Sorry,” I breathe.

“Don’t be.” I can hear the grin in his voice before his mouth brushes mine again. “Keep going.”

So I do.

We do.

Because it’s fumbling and imperfect and real, and somehow that makes it even better.

His hand slips beneath the waistband of my jeans and cups my ass, pulling me tighter against him.

“Wyatt.”

“Yeah?” His forehead drops against mine, his breathing uneven.

“Don’t stop.”

He sits back, his hands going to the button of my jeans.

My stomach tightens with anticipation.

His fingers have barely touched the zipper when something launches itself onto the bed and lands directly on my stomach with the force and grace of a cannonball.

I yell.

Wyatt swears.

And suddenly there’s fur everywhere.