Page 162 of The Wild Card

“God, you’re—” She traces a scar along my ribs, then another near my collarbone. “You’re so beautiful, Crew. You know that?”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” She presses a kiss to the center of my chest. “You are and you don’t even see it.”

I don’t know what to do with that. So I reach for the hem of her tank top instead, pulling it over her head. Simple black bra. Nothing fancy. Still perfect.

She reaches back and unhooks the clasp herself, letting it fall.

“Emmie.” Her name comes out strangled. “You’re—I don’t—” I’m staring like an idiot, like I’ve never seen a woman before, and maybe I haven’t. Not like this. Not one who looks at me the way she’s looking at me.

“Touch me,” she whispers. “Please.”

She sighs, arching into me, and I explore her with my hands, my mouth, mapping the terrain of her.

“That’s—yes—” She gasps when my mouth moves over her breast.

“Yeah? You like that?” I do it again, and she whimpers. “You’re so responsive. So perfect. I could touch you forever and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

I’m talking too much. I know I’m talking too much. But I can’t seem to stop, and she doesn’t seem to mind. Every word pulls another sound from her, another shiver, another sign that she’s right here with me.

We tumble onto the bed. I settle over her, and we’re both still half-dressed, and that needs to change immediately. I work at her leggings while she attacks my belt, and there’s an awkward moment where we’re both struggling with fabric and laughing breathlessly, and it’s not smooth or suave but it’s us.

And then we’re naked.

And she’s looking at me.

All of me.

“Oh.” Her eyes widen slightly. “Um. Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—” She bites her lip, and there’s something almost nervous in her expression. “Of course you’re big. You’re so thorough about everything.” She pauses, mouth lifting in a slight grin “Even your junk is overachieving.”

“Uh.” My brain short-circuits. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s the opposite of a problem.” She reaches for me, wrapping her hand around my length, and my hips jerk involuntarily. “It’s just going to take some… adjustment.”

“We can go slow. We can—fuck—” She strokes me, and my thoughts scatter. “Emmie, if you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”

“We can’t have that.” But she doesn’t stop. Just slows down, which transforms the pleasure into something torturous. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Undone.” She twists her wrist, and I groan. “You’re always so controlled. So precise. But right now you’re just—”

“Losing my mind?”

“Yeah.” She smiles up at me. “I like it.”

I need to get control back. I need to focus on her, not on the way her hand is making me forget my own name.

“Lie back,” I manage.

She does, releasing me, and I take a moment to just look at her. Spread out on my bed. In my space. Waiting for me. I lower myself over her, kissing my way down her body. Her neck. Her collarbone. The soft swell of her breasts. Her stomach, where she squirms and tries to suck in.

“Don’t,” I murmur against her skin. “Don’t hide from me. You’re perfect. Every inch of you.”