Page 184 of The Wild Card

“Yeah.” I grin up at him.

He pushes into me, and my back arches off the wood, and I grab the edge of the table because I need something to hold onto. The sound I make isn’t cute or delicate—it’s raw and desperate and pulled from somewhere deep, and it makes his grip on my hip tighten in a way that sends sparks up my spine.

It’s frantic and hot and a little unhinged—both of us chasing the finish we’ve been robbed of twice, and I can feel it building already because my body has been hovering at the edge for hours, and it barely takes anything to get me back there.

He leans over me, mouth on my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast, and his hand slides between us, finding exactly the right spot because Crew Jensen is thorough about everything, and I mean everything.

“Right there,” I gasp, my hand fisting in his hair. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare—”

“Not stopping. Not if the entire Dallas field office shows up.”

I laugh, and it breaks into a moan because he shifts his angle and hits somewhere devastating, and my vision goes spotty at the edges.

“Em.” His voice is strained, barely holding. “I need you to get there because I’m about thirty seconds from—”

“I’m close, I’m so close, just—there—”

It hits me like a wave crashing after being held back all day. I shatter, finally, finally, and it’s so intense that I cry out his name and my back lifts off the table, and I’m gripping him so hard I’ll probably leave marks. He follows me seconds later with a groan that I feel in my chest, his whole body going taut and then boneless as he drops his forehead to the space between my breasts.

We lie there on the dining table, breathing like we just ran a marathon.

His cheek is pressed against my sternum, and I’m staring at the ceiling beams he installed last spring. My legs are dangling off the edge, and this is, without question, the least dignified position I’ve ever been in.

I’ve never been happier.

“We just christened the dining table,” I say.

“Mm-hmm.” He hasn’t moved. I don’t think he can.

“My parents admired this table an hour ago.”

He pauses. “Let’s not think about that.”

“My mom set her casserole dish right where my butt is.”

“Emmie. Please.”

I laugh, and it shakes both of us, and he makes a muffled sound against my chest that might be a groan or might be a laugh. His thumb traces lazy circles on my hip.

“Crew?”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

“You threw your wallet at Foster.”

“I did.”

“All your cards are in there.”

“I’m aware.”

“He’s going to buy something ridiculous with your credit card. You know that, right?”

A pause.

“Worth it.”