Page 270 of The Wright Man

"More than," I breathed.

He kissed me deep and slow, one hand braced on the tile above my head, and for a moment we just stood there, water streaming over us, his forehead against mine, breathing the same air. Twenty years collapsed into the space between us and expanded back out as something different. Something whole.

Then his hands moved. And mine answered.

We didn't stay slow for long.

By the time he reached past me to turn off the water, I was shaking slightly and he was breathing hard and neither of us had bothered with soap since the first two minutes. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me once, then tossed his own aside.

"Maleek—" I started, reaching for the towel to dry off properly.

He looked at me. Picked me up. Still dripping.

I laughed—surprised, delighted, clinging to his neck. "I'm soaking wet—"

"Yeah," he said. He wasn't talking about the shower.

He carried me out of the bathroom and walked us straight to the wall — not the bed, the wall — and pressed me against it, cool paint against my damp back, his body warm against my front. Water droplets chased each other down my skin. His mouth found my neck and stayed there.

"There's not gonna be much foreplay," he growled, one hand sliding up my thigh, finding exactly what he was looking for. "And I don't think I've got it in me to be gentle tonight."

"Good," I whispered, grabbing his wrist and pulling it closer so his fingertips grazed my dripping folds. "Because it doesn't feel like I need much foreplay, does it?"

He choked on a curse, forehead dropping to my shoulder. His knees bent slightly. I felt his breath catch against my neck.

"This whole damn month has been foreplay," I breathed, dragging my lips across his jaw. "And I don't want gentle."

I tipped his chin up and kissed him deep—open-mouthed and hungry, tasting every second of tension we hadn't been able to act on until now. I swore I felt his entire body shake against mine.

When I finally pulled back, I looked him dead in the eyes, hand still on the back of his neck.

"Now please..." I whispered, voice broken and aching. "Fuck me, Maleek."

He made a sound I'd never heard before—something primal and possessive, somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

He ripped my towel away. His arms flexed as he picked me up by the thighs, back pressed to the wall. He lined himself up at my entrance, his eyes burning into mine.

"Who loves you, Angel?" he asked.

The look on his face. Worshipful. Devastating. Like I was his moon and stars and entire fucking universe.

"You do," I whispered, breath hitching.

And then he sank into me in one smooth, possessive stroke.

We moaned together—loud, unfiltered, raw—as my body stretched to take him. He was so fucking big. Thick, long, overwhelming. I knew that already—my mouth had gotten real familiar with him over the past few weeks—but this? This was different.

He filled me. Owned me. My toes curled, breath caught, body quivered. It was too much and not enough all at once.

Maleek groaned, tightening his grip under my thighs. "You okay?"

I nodded quickly, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Just give me a second. It's been a while. And you're... not small."

He buried his face in my neck, but I felt the smug smile anyway.

I smacked the back of his head. "Don't get cocky."

"Angel," he said into my skin, voice vibrating against me, "I've wanted you for over two decades. And the first thing you say once I'm inside you is that? Let me have this."