Walking out on my wedding wasn’t my best idea.
“Do you know anything about personal space?” Breathlessly, the words fall from my lips.
“Yes,” he murmurs, stepping into me. “I know that I fuckin’ love it when you’re in mine.”
“I mean other people’s.”
He slides his hand from my chin to the back of my head, twining his fingers into the hair at the base of my skull, and rests his other hand on my waist. “I respect personal space,” he whispers, every breath fluttering over my lips, making them red hot. “But yours looks empty, darlin’. It needs filling.”
“And you’re the perfect guy for the job, right?”
His lips crushing against mine answer my question. Tate pushes us back and I gasp as my back hits the wall. I grasp his shirt as if it’ll ground me, but I’m consumed by his tongue flicking against mine. He asks no permission. He’s not gentle. He’s rough and demanding.
His lips are harsh and desperate, his fingertips digging into me in a way that stings so bad it’s almost sweet, and his hard body against mine almost suffocates me, but that’s because I can feel all of him, from his tensed pecs to his hardened cock.
He’s against me, fully, entirely, every dip and bump of his body evident despite the clothing between us. And as his teeth graze across my bottom lip in a tantalizingly teasing way that makes me moan quietly into his mouth, I want that clothing gone.
I dip my hands beneath his shirt and trail them up his back. His grip gets tighter, his kiss gets firmer. His movements are almost possessive, but not in a bad way. They’re not selfish or careless. Every twitch of his fingers brings me pleasure. Every swipe of his tongue turns me on, too.
And I am. Turned on. I am turned. The. Hell. On. My breasts are aching, my nipples pebbling, and my clit is aching in a way I thought it forgot long ago. But it hasn’t, it remembers, and my muscles remember, and my pussy is clenching, my fingers are gripping, my lips are moving. His hands are caressing, his tongue is battling, his erection is growing.
There’s us—no doubts, no what ifs, no maybes. There’s the kiss and the need and the want. There’s the actions and the gasps and the tiny moans and the desperation. There’s Tate and Ella, the two that don’t make sense, the two that shouldn’t do this, but do anyway, on both accounts.
Conner Burke never expected Sofie Callahan to come back.
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever shefancies – usually wine – and writes books.
Travels n Reads 