Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

Emma. This was his Emma. The woman who always had and always would own his soul. He needed to remind her that she didn’t want or need anyone but him.

He slid his hands under her ass and dragged her toward him. With her thighs over his shoulders, he went to work.

Her hands slid into his hair and fisted at the same time she lifted her hips. Her pants and moans bubbled through his blood. Her back arched, her hips rocked, her fingers flexed. “Dylan.”

The desire in her voice shocked a shard of ecstasy through his heart. And when he opened his eyes, Dylan found Emma watching him, eyes barely open, but spilling with the kind of love that had been between them from the very beginning.

Her passionate, quick response reminded him of how badly they’d needed each other when he’d returned from an assignment. How he’d drop his gear at the front door, and they’d get naked as fast as humanly possible. Sometimes they made it to the bed, sometimes they didn’t.

Now he held her gaze as he stroked her clit with his tongue. Slid his fingers along the lips of her pussy, isolated her clit between two fingers, massaged gently with his knuckles. Emma’s eyes rolled back, her head dropped, her mouth opened, and she spread her thighs wider.

She’d loved sex from their very first time. Dylan had struggled to keep up with her for the first six months. But once he’d figured it all out, he’d owned Emma in the best possible way. And pleasuring her now shot a white-hot thrill through him. His cock throbbed against his jeans, but he’d be the last one finding satisfaction tonight. Dylan owed Emma so much more than physical pleasure. But this was a good place to start.

He slid two fingers inside her and growled at the warm, wet, tight feel. Found her G-spot right where he’d left it and drove Emma into an insane double orgasm.

Her body arched and bucked. Her thighs closed on either side of his head as the second orgasm broke. Sounds of both pleasure and surprise rumbled through her chest.

She was fucking intoxicating. He was dizzy when he sat up to push out of his jeans, then moved up her body, pressed his hips between her thighs, found her gaze and held it as he pushed inside her for the first time in eight excruciating years. With one long thrust, he was deep inside her.

A blast of light blinded him, and he stilled to catch his breath. With her mouth against his throat, her hands combing through his hair, Dylan was in a place even better than heaven.

Home. He was home.

He gathered her in his arms, sat back on his heels, and pulled her into his lap. Her hair fell across her face, arms circling his neck, legs wrapping his hips, forehead pressing against his.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his throat thick with emotions, “so, so badly.”

They spent long moments just kissing. Speaking without words. She looked drunk on more than the wine. Her hands traced the scars on his shoulders; her lips trailed across his cheek, his jaw, down his neck.

This was so much more than sex. And this was so happening again. She could lie to herself all she wanted. But he knew her. Knew her signs, her sounds. She was making love to him the same way she had when they’d been deeply, hopelessly in love. And he finally felt the very beginnings of healing in his heart.

He rocked his hips, a gentle, tentative move to see if she was ready for more. She was hot and slick, and he slid easily inside her. Emma moaned and met his pressure. She was definitely ready.

Dylan let Emma set the pace and drank in every last detail of her face, her body,

her moves. He memorized the sound of her quick, heavy breaths, her moans, her purrs. Catalogued the scent of her hair, her skin, her excitement.

He rose up on his knees, driving deeper, faster. Watched ecstasy spill across her face before she climaxed. Felt the squeeze of her body and gritted his teeth against a surge of lust. They weren’t done. Emma could have orgasms for hours. Dylan wouldn’t last much longer, but he wanted to wring at least one more out of her before he let go. They had the rest of the night to break records.

When her shudders subsided, she dropped her forehead to his shoulder and swore. Her body went loose, and she sank deeper onto his cock. Stars blinded him, and his body responded. He rocked his hips, seeking friction. Need rose in his chest and closed his throat.

Emma whimpered.

Dylan pushed the hair out of her face, cupped her head, and forced her to hold his gaze as he rocked them toward orgasm. In deliberate, deep, slow thrusts, he pushed her to the edge again. Her nails dug into his scars, the bite bringing the blissful reality home. She moved her hands into his hair, and the sting in his scalp helped him hold out for one, two, three more orgasm clusters shooting off inside Emma before he lost control.

His climax exploded through his hips in a violent surge of heat. His body bucked and quivered. The muscles in his thighs burned. His ass ached.

But as they held each other, catching their breath, his heart…his heart was full for the first time since that fucking accident.

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her lips. Then he closed his eyes, rested his cheek against her head, and tried to figure out how in the hell he was going to hold on to her. Because there was no fucking way he’d screw this up again.

13

Emma blinked against the sun filling her bedroom. She moaned and covered her eyes with her arm.

A moment of confusion clouded her tired brain. Why was her apartment so bright? Why was her bed so uncomfortable? Why did her body ache? Why was she so cold?

Reality came in a rush. Dylan. Shelly’s house. A night of pure bliss.