Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

“I blindsided you again. I’m sorry.” He reached out and cupped her face. “I just got the news, and I thought you’d be happy.”

Emma blew out a breath and turned away, returning to the kitchen to pour another glass of wine. “You’re like a cyclone. You blow into my life and tear everything up.”

He followed her into the kitchen and leaned back against the cabinets, hands braced on the countertop, his shirt stretched across a strong chest and ripped abs. And he remained maddeningly silent and attentive. As if nothing existed outside this apartment.

She leaned against the counter across from him and crossed her arms, then they just stared at each other.

After a long second, she shook her head. “I still can’t fucking believe you’re here. I feel like I’m going to wake up any second.”

“I know.”

And she knew he’d signed the contract for that very reason. To put something solid beneath her feet, because he knew how she hated feeling up in the air about her life. “I meant what I said. I think this job is perfect for you right now. It’s a healthy, exciting career move.”

“I didn’t do it just for me.”

“I know.” All her air whooshed out. Thoughts swam around her head like goldfish. But they all came down to one issue. “I’m…”

“Scared,” he finished in a soft tone. All the humor had faded from his expression, leaving him sober and raw. A state of mind that brought back the months after his accident, while hope slowly leaked from their lives. “I am too.”

His vulnerability fisted her heart. All those years ago, he’d hidden his fear from her. Never admitted to losing hope. Not once until he pivoted on a dime and abandoned her.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Em,” he said. “I’m two hundred percent committed to you. Every day for the rest of my life.”

God. That was all she’d ever truly wanted. All her other dreams—of becoming a doctor, of traveling, of helping others—had all come second. Now he was standing in front of her offering her everything.

And he might not be a kid, but that didn’t mean he was any more capable of following through now than he was then. And she wasn’t nineteen anymore. She didn’t have another decade to lose.

He offered an outstretched hand. Emma stared at it for a few long beats. When she took it, Dylan drew her in, wrapped her up. “I love you, Em. So much.”

She circled his waist and fisted her hands in the back of his shirt. Pressed her face to his chest and breathed him in. They stood like that, holding each other, for a long time.

As her fear calmed, desire rose.

When he tilted her head back and searched her eyes, Emma felt exposed to the very depths of her soul. He seemed to recognize her resistance and her fears. Seemed to accept them. He was a smart man, now far more self-aware then he’d once been. He knew what she was fighting against and why.

He lowered his head and kissed her. He tasted like champagne and promise. His body was so hard, so strong, so warm. So real. God, she needed him. Even if she couldn’t commit to him, or even tell him she loved him, she still needed him. Couldn’t ever remember a need so fierce.

She pushed his blazer off his shoulders, then pulled the tail of his shirt from his jeans and slid her hands underneath. The scarred muscles of his back drifted beneath her fingers before she worked the buttons of his shirt open. This was one thing they’d always done well. A part of him she could have even if it didn’t quite bridge the gap still between them.

His hands slid low, cupped her ass, and pulled her against him. He moaned into her mouth, and she broke the kiss to push the shirt off his arms and run her hands down his abdomen.

Emma had seen a lot of deformities. Everything from remnants of abuse to limbs chewed up by machinery. But she’d never seen a man as ravaged as Dylan had been return to such virile condition. His scars wrapped his muscular body in an almost-smooth roadmap. She found it beautiful in the deepest, most moving way.

She kissed his shoulder as she worked the button of his jeans open, his chest as she worked the zipper.

“God, baby.” Dylan’s voice was rough. He gripped her waist and lifted her off the floor.

Emma wrapped her legs around his hips and pressed her face to his neck, kissing him. He moved to the sofa and laid her down. Hovering over her on one knee, he pressed his hands to her thighs, fisted her dress, and lifted it up and over her head. He tossed it aside, and his gaze swept down her body with desire so hot, Emma grew wet.

She pushed at his jeans. “Need you,” she told him in a breathless rasp. “I need you.”

“I’m right here.” Dylan hooked his fingers in her panties and pulled them down her legs. He pushed his jeans down far enough to give her exactly what she needed, then sank between her thighs.

While Emma reached between them to position him, Dylan unfastened her bra. He drew the fabric down her arms and covered her breast with his mouth even while he dropped the fabric on the floor. And with one unexpected thrust, he filled her, driving her body up the sofa. She cried out and arched. So good. So fucking good. No one could complete her like Dylan. No one loved her like Dylan.

He moved in slow, deep thrusts until he was completely embedded inside her, until their bodies met, then stilled and caught his breath.

All the noise inside Emma quieted. All the worry drifted away. All her fears ebbed. Loving Dylan brought her heart and her soul into sync. She never felt as complete or alive as when Dylan was loving her. There wasn’t anywhere she’d rather be.