Must Be Wright (The Wrights 3)

“Mmm, you feel good, sugar. Tight and wet and so fucking hot.” His sultry voice mirrored his movements, fingering her deep and slow until her hips rocked into his touch. Until she got the taste of orgasm in the back of her throat.

Gypsy sat up to pull at his belt buckle, and Wyatt brought the hand that had been stroking her to his lips and deliberately held her gaze as he licked her taste from his fingers, then hummed as if she was a delicacy.

Her heart kicked at the erotic display and made her wish she could spend an entire night with him. It would be a night she would never forget, no doubt. Unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards for them. All they had was right here, right now, so she pulled at the button of his jeans.

“You’re an impatient little thing,” he murmured, pushing her jacket off her shoulders and pulling it off her arms.

“I like to think of myself as efficient.”

He was laughing, his hands sliding down her arms when the button pulled free and she got the zipper down.

With her gaze still on his, she slid her hand into his jeans, beneath the waistband of boxer briefs, and palmed his cock with enough pressure to turn his humor into hunger.

His hands gripped her arms hard, and his eyes closed on a growl from deep in his chest. The sound thrilled Gypsy, as did the thick, long, hot length of him in her hand.

He sat up, fisted the back of her shirt, including her bra strap, and dragged it over her head, forcing her to release him. The night air created gooseflesh across Gypsy’s chest and back. Then he did the same with his own shirt.

This was the first time she’d seen his body. Really seen his body. And she was far more impressed than she’d expected. The moonlight shimmered over a wide chest and abs that were downright chiseled. Muscles rounded his biceps. She only had time to stroke her hands over the crisp hair of his pecs before he enveloped her in his arms, warming her skin with his own.

The sensation was both foreign and familiar, and it filled a hole inside her she’d left empty for too long. Time seemed to warp, both slowing down and speeding ahead.

Pleasure drifted through her body, releasing all her tension like a drug. She pressed kisses to his neck, shoulder, chest. Ran her hands over the muscles of his back. He cupped her face and kissed her for long, unhurried minutes. This man could make her forget everything—all the hurts from her past, all the reasons she kept herself protected now.

He rolled again, easing Gypsy onto her back and sliding between her thighs. He kissed her everywhere—her neck, her shoulder, her chest, her breasts. Gypsy combed her hands through his hair, loving the feel of it.

“Wyatt.”

He lifted his head, his drunk gaze finding hers. “Yeah, sugar?”

“I need you.” God, that was hard to admit. “Like, now.”

Heat flashed across his face. “That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her leggings, rose on his knees, and pulled them down and off her legs. Then he just looked at her, which made her incredibly

self-conscious. She’d lost the baby weight, and her job was physical enough to keep her fit, but she was still grateful for the forgiving moonlight. She knew too well what kind of women he usually slept with, gorgeous and built. Pleasers who would do anything for a few minutes in bed with a celebrity.

For tonight, she let herself believe this was different. Told herself this meant something, even if that something was just in this moment. Because this moment was all either of them had, and that look of raw hunger on his face couldn’t be faked.

“So fucking beautiful.” He slid his hands up her thighs, her abdomen, cupped her breasts, and finally eased his hips between her legs again.

She lost herself in his kiss. His sexy, slow, sweet kiss. Moved her hands down his back to his jeans and pushed them lower on his hips. She pulled his wallet out of his back pocket with one hand and reached between them to circle his thick shaft with the other. He groaned and rocked into her grasp, pushing his cock along her palm. His skin was like velvet, his length like steel.

“Condom,” she murmured.

“If you want me to get it,” he said, breathing heavy, “you’ve got to stop…what you’re doing.”

She released her grip. He groaned and braced himself on one forearm, then grabbed the wallet and turned it over, shaking everything out—credit cards, cash, condom. And a handful of guitar picks. One of the dark picks glimmered in the moonlight, casting an iridescent rainbow over the dark background.

She picked up the condom and the guitar pick. “This is so pretty.”

Wyatt laughed. And laughed some more.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, grinning at him.

“Just the difference between women and men. I think that condom looks beautiful, but I’m damn sure you meant that guitar pick.”

“What’s this mean? Waitin’ on you?” The letters were inscribed in metallic silver.