Page 21

Yes, yes, yes .

It’s the only word that chants through my head when Emin steps forward, slanting his lips to mine. It’s everything I remember, everything I’ve missed.

Even if he and I were a bit fumbling as teenagers, still trying to figure out and find out rhythm, our pleasure, one thing has always been true—Emin Argent is a phenomenal kisser.

As a teenager, it was the thing that made my heart melt most. More than the stolen glances at school, or the forbidden nature of it all. It was the way it felt to be in his arms, pressed to the wall, and kissed like he had just come back from battle, and I was the only thing he could think about.

Emin kisses you like he needs you, like you’re pure oxygen, and he’s drifting outside the atmosphere.

In a second, he’s spun us around so I’m pinned against the wall.

His hand slides behind my head, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck as he tips me back to get more leverage.

To slide his tongue against mine, his movements like a practiced routine, his hands and lips coordinated.

One hand on my hip, his thumb brushing up and under the hem of my shirt, sending shivers up and over my skin.

I feel goose bumps form, trailing after his touch, following him like they want more, more .

His tongue is against mine, seeking, searching, pushing deeper. A nip to my bottom lip, a new slant of his lips, his mouth and hands working together to leave my body nothing but a raw bundle of nerves.

And just when I’m breathless, afraid I might actually die from suffocation, he pulls back, trailing his lips down my neck and to my jawline, sucking, biting, teasing at my pulse point.

He stops, breathing deeply, holding it for a moment, and I realize he’s taking in the scent of me. The thought of that is intoxicating—that he’s scenting me, and that he likes it.

Pressed against the wall like this, I can already feel him hard against me. He wedges one leg between mine, pressing into that sensitive core, and I sob against him at the pressure, feeling him hard at my hip and wanting him instead at my center.

Embarrassingly, the friction of his leg against me alone is almost enough to make me come undone. I’m pulsing, throbbing with need in a way I never have before. He seems to realize it, because his grip tightens on me, his thigh pressing in closer, the friction lighting up black dots in my vision.

“Are you going to come for me right now?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about Emin through the years. If, on a lonely night, I didn’t occasionally picture him, think of the way he used to touch me. In my fantasies, we were always in bed, him above me, his bite sharp on the back of my neck.

In none of my fantasies did I come against the wall, on his leg.

“Not like this,” I try, but Emin is shaking his head, his mouth pressed to the side of my neck, his breathing ragged.

“Veva,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you come as many times as you want tonight, so you’re going to do it right here, right now. Come on baby, I want—”

Just hearing him promise that sends me flying apart, my arms wrapping around his neck, my hips moving feverishly against him, seeking more friction. I’m soaked through my underwear and shorts, likely even through his pants now, the slick of my heat just coming and coming.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, this orgasm.

And yet, the moment it’s done, I know that I can come again. I’m still shaking, still so damn sensitive. It’s as though my body truly has stored up ten years of sexual frustration, ten years of missing heats, ten years of true loneliness.

Another man has never touched my body.

I’d tell myself it’s because I was too busy, or because I didn’t trust the men at camp, but that’s a lie—there were several very fine men there. Men who wanted me, lusted after me, and would have been happy with a single night out in the brush.

Willow tried to encourage me more than once.

But how could I tell her that my body only wanted the touch of a single man? Only the scrape of his knuckles over my skin. Only the press of him into my body—anything else would either be downright disgusting or simply frustrating, a tease of something I knew would never be coming.

Other than safety, that’s the biggest reason I took so many measures to suppress my heat. Because, without Emin there, I might actually lose my mind from the lack of satisfaction, the wanting and wanting without any resolution in sight.

My body would only accept one form of pleasure, from one specific source.

The thought of that—the thought of what I know I’m getting tonight—makes my entire body shudder in anticipation, the desperate aching of it making goosebumps break over out over my skin.

I shiver, then Emin is picking me up, carrying me like I’m nothing, and I know where we’re going.

He pushes open the door to his bedroom and deposits me gently on the bed, moving methodically, like he’s an actor only following the very obviously laid script for this moment.

Emin pulls my hips to the edge of the bed, gets on his knees before me.

“Emin,” I say when he peels my shorts off and sucks in a sharp, quick breath, his dark eyes locked on the part of me that’s drowning in my heat. Embarrassment threatens to surface through the lust. “Emin—” I try again, when he grabs the insides of my thighs, forcing my legs open.

And then his name is pulled from my mouth as he buries his face between my legs.

The gasps and sounds that come from me are mortifying, desperate and wide-open, but Emin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he carries on, lapping at me like it’s the only thing he’s been thinking about for the last ten years.

“Veva,” he groans against my clit, the vibration settling into my bones. “You have no idea how long I have waited to taste you like that.”

“The heat,” I try, gasping for air, hovering just above the precipice of my next orgasm. My legs are shaking—my entire fucking body is shaking. “The slick, I’m sorry—”

Emin draws back, something almost sadistic on his face. Then, he eases a knuckle inside me, and I nearly black out at the endless rush of endorphins. Like I’ve just gone down the other side of the roller coaster.

“Don’t you dare fucking apologize to me,” he growls, dragging his tongue along the length of me, hot and wet and practically obscene. “You taste…you taste like you belong to me, Veva.”

Maybe he realizes it, maybe he doesn’t, but when he says belong , he thrusts his finger fully inside me, and I cry out, clenching around him as my second orgasms shudders through my body, ecstasy lighting up from my deepest organs and all the way out to the tips of my fingers.

I feel like a firework contained the shape of a human body. Like my cells have been replaced with photons, like I’m barely staying whole through the cresting, endless waves of pleasure.

“ Veva ,” Emin growls, crawling up the length of me, his hands lingering and touching, obsessive and thorough, like he wants to map every inch of my body, burn it into his brain to remember later.

“Emin.” It comes out as a whimper. Any other time, I’d care. I’d not want to be so needy, but I can’t control it. “ Emin .”

“Tell me what you want,” he teases, his voice low. How he’s holding anything back right now is completely beyond me, and infuriating to now end.

“You know what I want,” I growl, lifting up and pressing against him. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then grabs my hips, pinning me to the bed.

“I want to hear you say it, Veva.”

Air comes out of me in sharp little bursts. If Emin doesn’t fuck me right now, I might actually start sobbing.

The realization hits me with a start—I would do anything to have him touch me, to have him inside me. So I level my gaze at him, go still, lower my voice, and tell him exactly what I want.