The flight back is a blur. Her hand rests on my thigh, and her fingers occasionally trace small circles that don’t help my focus.
By the time we pull into my place, I don’t even bother grabbing the bags.
When the door closes behind us, I press my mouth against hers as if I have been starved for days.
“God, finally,” I growl against her lips.
Her laugh is breathless as she tugs my shirt up. “You were worried about your parents hearing?—”
“And I was right.” I kiss her harder, hands already slipping under her shirt, hungry and rough. “You’re loud, Amelia.”
Her grin is wicked. “You love it.”
“Damn right, I do.”
But now? No parents. No cautious, quiet touches. No biting my tongue when all I want is to hear her fall apart beneath me—saying my name the way only she does.
I scoop her up, and her legs lock around my waist. I’m already carrying her toward the bedroom before she can make another smart-ass comment.
Because this? This is the part of the weekend I’ve been waiting for.
No more sneaking. No more quiet.
Just her. Exactly how I want.
I barely get the door shut before instinct takes over. In one second, I find Amelia wrapped around me, her mouth hot against mine; in the next, I throw her onto the bed with zero finesse—pure, raw need driving me.
She lands with a bounce, her hair splayed out around her like some wild halo, and her chest rises fast beneath that tight little top she still hasn’t taken off.
“Boots off,” I growl, already stripping out of my shirt, barely noticing where it landed.
Amelia grins, all heat and challenge, as she kicks off her boots with a thud, her hands moving to her jeans. “You gonna help or just stare?”
“Staring’s working for me,” I shoot back, though my hands are already on my belt, yanking it loose.
She pops the button on her jeans and drags the zipper down with a slow, teasing pull—like she knows exactly what it is doing to me. Boots gone, jeans halfway down her thighs, and then I’m there, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her to the edge of the bed with a roughness that earns me a sharp little gasp.
“Hey!”
I smirk. “You were moving too slow.”
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her jeans and pull the denim away to reveal smooth skin and—holy hell—a matching set of white lace.
My mouth goes dry.
“Jesus, Amelia,” I rasp, frozen there for a beat, just taking her in.
The white lace barely covers anything—thin straps tracing over her hips, the soft curve of her thighs framed perfectly. And that bra? The bra is delicate, see-through, and hugs her perfectly.
“Speechless?” she teases, arching a brow.
I swallow hard. “Close.”
But then my hands are on her, skimming up her legs, my fingers rough against the softness of her skin. I grip her thighs and spread them just enough to step between them, her knees brushing my hips as I lean in.
“You wore this for me?” I ask, my voice low, dangerous.
She bites her lip and gives me that wicked little smile. “Maybe.”
