35. Luke
LUKE
The moment my lips touch hers, I claim her.
Weeks. Weeks of watching her, wanting her, holding back because she was a cop, I was a problem, and the timing was all wrong. But there’s no timing anymore. There’s just Harper, soft and fierce and finally—finally—saying yes.
I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it, like her mouth is the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
She smells like strawberries and tastes like want, and I’m drowning in it.
My hand tightens in her hair, angling her head the way I need it, and she makes this small sound that goes straight to my cock.
Her body melts against mine, and I can feel every curve of her pressed against me.
The softness of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the way her hips fit against mine like she was made for this—for me.
My other hand grips her ass, pulling her up so she can feel exactly how hard I am, exactly what she does to me.
The kiss deepens. My tongue slides against hers, demanding, possessive, claiming. She whimpers and grips my shoulders like I’m the only solid thing in her world.
God, I love that. I love that she needs me like this.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard, and I rest my forehead against hers. Her eyes are closed, her lips swollen from my mouth, and she looks absolutely wrecked.
“We’re not done.” It’s a promise and a threat all at once. “Not even close.”