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This man is something else. Softer. Steadier. "Come back to me."

“I’m here.”

“Your brain isn’t.”

Damn him for knowing me. Damn him for reading me like I'm printed in large type.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, then open them. He's right there, watching me with that look—the one that sees too much, the one I can't hide from.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” The words come out smaller than I want them to.

His expression changes immediately and his thumb brushes my cheek. The callus on his palm catches slightly on my skin. He's still inside me, just that little bit, and the fullness of it keeps pulling my attention back even as I try to focus on his words.

“You don’t have to figure out the right way to do this, Peachy. You don’t have to worry about whether you’re moving enough or touching me enough or doing whatever the hell you think you’re supposed to be doing.”

My throat feels tight for a completely different reason now.

“You can tell all that?”

"I can tell you're thinking so hard I'm surprised I can't hear it." The corner of his mouth twitches. "That little crease between your eyebrows? You've got it right now. You get it every time you're trying to solve something."

And just like that he has me smiling and laughing again.

There's no reason to be nervous or self-conscious, because this is Wyatt. My Wyatt.

Who knows me and understands me. Who can read the crease between my eyebrows and the difference between my real laugh and my polite one. Who dragged me down a hallway because he couldn't wait another second, and who stopped the moment he realized I'd left the present moment.

I pull him down and kiss him.

I pour everything into it: relief and gratitude and want and the specific kind of tenderness that comes from being known.

My hands move from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. He makes a sound against my mouth, low and hungry, and his hips shift.

That's when he pushes further.

The stretch intensifies—a slow, burning fullness that steals my breath all over again. I gasp against his lips, my fingers tightening in his hair, and he pauses.

His breath comes hard, his chest pressed against mine, his heart hammering so fast I can feel it against my ribs.

"You okay?" The words are gritted out, strained.

I nod, not trusting my voice. He's halfway in now, maybe more, and the pressure is overwhelming—not painful exactly, but so much. So much sensation, so much fullness, so much of him.

“More?” he asks, and that single word carries the weight of everything he’s still holding back.

“More,” I whisper.

Something unfurls inside me. It’s not panic this time, but something warmer and needier, loosening the tension I hadn’t even realized I was still holding.

My thighs relax around his hips, my knees falling wider as I finally let myself stop thinking so much about what I’m supposed to be doing and simply feel him.

Wyatt watches my face the entire time.

When he moves again, slowly at first, the sensation makes my mouth fall open. Pleasure builds low in my belly, unfamiliar but unmistakable, and suddenly I understand why he keeps telling me to stop thinking.

Because thinking is getting really fucking difficult.

“That’s it, Quinn.” His lips brush my ear, his voice lower now, intimate and meant only for me. “Does that feel good?”