Page 62 of California Wild

He knew every sound she made, every breath she held, every tell. He didn’t have to ask what she wanted—he was what she wanted. He had always been.

“Mine,” he growled, teeth grazing her shoulder. “You always were.”

Her moan was answer enough.

The pressure built fast, too fast. Her legs trembled, her vision blurred. She tried to hang on, to breathe, but it was no use—he drove her straight into the fire, and she burned.

Pleasure crashed over her like a wave, tearing through her so hard she forgot how to breathe, forgot her name, forgot anything but him. Her hands clawed at the sheets as she came apart beneath him, the sound of his name ripped from her throat.

And Jesse—God, Jesse—followed right behind her, his body shuddering, his grip iron-tight, his voice a low, guttural curse against her neck.

They fell together.

A perfect storm.

Chapter 9

Jesse didn’t let go. Not even for a second.

The moment his body gave out, the moment the last pulse of pleasure dragged through him like a wrecking wave, he wrapped his arms around her and held tight. Too tight.

Like if he loosened his grip, she might vanish. Fade like smoke. Like this—she—was too good to be real.

But she was real.

He could feel her—warm, trembling, her bare skin slick against his, her heartbeat thudding beneath his palm. Still fluttering like it couldn’t catch up to what just happened.

God, neither could he.

He buried his face in her hair, dragging her scent into his lungs like it could anchor him. That scent—always her. Coconut. Salt. That sun-warmed sweetness that made him feel seventeenagain. Before the booze. Before the burn. Before he’d blown it all to hell.

His fingers threaded through the waves of her hair, slow, reverent. Over and over again. Like maybe if he touched her enough, he could believe this wasn’t a dream. That she was here. That she chose to be.

His pulse hadn’t calmed.

His body still hummed, a low, wild current just under his skin. Not from the sex. From her.

From the way she hadn’t left.

From the way she curled into him, thigh hooked over his hip, her breath easing as her fingers traced lazy, absent-minded shapes over his ribs.

Like no time had passed.

Like she hadn’t shattered him.

Jesse stared at the ceiling, teeth clenched against the pressure building in his chest. This was dangerous. She was dangerous. Because he could feel the cracks in his armor—spreading, shifting.

So he spoke.

Soft. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

“I went home,” he said, voice muffled in her hair.

She froze.

Just for a beat. Then shifted to look at him, her eyes wide, green, searching.

“What?”

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