Page 180 of California Wild

He hummed low against her skin, his arm tightening, dragging her impossibly closer, until there was no space left between them. His hand flexed over her stomach, fingers splaying wide and possessive.

And then, his mouth brushed her ear.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, wrecked with sleep and regret. “About last night. About everything.”

Her chest cracked open.

She turned—fast—twisting in his arms until she was facing him.

And then his mouth was on hers.

Hot. Deep. Desperate.

He kissed her like it had been years, not hours. Like the only way to speak the things he couldn’t say was to pour them into her mouth—tongue, teeth, breath—until she couldn’t remember where she ended and he began.

His hand slid into her hair, threading through it, angling her just the way he liked. He kissed her like he needed it to stay alive, like her mouth was the only oxygen that had ever mattered.

And she gave it to him.

Kissed him back, wild and open and hungry. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then slid lower—down his chest, over warm, bare skin, until her palms found the waistband of his boxers. She curled her fingers there, teasing, just for a second—then dipped inside.

Jesse groaned into her mouth, full-bodied and wrecked, hips jolting as she wrapped her hand around him.

God, he was hard. So hard. Her hand moved slowly at first, stroking him, testing, then firmer. She wanted to drive him out of his mind, to remind him exactly who she was, what she could do to him.

“Fuck,” he rasped against her lips, his forehead pressing to hers, breath ragged. “Hayley…”

She smiled, wicked and soft all at once, pumping him slow, watching his self-control start to fracture. Her other hand slid over his ribs—careful of the bandage—and curled behind his neck, pulling him back into another kiss.

His hand was already under her shirt, but now it moved with new purpose—down her side, over her stomach, then slipping lower. She gasped against his mouth as his fingers brushed over her underwear, cupping her through the thin cotton, his palm warm and insistent.

“Let me,” he whispered.

She nodded, biting her lip.

He slid his hand beneath the fabric, fingers finding her slick and ready. Her hips jerked as he stroked her, slow and deliberate, his touch expert, knowing. Like he remembered every single thing that made her lose control.

She rocked into him instinctively, moaning into his mouth as she kept her grip on him, matching every movement, every thrust of her hand with the rhythm he gave her.

It was slow. Messy. Addictive.

Their mouths barely broke apart—just enough to gasp, to groan, to whisper things neither of them would remember later. His thumb circled her just right and her whole body shuddered.

“Baby,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her jaw. “I missed you. Missed this. Missed you.”

They were tangled in heat and breath and motion. Hands moving, hips grinding, everything spinning into something that felt too big to hold.

She tilted her chin, lips parted, ready to say it.

I missed you too.

I love you.

But then—

A sudden, violent lurch in her gut.

Her body stiffened.

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