Page 57 of Emmy's Ride

I should fight him. Should shove him back and remind him why this was a bad idea. But I didn’t. I needed him just as badly.

A groan rumbled in his chest as he pressed me against the desk, his body flush against mine. His hands roamed, sliding down my back, molding me to him in a way that made me frantic with need.

He owned this moment. Owned me. And I let him.

Austin tore his mouth from mine, his lips brushing along my jaw, down the curve of my throat. “You’re mine, Emmy,” he rasped, his breath hot against my skin. “Admit it.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold on to the last shred of resistance I had left. But it was useless. I was already lost in him.

His teeth scraped lightly over my pulse point, making me whimper. "Say it," he ordered, his hands gripping my hips, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of my shirt, teasing bare skin.

My heart pounded. My breath stuttered. And when his lips found mine again, just as punishing, just as possessive—I shattered.

“Yours,” I whispered, the word tumbling from my lips before I could stop it.

Austin stilled, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. His blue eyes burned into mine, satisfaction apparent in his expression.

“Damn right you are.”

Then he lifted me onto the desk, stepping between my thighs, and made sure I knew it.

His hands gripped my hips as he pulled me forward, forcing my legs to wrap around him. His body was heat, strength, control—and I felt myself melt against him, my body already softening, already yielding.

“Austin—”

He silenced me with a kiss. His mouth claimed mine, demanding, tasting, stealing my breath like he had every right to it. I clung to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing more.

Austin’s hands wandered, sliding up my sides, his thumbs brushing the curve of my waist before slipping beneath my shirt. Calloused fingers against my skin, the contrast sent shivers racing through me.

“You’re mine, Emmy,” he murmured against my lips. “You feel me? You know it?”

I nodded, breathless, arching into him as he dragged my shirt over my head and tossed it aside.

He stared at me. “Damn, baby.” His voice was a growl as he traced his fingers along the strap of my bra before yanking it down, exposing me to him. “You wreck me.”

Then his mouth was on my skin—hot, insistent—trailing down my throat, across my collarbone.

I held my breath, tilting my head back as he sucked a mark onto my skin, branding me in a way I knew would linger.

But I wanted it.

My fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up and off his broad shoulders, needing to feel him. The heat of his skin, the hard ridges of muscle beneath my hands. He was all power, all control, but here, in this moment, I had some of it too.

I let my nails drag down his chest, teasing, provoking. His breath hitched, his grip tightening on my thighs. My eyes trailed the dark ink etched into his skin—his tattoos never failed to steal my breath.

A full sleeve wrapped his muscular arms, intricate patterns of skulls, roses, and winding script that told a story only he could read. But it was the bold lettering inked across his chest—La Vida Loca—that always pulled me in, a permanent reminder of the life he lived. My fingers paused there, tracing the curve of each letter, the rough texture of the ink against his warm skin making my palms tingle.

Then there was the silver barbell piercing his right nipple, something that had always driven me a little wild. I brushed my thumb over it, just to watch the way his body tensed beneath my touch and, God, I loved the way he responded—raw, powerful, completely mine.

He pushed me back onto the desk, covering me with his body, his weight pressing me down. His hands everywhere—tracing, kneading, owning.

I felt him against me, hard and hot, and a desperate sound escaped my lips. “Austin, please.”

His gaze snapped to mine. His jaw was tight, his breath ragged.

“You want me, baby?”

My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. “I need you.”

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