Fever Dream (Emerald Lake, #1)(86)

He’s breathing hard now, chest heaving. Eyes glistening.

And everything he’s said makes perfect sense.

“I know how you feel,” I say simply, getting lost in the tumult of his eyes.

He steps closer, pushing me back into my unit and kicking the door shut behind himself.

The apartment is quiet except for the steady rhythm of our breathing. His eyes hold mine—soft, searching, like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flicker of emotion behind my gaze.

“I need you, Julia.”

I nod over the lump in my throat. All I want to do is take care of him. Make him feel better. Show him that I need him too. Get him out of these soaked clothes and make him feel warm and sure again.

I reach for him, surrendering to instinct. His breath fans across my chest as I pinch the hem of his sopping shirt. Tentatively, I peel it back, lifting the cold, wet cotton while letting one hand slide over the hot, taut skin beneath.

He sighs beneath my hand, his muscles softening in relief. His head drops in my direction as I lift the fabric higher, tugging it free and over his muscled arms.

I take in every beautiful inch of him, licking my lips to keep my mouth from going dry at the sight.

He kicks his shoes off, which only serves to urge me forward. My fingers find his belt, the buckle jangling as I undo it and let it fall to the side. Then it’s buttons. A waistband. A tug.

I fall to my knees before him, peering up at his face. Strong brows, square jaw, baby blues full of longing.

My next tug is more desperate as I work against the wet denim. His control frays, and he pulls me back to standing, eyes burning with need.

“Lose the shirt,” he demands softly. And who am I to refuse him?

He steps out of his jeans as I reach down to grip the hem of my oversize sleeping shirt. In one smooth motion, I lift it and let it fall to the floor beside me.

Then I stand before the most beautiful man I’ve ever known, wearing only a pair of purple booty shorts and the truth of how badly I need him written all over my body. Goose bumps spray over my arms, my nipples stand pert and sensitive, and an inescapable ache curls low in my pelvis.

His gaze devours me, greedily roaming every inch of my body. My heart pounds, not from fear, but from something raw and honest I’ve never let myself feel before.

Finally, our eyes meet. And we’re back to staring. Like we always are.

He leans in slowly, and when our lips meet, it’s a promise. It’s a question and an answer all at once.

I pull him closer, craving the warmth and safety his touch brings. As he slides his hands down my back, every nerve ending sizzles and ignites, a sensation I can honestly say I’ve only ever felt with Emmett. Like every part of my body melts just for him.

He towers over me. Grips me. Consumes me. He drives me backward through the space, a man with purpose, and we both know where this is heading.

I kiss him as I move, letting him guide me toward my bedroom with his body.

We clear the doorway, and the backs of my legs hit the mattress. The jolt of awareness has us both drawing back, taking stock of our surroundings. My queen-size mattress on a suede platform frame, simple bedside tables. One glowing floor lamp in the corner, shedding a dim, yellow light through the space.

“Do you want me to leave, Julia?” There’s a fragility to his voice. He is genuinely worried I might turn him away. That I might not want him.

Even now.

“No. I want you to stay.”

He steps in closer, his hands finding my face, gentle and sure, thumbs tracing the curve of my cheek as if grounding us both. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

I nod, my words stuck somewhere beneath the swell of everything inside me. This isn’t just want—it’s trust. It’s hope. It’s the quiet surrender to someone who’s become my anchor.

I swallow hard, the weight of this moment folding into every inch of my skin. I want this. I need this. More than anything, I want him.

And I want him to know it.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I breathe, my voice barely steady but filled with all the certainty I can muster.

He leans in—slow and deliberate—and the heat of his lips against mine is like the first spark that sets a wildfire racing.

Our mouths meet in a soft, urgent kiss, filled with the promise of everything we’re about to give and take. My fingers thread through his thick hair, tangling in the soaked strands, pulling him closer. Desperate to feel his skin against my own. Like he’s the air I need to breathe.

Suddenly, I’m frantic. I want more. I reach into his underwear to grip him, sighing at the feel of his firmness. The silky skin. The heavy weight.

“Fuck,” he hisses before making quick work of his boxers.

His cock springs free, and I lick my lips, stepping back to look my fill. It’s thick, steely, and throbbing in my hand.

I take us in, panting, tongue darting out to wet my lips. The air around us hums. I swear I can feel his muscular body go taut like he’s ready to pounce the longer I stare.

And then he does. He reaches up, fingers tangling in my hair and tugging gently to draw my mouth upward for his taking.

The blunt head of his length presses at my hip, but he ignores it as he studies my face. His hands trail down my back, tracing the curve of my spine, fingertips skimming over bare skin with a touch that sends shivers racing down my arms.