“Damn right, Scottie. You deserve so much more than that fuckhead was ever able to give you. And you can’t let him leave his mark on you. You can’t let him live rent-free inside your head, because he doesn’t deserve your time. You’re so much better than that. Better than him.”

“I’m really starting to realize that.” A tear falls down my cheek, and he swipes it away.

“Then why are you crying?”

“I think it’s a combination of a bunch of emotions. Sorrow for the woman who spent so much time with him. Joy for the woman who’s no longer with him. Excitement for the woman who just had the absolute best time of her life with a man between her legs.”

That draws a smirk from him. “Good answer. And for what it’s worth, easily the best experience I’ve ever had being between a woman’s legs.”

I’m about to tell him he doesn’t have to say that, but I stop myself, because I know I can trust him. I know he’s telling the truth. I know he wouldn’t say something just to say it. He’s not that man.

“Thank you.” I drag my finger over the scruff on his jaw. “Your piercings were unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”

“You liked it?”

“More than I probably should.”

He chuckles. “Well, make sure you take full advantage of it. Hop on whenever you want.”

“Better watch what you say. I might just take you up on that.”

“Pips, if you don’t, I’m going to be pissed.”

“Why are you wearing a towel?” Wilder asks as he lies on the bed…freshly showered and naked.

“Because I just got out of the shower.”

He shakes his head. “Not an excuse. Drop the towel, Pips.”

“We have a therapy session to get to,” I say, even though I start walking toward him.

“Well aware of the schedule. That’s why you need to drop the towel.”

“Wilder—”

“Drop…the…towel.”

He scoots off the bed and then crooks his finger at me, beckoning me over.

I slowly walk toward him, only for him to tug on my hand, forcing the towel to drop, and bring me up against his chest, where he wraps his arm around me and then uses his other hand to grip my jaw and tilt my mouth up to his.

In seconds, he’s consuming me.

His lips owning mine.

His hands claiming me.

Scooping me up.

And plopping me on the bed only for him to hover over me, where his tongue dances across mine, over my jaw, down my neck, and to my breasts, where he plays, lapping at them.

Squeezing.

Nibbling.

“God,” I moan, shifting beneath him and widening my legs, giving him more room.