Emma's POV
The flames surged again—not warmth, but fire roaring from somewhere deep beneath my stomach. Heat coiled like molten metal, thick and aching, demanding the oblivion he'd only hinted at before. Now it screamed. His waistband was tight under my grip, my knuckles white.
This was really happening. Years of hidden glances, midnight fantasies—a lifetime of wanting Peter—and now his hands were on my hips, his breath warm against my skin. It felt unreal, like stepping into a dream I'd been too afraid to ever fully imagine.
But then—abruptly—he stopped. He dropped to his knees.
The thud was heavy, metallic against the carpet, startling in the sudden silence. A small cry escaped my throat—surprise? Disbelief? That this man, this Peter, was kneeling before me? Everything just… stopped.
