“I’ll keep your mouth occupied,” he promises.

My pulse is so wild that I can feel it everywhere. And his words make me think of his promise to teach me whatever I want to know, how to use my mouth on him included. I try to clench my legs against the ache, but his position between them stops the impulse.

“Not that,” he says, and I frown.

“Why not?”

“I fucked up, Nell. Let me apologize. Tonight is about you. Let me take care of you.”

“I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. I should have let you explain. But I was so ready to believe that I’m not made for this kind of thing. That I’m not made for love. I’m just as much at fault here.”

“No. You’re not.”

“I don’t just want to let you take care of me. I need to be an active participant in this.” I reach a hand down between us and ghost my fingers over the tented front of his sweatpants. “I want to feel like I’m made for this. For you.”

I drag my fingers over him a little more surely, and he groans.

“There are probably guys out there who are good enough to turn that kind of offer down.” He hooks his hand around the nape of my neck and pulls my mouth up to his. “I’m not one of them.”

I push him back, and with his hands on my hips, I slip off the table.

“So this is your room?” I say as we shuffle toward his bed.

“This is it. Get used to it. Because you’re not getting out of it until morning. Maybe not even then.”

I nudge him backward until he sits on the bed. He leans over to pull off his shoes and socks. Before I can climb up next to him, he hooks his fingers into the open band of my jeans and tugs me forward. My bra is still trapped awkwardly around my waist, and I reach around to unhook it while he lowers my zipper.

I expect him to push my jeans off my hip, but he surprises me by dragging my underwear along at the same time. In seconds, I’m standing before him naked, while, except for his shoes and socks, he’s still completely clothed.

I clutch his shirt, and he helps me pull it up over his head. The fabric catches on his broad shoulders, and I suck in a breath at the sight.

He hooks an arm around my waist and pulls until I’m standing between his knees, my belly pressed against his chest. His face is level with my chest, and he drags his cheek over the curve of my breast. “I like the idea of you being made for me.”

The short hair on his head tickles my palm as I hold him to me. “You do?”

“I like it so damn much, sweetheart. This . . .” His hands sweep over my backside, then grip tight. “Made for my hands. Makes me feel incredibly lucky.”

I laugh and press at his shoulder, and reluctantly he lets go to scoot back on the bed. I climb up on my knees, and he groans before I ever even touch him.

“You don’t have a headache?” I ask.

“No.”

I crawl a little closer and prop my hands up on either side of his hips.

“Still experiencing blurred vision?”

“No.”

I lean down toward the trail of hair that descends from his belly button and place a kiss right beside it.

“Sensitivity?” I ask, not moving away from his abdomen.

He growls, “Not to light and sound, no. Symptoms are gone, Nell. I promise.”

“Hmm,” I say, and draw a finger along the band on his sweatpants. His ab muscles clench under the touch, and I smile. “This is going to be fun for me.”

“You’re killing me, you know that?”

“What?”

“That you want to—that you’re so fucking eager . . .”

He hisses out a breath when I hook my fingers under his waistband. I take a cue from him and pull his sweats and underwear down in one movement, and his erection springs free, thick and long and dark.

I start with touching him, matching the strength and speed he’d taught me that one time in the shower.

“Ah,” he breathes, tilting his hips up toward me.

“Tell me what to do.”

He wets his lips and takes a ragged breath before instructing, “Lick the tip.”

I do as he says, and I can’t even put into words how gratifying his groan is. He directs me through the first couple of movements, telling me where he’s sensitive, where to pay special attention, but by the time I take him into my mouth, he’s barely getting out one-word replies.

For someone who struggles with thinking too much during sex, this is the perfect way to connect for me. When I can focus on him, on his reactions, I’m free to analyze and catalog my observations, and repeat the moves that get the best reaction. It’s a challenge, and even though I don’t know what I’m doing, I take pleasure in learning.

And it makes me feel like we’re in this together. Like I’m essential, rather than just a convenient replacement. It’s the final thing I need to push the thoughts of his ex out of my head, because it’s my name he says between groans. It’s my cheek he touches, soft and sweet, and at odds with the raw act we’re in the middle of.

“Ah, God. Nell . . . God, it’s not right that you’re so good at this already. Stop. I don’t want to come like this. Not tonight.”

He guides my head, pulling me away and pushing me back against his bed so he can climb over me. While I settle into the pillows, he reaches into the drawer of his nightstand for a condom.

I watch him put it on, no less fascinated this time than I was the last despite how much better I now know that part of him. He pushes my legs wide and lowers himself onto me. He doesn’t enter me, not yet. He just presses his hips into mine and leans down close.

He strokes his thumb over my bottom lip and says, “Fucking made for me.”

I lift my hips up into his, and just when he’s shifted and is about to push inside, there come three loud knocks on the door.

I panic. “Did you lock the door?” His head drops down to my collarbone, and he groans. “You didn’t lock the door. Are you serious?”

Hey says, “I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to trap you in here.”

I laugh then, even through my panic. “You caveman-dragged me in here, kicked everyone out, pinned me to the wall a few times, but you didn’t want me to feel trapped.”

He’s about to reply when the knock comes again. “Guys? It’s Stella.”