He lowered me slowly, my extra-sensitive skin dragging along his shirt, and kissed me until I was seated again. I couldn’t still the movement of my hips against him, desperate for the friction between my thighs. “We should head back,” he whispered, his tone weak.

“We should stay a little longer,” I suggested, my fingers dipping under his shirt to explore the lines of abs I’d been drooling over since that first day. Did he have any fat on him? Warm, velvet skin draped over cords of muscle, giving me a new understanding of “washboard.” His eyes closed when I traced the little lines, lifting his shirt the same way he did mine. My mouth went dry, and my tongue ached to taste every inch, follow every tattoo. “I’m never going to get over seeing you like this, getting to actually touch you,” I whispered more to myself than him.

He pressed one of my hands over his heartbeat. “Anything I am is yours. Please, touch, because there’s no way I’m keeping my hands off you.”

I kissed him, trapping our hands between us. My hips rolled, grinding over his, and he hissed. His arm banded around my back, pulling me flush against him. Skin on skin set a fire running through my veins, burning a path through me that led directly to my core. The further I slipped into the haze of desire, the less inhibited I became. I pushed him onto his elbows, but he didn’t complain as I climbed over him, tasted the skin of his chest and flicked my tongue across his nipples. His moan reverberated through his chest and sent the headiest wave of power through me.

His fingers deftly undid the braids in my hair and then tangled in it, clenching as I traced the tattoo that ran across his lower stomach, just above the tantalizing line of his jeans. “Paisley.” His voice was hoarse. How far could I push him until he snapped? Did I want to find out? Yes.

I ran my fingers along his waistband, the black of his boxers peeking just above. My breath hitched, but it was excitement, not apprehension, that had me biting my lower lip. I flicked the button of his jeans open and pulled the zipper down. He jerked, but I didn’t look up. He was hard, hot, and straining to escape his boxer briefs. My belly clenched, wanting nothing more than to have him inside me, so deep that I branded him. Mine.

My hand squeezed him gently through the material, and I was rewarded with a very guttural “Fuck,” drawn out the length of his breath. “Maybe now isn’t—”

I squeezed again, running my thumb along his shaft until the head of his erection slipped free of his boxers. My fingers swirled around his tip once, twice, and then I replaced them with my tongue. “Holy shit!” His grip tightened in my hair, and I met his shocked, incredibly turned-on stare as I sucked just the head into my mouth, tasting a hint of salt as I explored the ridge with my tongue and lips.

With a growl, he lifted me off him and sat up in one smooth motion. His eyes were wild now with barely controlled lust—the same that had ahold of me.

“No?” I asked with a coy shake of my head.

“No,” he barked. His eyes closed. “I mean, yes, God, yes, but not this time.” My disappointment was short-lived as his fingers gripped a hip and the base of my neck, and he pulled me in for a scorching kiss. “I can’t wait to try everything with you,” he whispered in my ear. He licked and sucked his way along my neck. “But right now I want to kiss your skin, memorize the way you smell, the way you feel under my hands.” Yes, please. He popped the top button free on my jeans. My eyes flew open, meeting his. He moved his hand slowly, watching me for the first sign of resistance, the first hint of “no.”

I didn’t even think it.

Thank goodness I’d worn a respectable pair of black lace panties, because his hand was in them. My thoughts ceased when his middle finger stroked down across my clit. I called out his name, and my hips bucked in response. He slipped lower, to where I opened for him and let loose a ragged sigh.

“Fuck, you’re wet.”

I whimpered and rocked toward him, hoping he’d continue. I’d never felt this urgency before, this burning need.

“Have you touched yourself before, Paisley?”

I waited a few seconds and nodded, my cheek scraping the stubble on his jaw. We’d agreed, no lies. That didn’t mean I wanted to talk about it, though. As if in reward, his fingers stroked me, putting firm pressure on that sweet little bundle of nerves, and I cried out, the sound carrying through the woods.

“Is that the only way you’ve ever gotten off?”

I hesitated, and then nodded.

“What I want,” he whispered against my lips, “is to feel you come around my fingers. I want to know how tight you are when you get there, so I can fantasize about how you’ll feel when I finally get to be inside you.”

His words were the dirtiest thing I’d ever heard, and mercy, I liked it. “Please,” I whispered.

He took control of my mouth as he stroked through my folds, keeping a rhythm in both that had me keening. I thrust my hips against his hand, shamelessly seeking more contact. One of his hands lifted me under my butt, pulling my thighs on top of his. Then he delved deeper, the angle allowing him to insert a finger inside me.

I gasped, and he swallowed the sound. He dragged that finger along my inner walls, listening for my reaction, waiting for it to hitch. When it did, he withdrew it, only to thrust two inside. “Jagger!”

He took each of my cries and then pressed the heel of his hand against my clit while he worked me with his fingers, curling them to hit a spot that had me moaning with each thrust, unable to keep quiet.