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Can it?
I toss the rag I was using onto the counter, lower my head to the cool granite, and?—
Someone is pounding on my door.
Hope floods my bloodstream, and my heart drums an answer.
I lift my head, quickly survey myself—still in the clothes I was wearing earlier—corset, skinny jeans, boots. Makeup is probably a hot mess, but?—
I don’t care.
I go to the door, and one peek through the peephole tells me what I need to know. I wrench the door open, and he’s standing there, out of breath. Hair rumpled, like he’s been running his hands through it. Eyes a little wild.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m not okay.”
“What’s…?”
“I watched the engine-room episode,” he says.
His voice is rough. He rakes his fingers through his hair so it’s standing even more on end than before. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“It’s so fucking hot,” he says. “You’re really good. You know that, right? I can’t look away from you when you’re on the screen. I believe Oriana so hard. She’s this lonely, slightly angry person who just wants to feel like she belongs somewhere, and instead she’s floating out there at the edge of the universe. And she’s horny and scared, and she’ll cling to pretty much anyone who’ll have her. You made me believe it.”
“That’s—that’s good, right?” My heart’s pounding, wild because I’m so filled with hope, but also, what if I’m wrong, what if he’s not saying what I think he is?
“It’s good, yeah. It’s amazing how good you are, but that’s not the point. The point is?—”
He puts both his hands in his hair.
“What would you say…” he says, very slowly. His eyes never leave mine. “What would you say it meant if I said I couldn’t watch it? Like, couldn’t make myself? If I said…that I really, really don’t want to watch another guy fuck you?”
It’s funny how I go hot, all in a flash. Like when the fever chills flash over to roasting you alive in your blankets. I think my body knows what it means even if my mind isn’t quite ready to say it out loud—and I can tell maybe his isn’t, either.
“I don’t get possessive,” he says quietly, his gaze fierce on me. Like he’s musing on it. Trying to puzzle his way to an answer and the answer is on my face. “I don’t get feelings. But right now, I could kill that guy with my bare hands, and I might not even break a sweat. Because that’s how much I want you for myself.”
“Show me,” I whisper.
The look on his face. It’s like something’s snapped inside him and he’s reaching for the pieces, trying to put himself back together, and then he just lets himself break. But it’s not like I was expecting. It’s not my wrists in a vise and his body crushing mine and his mouth devouring me until I can’t breathe.
It’s sweet. So, so sweet.
He’s kissing me and kissing me, but not with hunger. With tenderness. Deep tenderness. And he’s brushing his hands through my hair like he’s giving himself permission to do something he’s wanted to do forever. Saying my name until it loses shape and I don’t recognize the sound of it, but I don’t want him to stop because the rhythm has implanted itself in my blood. He walks me backward, slamming the door behind me; I steer us toward the stairs and my bedroom without asking if that’s where he wants to go because there’s no way I’m walking away from this again—not until I’ve had him inside me.
We sink onto my bed, kissing again, our mouths trying to say what neither of us is brave enough to say any other way. I cling to him, and for the first time, the time we have doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel anywhere near enough.
“Shane,” I whisper.
He unties the bow at the top of my corset, loosens the laces. Lowering his head, he licks the sensitive skin, pushing the stiff fabric out of the way. My breasts, swollen and eager at the pleasure of being freed, sing at the feeling of his tongue and teeth, my nipples prickling, hard, the sensation rushing between my legs. He flicks his tongue over the tight tip, and I cry out and sag against him.
“There’s a condom in the bathroom cabinet.”
While he’s gone, I free myself from my jeans and bra and underwear. Then he’s back again, shucking his clothes, fumbling, hasty, and then he’s naked and beautiful, all honeyed male skin over taut muscle, sinking down over me.
“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing me. Stroking his fingers over my skin, raising goose bumps and pleasure everywhere. Kissing my lips and my cheeks, my eyebrows and my throat. Circling my nipples with his fingertips, capturing them between his fingers, tugging, then bending his head to lick. I arch off the bed, drowning in pleasure.
“I want to make you scream my name.”
