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I drag her onto my lap.

She comes with a startled laugh that turns into a moan halfway through. Her knees plant on either side of my thighs. The wine glass is somewhere, the table maybe; I don’t care. My hands are on her hips, and then her ass, and I pull her down hard against me and let her feel exactly what she’s unlocked.

Just like she did to me. Every day this week. Making me feel her.

“Brady,” she moans.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.” I kiss down her throat. Bite down gently, where her pulse is hammering. “I know, angel. I know.”

This is what I was afraid of. This right here. The second somebody gave me the door I was going to come through it like a freight train, and now I have her in my lap and she’s already grinding down on me the way she did Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. My hands are already shaking with how much I want to take.

I fist a handful of her hair at the nape and pull, just enough to tilt her head back, and her throat is right there and so is the soft, surprised gasp she makes when I do it.

“Okay?” I say into her skin.

“Yes. God, yes!”

I pull harder.

She moans. Her hips roll down. Her hands are clawing at the hem of my shirt.

I let go of her hair long enough to yank my shirt off over my head, and then hers, her bra going with it. I get my mouth on her tit and bite the soft curve of it—she actually whimpers.

“Brady,” she moans.

“Lay back,” I order.

“What?”

“Lay back. On the couch. Now.”

She blinks at me, eyes darkened, lips swollen, and then she does as she’s told. She climbs off my lap and lies back on the couch cushions, looking up at me like she’s not entirely sure what she’s gotten herself into but is going to ride it out anyway.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her leggings and drag them down her legs. Underwear with them. One pull. She lifts her hips to help and the sight of her—naked, hair messed, throat already pink from my mouth, pussy glistening—damn near finishes me on its own.

This is what I’ve been imagining all week. What that wet spot on her shorts was hiding.

I undo my jeans with one hand. Push them and my boxer-briefs to my thighs. I don’t even fully undress. I can’t slow down for it.

“Shit, I haven’t got a condom,” I manage.

“We do blood work. We’re clean. I’m on the pill. It’s fine, just?—”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah. Please. I need to feel you bare.”

That word out of her mouth.

I get a hand under her knee and push it up toward her shoulder, open her up, and I line up and sink into her in one long stroke that makes her arch off the cushion and grab at my forearm.

“Fuck, Brady?—”

I’m braced over her, breathing through my teeth, trying not to come from being inside her for three seconds. This is what I felt through our shorts. This heat. Imagined this tight, wet grip. “Fuck, angel. Hold on.”