Page 84 of The Hollywood Switch-up

She rolled her hips again, and the plan disintegrated.

“Bed,” he said, his grip finding her waist under the shirt. “I want you in my bed.”

“Then take me there.”

He stood in one motion, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist. She laughed into his neck and he carried her through the villa, knocking into a doorframe.

He laid her down on the bed, and she pulled him over her, hands greedy on his shoulders, his chest, shoving off his shirt. The ceiling fan turned above them, stirring the salt-heavy air.

This was different from the pool, where he'd stopped himself, made her wait, kept some careful distance between what he wanted and what he let himself take. Here, there was no stopping. No distance. Just the two of them in the quiet of his room, with nowhere to be and nothing left to hold back.

She slowed down. Her palms mapped his chest—not hungry now but deliberate. Learning him. The ridge of his collarbone, the scar below his ribs, the way his breath changed when her fingers traced the line from his hip to his waistband.

"I got this wrong every time," she said, her finger tracing the scar. "In my head, I mean. You're better than the version I kept drawing." She tilted her head. "What's this from?"

“Surfing accident. Cudillero. I was fourteen and trying to impress a girl.”

“Did it work?”

“I needed eleven stitches, and she laughed at me.” His mouth curved. “I have better moves now.”

“Debatable.” But she leaned down and pressed her lips to the scar, and he went completely still.

She tugged the Radiohead shirt over her head and then reached up—two quick motions, and popped out her contacts. Dropped them on the nightstand without ceremony.

She looked up at him with brown eyes. Her real eyes. The last thing she’d been holding back.

He’d seen them before—knew exactly what shade they were—but not like this. Not chosen. Not offered.

“Still interested?”

He kissed her, slow, unhurried. His hand slid down her body, fingers hooking in her skirt, and she lifted her hips to help him pull everything away. When she was bare beneath him, he pulled back to look at her.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

“I’m seeing you.” His thumb traced the curve of her hip. “There’s a difference.”

She reached for his belt. Worked the buckle with steady hands, shoved his pants down, and when she wrapped her hand around him, her eyes went wide. She stroked him slowly, testing, her thumb tracing the ridge of the head.

“I have a lot of thoughts about this. For the record. I’m going to share them all later in extensive detail.”

“You’re going to kill me first.”

“That’s the plan.” She guided him between her thighs.

“Condom,” he said. “Nightstand.”

She reached for it, tore the wrapper, rolled it on with hands that trembled just slightly. Then she cupped his face in both hands, kissing him.

“I want to feel you,” she said quietly. “Not a performance. Just you.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Quiero recordar cada segundo de esto.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want to remember every second of this.”

He pushed in slowly. Her lips parted. Her eyes fluttered. She inhaled—long, shaking—and her hand found the back of his neck, holding him close as he sank deeper.