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He crawls back up the bed and drops beside me, propped on one elbow.

His hair is a mess. His mouth is wet.

He looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Hi,” he says.

I turn my head.

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“No.”

His expression changes instantly. “What⁠—”

“I’m excellent.”

The tension leaves his face.

“You’re an asshole.”

I giggle.

He brushes my hair away from my forehead and kisses me, slowly this time. I taste myself on his tongue, which should probably feel strange.

It does not. It feels unbelievably hot.

When he starts to pull away, I catch the front of his shirt.

“We’re not finished.”

His eyebrows lift.

“No?”

“No.”

I slide my hand down his stomach and feel every muscle tighten beneath my palm.

His breath catches when I reach his hot velvety length.

“Fuck, Bea.”

The satisfaction that gives me is almost as good as the orgasm.

Almost.

I push at his shoulder.

“Lie down.”

His eyes flare with appreciation. Then he laughs, low and surprised, and rolls onto his back.

“Bossy.”

“Maybe. Do you like it?”