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I slide across the couch toward him. The cushion dips between us, and I’m close enough now to feel the heat coming off his body. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat.

“Vince,” I reason. “I want this so bad I can’t think straight. I think about sex all the time. I think about it in class, in the shower, lying in bed at night. And lately—” I take a breath. “Lately I think about you.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“I get myself off imagining you.” The words come out in a rush. “I touch myself and think about your hands on me and your—your body over mine. You . . . inside me. It’s all I think about and I can’t stop.”

He’s staring at me, pupils blown so wide the gray is just a thin ring. Arousal and horror, fighting for control of his face. “God, Sophie.” He drags his hands down his face. “You’re killing me. How can you know what you want? You haven’t even had sex before.”

“But I want it,” I confess. “Desperately. You can’t know how much I fantasize about you, Vince.”

He groans, low and pained, and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, I watch the war play out across his face—desire clawing against duty, want against every line he’s drawn for himself. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen there, then his eyes darken. He runs the pad of his thumb along my jaw, then back to my lip, slower this time.

“So has a man ever made you come?” he asks roughly.

I shake my head.

The sound he makes is raw. Like something inside him just gave way. He stares at me, his chest heaving.

“God,” he rasps. “I want to be the one to make you come, Sophie.”

The confession stuns me. I feel dizzy with it, with the raw need in his voice. “I want that too,” I whisper. “I want it so badly.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “We can’t. I shouldn’t—” But even as he says it, his eyes are on my mouth, and his hands are already reaching for me. He pulls me closer, and I climb onto his lap, straddling him. His hands settle on my hips and he kisses me again, hungrier, the heat of his body searing through our clothes. His hands slide up under my shirt, his palms warm against my ribs, and then he’s pulling it over my head, tossing it aside.

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my throat, his teeth grazing my collarbone, and I arch into him, my skin tingling with goosebumps everywhere his lips touch it. His hand cups my breast through my bra, kneading gently, and I whimper. He hooks a finger under the strap and slides it down my shoulder, then reaches behind me to unhook it. The bra falls away, and he goes still, his gaze dropping to my chest.

“Jesus,” he breathes, and there’s such wonder in his voice, such naked admiration, that I feel beautiful and powerful all at once. He cups me in both hands, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and then he bends his head and takes one into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue makes me cry out, my fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there.

He loses more composure then, his hands dropping to the button of my pants, fumbling with it. “These,” he growls. “I want these off.”

I stand on shaky legs and peel them down, stepping out of them, until I’m standing before him in nothing but my panties. He just stares at me, his gaze raking over my body with hunger. Then he commands in a low voice, “Panties too.”

I hook my thumbs in the waistband and slide them down, stepping out of them until I’m completely bare in front of him. His eyes darken as I climb back onto his lap, straddling him. I settle against him, and his hands find my hips, holding me there, as his head drops back against the couch.

“Sophie,” he breathes.

I kiss his throat, his jaw. He’s rigid beneath me in every way, muscles locked, trembling with the effort to hold back. His hands slide up my back, then down, like he can’t decide whether to pull me closer or lift me away.

Then he reaches past me, his arm stretching toward the coffee table, and his fingers close around his whiskey glass. He brings it to his lips and downs the contents in one long swallow, his eyes never leaving mine.

His whiskey glass hits the coffee table with a thud, and his hands are on my face and he’s kissing me, hard and hungry, his tongue in my mouth.

One of his hands trails over my throat, my collarbone, and then lower. His palm flattens against my stomach, his thumb dipping between my legs and finding my clit. I gasp. He rubs me in soft circles until my hips are bucking and my vision blurring. The pleasure builds so fast that I’m already teetering on the edge, thinking I might come right here, right now, with his mouth on mine and his hand between my legs.

He breaks the kiss, his eyes dark and wild. “Is this good, baby girl?” he asks. “Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

I’m dizzy, barely coherent, but the words tumble out. “Yes, but . . . there’s something I want.”

“Good.” He lifts his hips up as he rubs me, pressing the ridge of his erection against my pussy. “Tell me.”

“I want—” I whisper. “I want you to lick me. There.”

He groans, a low, tortured sound, and then he’s kissing me again, even harder, like my confession has broken something inside him. He presses his forehead to mine, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving. “Jesus, Sophie. You have no idea what that does to me.”

His hands slide down to my waist and he lifts me up, moving me onto the couch and then back against the couch cushions—and then he’s above me, his weight pressing me into the sofa. His mouth is everywhere. My lips, my jaw, my throat.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes against my skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”