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"Wasn't planning to."

Her hand slid around the front of my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there, her palm warm over my pulse, a necklace made of one large, calloused hand. "Okay?"

"Yes. Yes, okay."

"You really like being told you're good," she said quietly, almost to herself, her thumb stroking once along my pulse.

"Shut up."

Her hand tightened. Barely, but enough to make me notice. "What did I say about answering?"

"Yes. I like it. I like it a lot. I hate that I like it a lot."

"You don't hate it."

She dropped to her knees.

Cam Russo, six foot three, on her knees on her own floor at my feet, and it should have flipped the whole dynamic. It should have handed the power right back to me. It didn't. She unbuttoned my jeans with total calm and looked up at me while she did it, and somehow, she was still the one in charge. Somehow, she was taller on her knees than I was standing.

She stripped my jeans and underwear down together and tapped my ankle. I stepped out. She tapped the other. I stepped out of that too, like a trained show pony, and she tossed the whole pile toward the jersey without looking.

Then she stood back up, slowly, all the way up, and looked down at me. I was completely naked against her front door. She was completely dressed. Shirt, jeans, belt, all of it.

"This is a power imbalance," I informed her.

"Yeah," she said. "It is."

Duh, Harper. That’s the point.

She put one hand flat on the door beside my head and leaned in, caging me with her body without touching me anywhere. I could feel the heat coming off her. Could smell her, cedar and clean sweat and whatever expensive athlete shampoo she used. I wanted to grab her so badly my fingers ached against the door.

"Spread your legs."

I did.

"Wider."

I did that too.

Her free hand slid down my stomach, unhurried, and stopped just above where I needed her, hovering there. I pushed my hips forward and she simply took her hand away.

"No."

"Cam."

"You don't chase. You wait." She brought her hand back, her fingertips resting on my hipbone. "Try that again."

I held still. It took every muscle I owned. She watched me do it, and when I didn't move for one full, agonizing breath, she rewarded me by finally, finally sliding her fingers between my legs.

We both groaned.

"Fuck," she said in a low, husky tone. "Look at you."

"Don't you dare be smug about..."

A finger, then two, pushed into me. No warning. The stretch of it stole the rest of the sentence and replaced it with a cry that echoed off her ceilings, which were stupid-high.

"I'm going to be very smug," she said. "Hands."