“You’re killing me with the teasing,” she whispered, reaching to wrap her hand around my wrist. “I swear I’m going to come the second you touch me.”

The way she said come, and the idea that she was this worked up—that my touch could do this so easily—rocked me. With a smile pressed to her hip, I slid my fingers over her, groaning at the sound of her sharp cry. She was drenched, and slick and warm and it was all I could do to not bend to kiss her there, or—even more tempting—lift my body over hers and simply slide inside. I couldn’t begin to fathom how it would feel to be inside her.

I was grateful for the barrier of my trousers, and of the kernel of hesitation still residing in my thoughts, the constant reminder to take this slowly.

It was impossible not to compare this experience to the only other one I’d really had—late-night pub fumbling aside—even though guilt tried to shove the thoughts away. I knew I shouldn’t think of Portia right now, not even in relief of my independence from her, but with Ruby naked against me and my brain fried to bits at the thought of giving this sublime creature pleasure, I didn’t have the discipline of thought to which I was accustomed. Ruby unraveled me, opened something inside me, and made me want to be more transparent with myself, with her.

And as I touched her, and gave her pleasure with first two fingers, and then three, I let my thoughts flap wildly in my mind. This is what it should feel like to be intimate, giving pleasure to someone who wants it hungrily, both partners wholly giving in to it. She’d opened up to me tonight—it was the entire purpose of her admission, I realized—and in turn it had given me some freedom to relax with her, with this. With each circle of my hand and each moan that pushed past her lips, my confidence multiplied until I was convinced no man had ever wanted a woman more than I wanted the one beside me just now.

I wanted to kiss her and lick her and fuck her, but a baser part of me—a dark piece I’d never acknowledged—wanted a greater ownership over her lips, her glowing skin, aching sounds, soft thighs and—I let myself admit it—the most beautiful, soaking-wet pussy I’d ever dreamed of. I wanted to look at her and have a deeper sense that she was mine.

She started to clench under my movements and my insides began to simmer, thrilled. How odd it is, I thought, that my whole body should ache for the curve of her shoulder, the straight, downward slope of her navel, the pounding pulse at the side of her neck.

Watching her unravel under my touch seemed to literally bring my heart into my throat. I lifted my gaze from where I touched her to move up and suck savagely at her breast as she first seemed to calm—her breaths came out slow and deep—and then she pushed her head back into the pillow and nearly screamed as her orgasm tore through her and pressed down against my fingers inside.

She stilled for only a breath before pulling me by my hair so we were face-to-face and I could lick away the quick, relieved exhales falling from her lips.

“Holy shit.” She closed her eyes, going limp beneath me. “I just . . .”

“You’re exquisite when you come,” I whispered, sucking at her jaw, her neck, her mouth.

“That . . .” she began, looking up at me. “Right now you seem like something I made up when I was lying awake at night.”

I ran my wet fingers up over her stomach, to her ribs, quietly giving voice to the crude thought that slipped into my mind, sharing my most exposed self: “I love the way you smell. I fear I’ll lose my mind when I finally feel you on my tongue.”

After the words left my mouth, Ruby pulled me back to her with eager hands and renewed desire. I was wild and she was nearly out of her mind—sweaty, mouth wet and messy over mine. Teeth scraped chins, kisses turned sloppy, and she whipped my belt across my stomach in her haste to get my trousers off.

Oddly, the sharp sting only made me more unhinged.

With my pants pushed to my knees, Ruby reached for me, her hand strong and warm as she gripped my shaft. “Holy shit,” she said. “You’re . . .”

I pulled back, looking down at her with what I was sure were savage eyes. She was only the third woman in my life to have touched my cock, and I honestly didn’t care what she was going to say to finish the sentence; I pulsed in her palm, practically begging her to give me relief.

“Big,” she said, looking down at me. “Jesus.” And then she slid her hand over the head with such perfect pressure that I nearly missed her words through my loud, relieved groan: “I’ve never been with a guy who wasn’t . . .”

My mind fogged with the feel of her slowly stroking up, and slowly stroking down. Wasn’t what? American? Willing to take his time? Experienced with scores of women?