Instead of answering, I kiss her again. Slower this time, tasting every inch of her mouth, memorizing the way she sighs against me. I pull her into my lap, need her closer, and she comes willingly, straddling me. Her hands slip under my shirt, cool against my overheated skin, and I hiss at the contact.
"Too much?" she asks.
"Not enough."
My hands find her hips, thumbs slipping under the waistband of her pajama pants to trace the skin beneath. She rocks against me, and the friction makes us both groan.
"Bedroom," I manage.
"Yes."
She stands, takes my hand, leads me down the short hallway to her room. It's as organized as the rest of her life—clothes folded precisely, suitcases lined up by color, a tidy stack of books on the nightstand. The only chaos is the unmade bed, blankets tangled from sleep.
When she pauses at the edge of the bed, I think maybe she's changed her mind. But then she turns to face me, and her hands go to the hem of her sweatshirt.
"Still sure?" she asks.
"Beyond sure."
She pulls the sweatshirt off in one motion. She's not wearing anything underneath, and the sight of her steals my breath. Pale skin, the soft curve of her breasts, a small scar just below her left collarbone that I want to trace with my tongue.
"You're staring," she says, but she's smiling.
"You're beautiful."
I close the distance between us, hands gentle on her skin. She shivers when I trace her collarbone, her shoulder, the slope of her breast. Goosebumps race across her skin, and I lean down to press kisses along her neck, her shoulder, the sensitive spot just below her ear that makes her gasp.
Her hands work my shirt off with less grace and more urgency, and then we're skin to skin, heat building between us. She fumbles with my belt, and I have to help her because my fingers work better than hers right now. My jeans get stuck on my boots, and we both laugh—breathless and a little desperate.
"Smooth," she says, grinning.
"I'm out of practice."
"How long?"
"Long enough that this might be embarrassingly quick."
"I'll take that as a compliment." She pulls me down onto the bed, and the feel of her beneath me—warm and soft and real—is better than any fantasy I've had.
I take my time. Kiss every inch of skin I can reach. Learn what makes her arch and gasp, what touches make her dig her nails into my shoulders. She's responsive and honest, telling me what she likes, showing me with her body when words fail.
When I slide two fingers inside her, she's already wet, and the sound she makes goes straight to my cock. I work her slowly, watching her face as pleasure builds. Her hips rock against my hand, chasing friction, and when she comes it's with my name on her lips and her hand fisted in my hair.
"Ryder," she breathes, pulling me up for a kiss. "I need—I need you."
"Condom?"
"Nightstand. Second drawer."
I find one, tear it open with shaking hands. She watches me roll it on, eyes dark with want, and when I settle between her thighs she wraps her legs around my hips.
"Please," she says.
I push inside slowly, giving her time to adjust. She's tight and hot and perfect, and I have to pause because if I move I'm going to lose it right now.
"Okay?" I grit out.
"Move." She rocks her hips, and the motion makes us both groan. "Ryder, please?—"
