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He bends his head and takes my nipple into his mouth, his hand cupping my other breast, squeezing gently, his thumb circling the nipple, and I arch off the couch, my hips lifting.

He works his way down my body, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. My stomach, the dip of my waist, the sharp curve of my hip.

“God,” he murmurs against my thigh. “I want to taste you.”

My breath catches with anticipation. “Yes, please,” I whisper, my head rolling back against the cushion, the heat between my legs molten. “Please, Vince.”

The first touch of his tongue against my clit makes me gasp. It’s so much wetter, so much warmer than my own fingers, and the pressure is perfect. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open. I’ve never felt anything like it. He licks me slowly, softly, pushing my knees open so that I’m completely revealed to him, and everything in me locks up and goes tight. He licks a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and then my breath is punching out of me in little sobs, tension building in my stomach and radiating outward in electric pulses. Every time his tongue circles my clit, my toes curl. Every time he flattens it and drags it upward, I see sparks inside my eyelids. I can’t stop shaking, and I can’t stop making these helpless, desperate little noises. Then I feel the heat coil tight, so close I’m breathless and terrified of what will happen if I let go.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me when I cry out. “Let me hear you.”

My thighs flex around his head and I hear myself whimpering, but I can’t stop.

“Oh God,” I choke out. “Vince, please⁠—”

“You’re doing so well,” he says, his voice muffled against me. “That’s a good girl. Let yourself go. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hits me like a freight train. My body locks up, every muscle tightening, and then it rips through me, so intense it borders on pain. I shudder, hips rolling uncontrollably, voice breaking as pleasure crashes over me in a hot, endless flood.

When it finally subsides, I’m gasping for breath, and he lifts his head and rests his forehead against my hip, his shoulders moving with his breath.

He comes up slowly, kissing a path up my inner thigh, then my stomach. Then he stands, hands gentle as he helps me up.

He takes my hand and leads me upstairs without a word. At his bedroom door, he steps aside to let me enter first, then follows me inside. The air in here is chilly—I barely notice, but he does, and pulls the covers back for me. Vince stands at the foot of the bed, running a hand through his hair like he needs a second to collect himself. Then he reaches for the buttons on his shirt, working them open one by one. He shrugs it off his shoulders and drapes it over a chair, then unbuckles his belt and steps out of his jeans.

His boxers are all he has left, and he’s hard—obvious, unmissable, the outline thick and dark against the cotton. I can’t look away. His body is intimidating up close: wide chest, flat stomach, a dusting of hair leading down, strong thighs. He slides under the covers, heat radiating from his skin, and pulls me in so I’m pressed fully against him. His mouth finds mine in the dark, and the feel of him almost naked against me makes my whole body light up.

He kisses me slowly, his hand sliding down my side, over my hip, my thigh, and then back up to cup my breast.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “God, Sophie, you have no idea. Your perfect breasts. Your body. God, I’m so hard for you.”

His hand keeps moving, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my stomach, and then lower, his fingers brushing through the wetness between my legs where I’m still slick from his mouth, and sensitive. I jerk at the touch.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sorry.

I reach for the waistband of his boxers, and he catches my hand.

“No,” he says. “If I take these off, I won’t be able to stop myself. And I can’t—not tonight. Not your first time.”

“Then let me touch you.”

He hesitates. His cock is straining against the cotton, the head dark and wet where it’s leaked through, and I want to feel it in my hand more than I’ve wanted anything.

“Please,” I say.

He releases my wrist. I slide my hand under the elastic and wrap my fingers around him.

He’s big. Thicker than I expected, hot and hard in my hand, and the skin is so smooth it’s almost silky. He groans, his head falling back against the pillow, and his hips lift into my touch.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Sophie . . .”

I stroke him tentatively at first, then firmer, watching his face. Every time my thumb passes over the head, spreading the wetness there, he makes a sound that sets me on fire.

Then his hand covers mine, stilling my movements. “Wait,” he says. His voice is rough. “Let me—I want to watch you.”

He pushes the covers back and sits up against the headboard. His boxers are tented obscenely, the wet spot darker now, his chest rising and falling fast.

“Show yourself to me,” he says. “Touch yourself where I made you come.”