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Ryan swears again, softly, at the ceiling.

“Right, well, we can’t have you finishing too early.” I sit back on my heels. “Because I have other plans for you.”

“Aye?” His voice is hoarse.

“Mm-hmm. Actually, there’s something I should probably tell you.”

His brow creases.

“Nothing bad. It’s just, I have an IUD. Had it fitted last year. I won’t go into the details, but, er, bad periods.” My cheeks are heating up. “Anyway, the point is, you don’t need to wear a condom. If you don’t want to, I mean. I’d like to feel you inside me. Just you, with nothing between us.”

Since Sunday, Ryan has just reached for a condom, and I’ve been happy to let him. Going without one felt like a big step. But tonight, it feels right.

Ryan has gone wide-eyed. “Aye,” he says. “Fuck, aye. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

I climb off the bed and stand at the end of it. I’ve never put on a show of taking my clothes off. But Ryan is lying there watching me, and I rather want to try.

I take my top off slowly, lifting it over my head and letting it drop. I reach behind me and unzip my skirt, then give my hips a little wiggle so it slides down my legs to the floor. I unhook my bra and take my time drawing the straps off my shoulders.

As it falls away, Ryan’s gaze drops to my breasts, and his hand goes to his penis. He wraps his fist around it and gives himself a slow stroke, then another.

“Oi!” I point at him. “You don’t get to touch that. Your only job is to lie there and let me do the work.”

He groans. “You’re killing me here, flower girl.” But he lets go.

Last of all, I lose my knickers. I step out of them and, in a moment of madness, flick them at him with my toe. They fall short and land on the duvet beside his knee.

Ryan doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even look at the knickers. He watches me, his eyes dark and intent, like there’s nothing else in the room. His hands close around the duvet, and I can tell that he’s itching to reach out and grab me, or at the very least himself. Being told to lie and do nothing doesn’t come easily to him.

My face is burning, but seeing what the sight of my body does to this gorgeous man? It sends another little rush of confidence through me.

I clamber back onto the bed and straddle his hips. Ryan’s hands twitch on the duvet, but they stay where they are. I take hold of him and line him up, then lower myself onto him. Slowly. A bit at a time. We still have to take it easy—that hasn’t changed since Sunday. I rise up then sink down a little further, letting myself get used to him.

Without a condom, he feels different. Hotter than I expected, smooth and bare against me. As I lower myself, I can feel every ridge of him, every vein, every bit of him filling me up.

Ryan’s head tips back against the pillow. “Christ, Briony.” His chest is heaving. “That’s—fuck. That’s…” He doesn’t finish. I don’t think he can.

When I’ve taken all of him, I stay still for a moment, getting used to the fullness. Then I start to move.

Slowly at first. Up and down, savouring it. Ryan’s hands are still fisted in the duvet. I take them, one at a time, and lace my fingers through his.

His green eyes stay on my face, and it’s almost too much—being looked at like that, with all of him inside me. But I don’t look away.

I lean forward, our joined hands resting on the duvet beside his ribs, and work myself up and down him. Then I try rolling my hips instead, and—oh. Oh. That’s good. That angle, right there. I do it again, and again.

The longer this goes on, the more I notice what it’s costing him to lie still. His jaw is clenched, his breathing ragged, and his fingers grip mine so tightly it almost hurts. Every so often his hips jerk under me before he can stop them, but then he forces them back down.

I lean down until my mouth is close to his. “Don’t hold back,” I whisper.

His hands leave mine and grip my hips. He plants his feet on the bed, and then he’s thrusting up into me, hard and deep. I gasp and grind down to meet him. It takes us a moment to find the right rhythm, but then we have it—him driving up as I come down.

I brace my hands on his chest and meet every thrust, still looking right at him.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough. “Mine, Briony.”

“And you’re mine,” I tell him.