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He pulls me onto his lap, and the sudden friction between us steals whatever thought I might have formed next. For one suspended second, there is nothing beyond the heat of him and the startling realization that I am exactly where I want to be.

I can feel his heartbeat, erratic and stuttering. It would be gratifying if I weren’t so busy climbing him like a ladder. My knee finds its way between his thighs, then I’m straddling him, braced on either side, using him for leverage. His hands settle at my hips and stay there, as if he’s holding himself back from something catastrophic.

I slide my hands beneath his shirt. His skin is warm, smooth over muscle, and he shivers under my touch. It’s the kind of raw, involuntary reaction that makes me greedy. I want to dismantle him, learn every way his body reacts to mine.

He presses his face to my neck, breathing me in, and then he says, into my ear, “I’ve wanted a lot of things pretty fucking badly in my life, Serena. Nothing like I want you.”

It’s so abrupt—so unfiltered—that I forget to breathe. His words hit me like a hot line of current straight through my spine. There isn’t enough oxygen in the room. There’s only the need to give him exactly what he wants.

I drag his shirt up, and he lifts his arms without protest. It catches on his glasses, leaving him briefly blind and grinning while I work them free and set them on the bedside table. When he blinks up at me, I see for the first time just how blown his pupils are.

I lean in and bite his lip, gently, and he groans, clutching my hips tighter. “You sure you don’t want to take it slow?” I ask, mock-innocent.

He laughs, low in his throat. “I’m pretty sure that option has expired.”

“Good.” I run my hands down his chest, tracing the shape of his sternum, the lean cut of his abdomen. He’s solid under my hands, and when my fingers skim the waistband of his joggers, his breath catches hard enough that I feel it beneath my palm.

He retaliates by sliding his hands beneath my shirt, palms moving over my ribs, and my breath catches in return. He stops at the band of my bra, fingers spread wide across my back.

He pulls my shirt up and over my head, slow enough to give me an out, but I don’t take it. The air hits my skin and I shiver, less from the cold than the sudden exposure.

His eyes move over me, and whatever he sees makes his expression go completely still. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

I want to joke, to deflect, but my armor seems to have come off with my shirt.

We collide, hungry. He mouths down my neck, across my collarbone, and I can’t help the small, involuntary sounds I make. He smiles against my skin, as if each one is encouragement.

I slide my hand into his joggers, and he curses softly when my fingers settle around his substantial length. For a second, that seems to be the extent of his available vocabulary. His eyes close, his head dropping back as he exhales something that might have been my name if he’d managed to finish it, then finally, “Serena.”

There’s something immensely satisfying about hearing my name come out of his mouth like that. I stroke him once just to see if I can make it happen twice.

I lean in to kiss him, but he catches my face between his hands before I can. “What do you want?”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Tell me what you want.”

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to understand the question.

Not because it’s complicated.

Because no one has ever really asked me before.

“I want you to fuck me. I want—” I hesitate, then just say it. “I need to not think for a little while.” I hold his gaze. “I just want to be here. With you.”

He grins, relief flooding his entire body. “I can handle that.”

His hands are everywhere: mapping my waist, the curve of my ass, pulling me tighter against him until I can feel every contour. I let my head fall back, lost in the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to mouth down the line of my throat again, down to the exposed top of my bra. His tongue is hot, insistent, and he grazes his teeth over my clavicle as if he can’t decide between worship and consumption.

I rock against him, and he bucks up to meet me. There’s a moment where it’s not clear who is winning, who is dictating the pace.

He braces his forearm under my ass and hauls me up the length of his body until my chest is level with his face.

His other hand catches the edge of my bra and tugs it down.

His attention drops, and he goes completely still. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

I glance down at my piercings. “Is there a problem?”