“I know you like being convinced.” She slid her hands over his shoulders, then clambered up onto the desk, straddling his lap. Jacob wasn’t entirely sure how he kept breathing. He watched her pretty mouth move, but for a moment he couldn’t hear a damn thing over the rush of blood in his ears.

Between them, her hot, wet pussy was spread by the length of his shaft. Her thick thighs cradled his hips, and all he could do was lean back against the desk with one hand and take it. Take her. Or rather, let her take him. She rolled her hips and his eyes rolled back in his head. Scalding, silky torture, gliding over his hypersensitive skin. Fuck. “Fuck.”

“Happily,” she said, and picked up the condom she’d placed on the edge of the desk.

He knew then that he’d be balls-deep in her within ten minutes—but he decided to keep arguing anyway. This was what they did, after all: they argued, and it was good. “There is such a thing,” he gritted out, “as dicks that are too big.” Which was true. He’d researched extensively during his teens and concluded that if he wanted any form of penetrative sex, which he most certainly did, he’d have to be very careful about it. So, yes, there was definitely such a thing as dicks that were too big—too big to be convenient, anyway.

Eve apparently agreed, because she nodded eagerly. “I know,” she said. “I like them.”

And now he was remembering that night—the night he’d fucked her senseless with a twelve-inch purple cock and she’d begged him for more. Memory Eve and actual Eve pressed in on him from all directions. He sucked in a breath, looked down, and swallowed hard at the sight of them together: of Eve’s plump folds spread open around his rigid prick; of her sweet little clit, glossy and fat; of her rounded belly and bare skin screaming louder than anything else: intimacy.

He had her. He had her, and honestly, he’d do whatever the fuck she wanted because she had him, too.

Jacob was about to snatch up the condom when she grabbed a fistful of his hair, hard—hard enough that silvery pleasure sang down his spine and straight to his balls. Then she pressed her mouth to his, and he was no longer capable of thoughts or reason or making decisions. He was just . . . a body. She made him one big, horny, blissed-out body, she grounded him with her weight and her touch, she turned everything Technicolor, and he’d never felt like this in his entire fucking life.

“Eve,” he breathed, but the sound was lost in the slow sweep of her tongue. “Eve,” he groaned, and she moved to kiss his throat, to rake her nails down his chest and rock her clit against his cock. “Eve,” he said, over and over, but what he meant—what he couldn’t say just yet, but what he meant—was, I love you. I love you, Eve Brown.