I know he doesn’t just mean physically—he means in every way possible. And I believe him. I take his hand, leading him into the room, and he sets the bouquet on the desk. With trembling fingers, I reach for the top button of his shirt and undo it, working my way down.

“Good god,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Your chest.” It’s official: my new kink is a sturdy, six-foot-seven-inch man wearing a suit with the shirt unbuttoned to reveal peachy skin, scattered freckles, light brown hair fanning across his chest and diving into his waistband. “I want it.”

“It’s yours.”

“All of it?” I reach for the fly of his pants—there’s already a bulge—but he catches my wrist, and I have a moment of panic that he’s pulling away like last time.

He must see it on my face, because he says, “Don’t stop. But can we go slow?”

I nod, even though I’m aching to get going. He shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over a nearby chair.

“Ryan Lawson, now you’re worried about wrinkles?” I say, smiling.

“I’m trying to prove that I’m not just a messy ball of chaos. I remember your face when you saw my car the first time.”

His hair is way too perfectly combed, so I reach up and mess it with my fingers. Now he looks more like my Ryan.

“I’m learning to appreciate a little chaos,” I tell him. Then I reach for his glasses, setting them behind me on the desk, never taking my eyes off him.

I slide my hands under his dress shirt. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick, and he has these big, rounded pecs that make my eyes go wide as I spread my palms across them. No six-pack or V-cut abs here—his stomach is just the right amount of soft, which means this man doesn’t deny himself delicious things, like his beloved sugar-loaded coffees. I’m grateful; I have plenty of soft areas, too. If he was built like some action hero, I’d be intimidated.

I mime pulling a sticker off a sheet, then press it over his heart.

“Uh…what was that?” he says.

“A gold star.” I glance up at him; he’s smiling fondly. Then I glide my hands down his torso and start working on his belt.

“Josie, wait,” he says, tilting my chin up. I stiffen again, and he kisses my forehead. “Slow, remember? Please, I want to look at you.”

His eyes are almost feverish as he gazes down at my body. Big, warm hands come to my shoulders and my neck, searching for the zipper for my dress, so I turn around. He brushes my hair over one shoulder, and I swear he presses his nose to my head and inhales. Then he’s sliding the zipper down, fingers trailing along my back.