“But it’s a good thing? You’re sure it’s good?” The vulnerability in his voice surprises me, and I put my hand on his cheek, gazing into his dark-honey eyes. All the times he confided in me that he felt like he didn’t measure up, that he was the participation trophy kid—I want to erase it all, every doubt in his mind that he is anything but extraordinary.

“So good,” I say. “The absolute best.”

He exhales and settles next to me on the pillow, putting one arm around me so my head is on his chest, my cheek resting on his unbuttoned shirt. “I didn’t know how to handle this when I first found out,” he says, his voice a quiet hum.

He’s still fully clothed, just his shirt open, and when his hand rests on my bare stomach, I feel suddenly exposed.

“You probably didn’t think it was such a good thing, huh?” Now it’s my voice that sounds vulnerable.

“Not at first. But it didn’t take long before I knew I had to do whatever it took to convince you to give us a chance.”

“I didn’t make it easy on you.”

He trails his fingers across my stomach. “Someone once told me that the effort is what makes it worth it—like mining for jewels. If they were out in the open, they wouldn’t be so precious.”

He’s repeating my words about my favorite books, but he’s saying them about me. It makes me feel, for the first time ever, that my protective shell isn’t a character flaw; maybe I’m not too difficult to get to know. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for someone who’s willing to put in the work.

Before I can respond, he slides his hand down between my legs, where I’m still sensitive. My breath catches. His fingers start drawing a slow, whisper-light circle that feels so good I can’t help sighing again.

Still, I feel like I should tell him. “Just so you know, I never have more than one orgasm during sex.”

“That’s fine.” But he doesn’t stop, and it does feel great, so I try to relax and enjoy it.

“Just don’t want you to be disappointed,” I murmur.

“Never.”

But as the minutes tick by, I start to worry. He’s used to romance-reading, sex-positive partners, not an aloof ice queen. Plus, he’s already given me a top-notch orgasm, and I don’t want to be greedy. What if he’s getting impatient? Or bored? This is why women fake it. But if I tried that, he’d know—he just saw the real thing.

“We really can do something else,” I say after a while.

He presses a kiss to my temple. “Josie. If it doesn’t feel good, just tell me.”