My cheeks burn, a reminder that I am not an aggressor by nature. Our relationship is tender and new, which breeds uncertainty, but I know I want him. He once told me he doesn’t do relationships. But he also told me he doesn’t want anyone else. At least right now.

My thighs straddle him, and large hands press against my hips. His touch singes. Feral eyes observe my every moment. I place my palms against his chest.

Like a mind reader, he asks, “What do you want?”

But I need to finish our talk from earlier.

“I don’t want to date anyone else.” His stoic expression gives nothing away. But those hungry eyes give me confidence. “Either,” I add, reminding him he said it first. “I want you.”

The warmth and pressure of his touch progresses up my spine, to the nape of my neck, and his fingers grip my hair. Gently, with the lightest of pressure, he brings my lips to his.

This kiss is tender and slow. My fingers venture to his scalp, twisting the short ends. His hands roam my ass and hips. We kiss until I am out of breath. And then he places his lips below my ear and down my throat.

“I want you.” My words are wispy.

“Do you, now?”

He rises off the sofa, lifting me with him. My legs wrap around his waist as we sail through my small home. He kicks the bedroom door behind him. Seconds later, there’s a scratch of indignation. Trace never likes closed doors. But neither of us cares.

“I think I need you.”

Those light blue eyes are warm. Any ice has melted. The door is closed, his hair in a disarray, and he doesn’t look nearly so controlled.

It’s my turn to caress his cheek. The rough stubble presses the pad of my thumb like a million tiny pinpricks.

He’s a bastion of strength that brings out a confusion of impulses and reactions. But the overarching one I feel is need. Desire. My lips press against the dip in his clavicle. I feel his chest expand with the intake of air. His hands cup my ass, and he brings me up hard against him, lifting my heels off the ground.

The tip of my nose brushes along the side of his neck. He smells of Jack’s shower soap, a mixture of rosemary and mint. He most likely shaved this morning, but coarse, dark growth covers his jaw. I stand higher, on the tips of my toes, and brush up against the soft curve of his ear. I lean forward, my hands captured, pressed against his chest, and I take the tender skin in my teeth.

“Are you trying to drive me crazy?” he asks.

“No.” I inch back, enough that our eyes can meet. “I think I need you, too.”

“You have on too many clothes.”

I press my lips to his while I reach down to his waist. As if reaching downward is an incendiary action, his kiss deepens and his hand slips beneath my pajama pants to my bare ass. He backs me up until my thighs hit the bed. He breaks the kiss, and I’m panting, but there’s a heaviness in the air that slows his movements. He tugs on my shirt, and I raise my arms. It’s gone. I’m not wearing a bra, and the rough pad of his thumb rubs my nipple. I close my eyes, absorbing his heat against my cool, tender skin. He kisses along my neck, his rough growth digging against my throat, burning, while his hands grip my waistband and push down, sending my sweats and panties to my ankles.