We reenact one of his fantasies. He spreads my legs, and in seconds, he has me so wild that he grips my hands, holding them tightly to keep me still.

Or stiller, I should say. Because I’m a live wire, writhing and thrusting as he licks me again and again.

When I near the cliff a second time, I murmur huskily, my throat dry, “Let me touch you, please.”

He lets go of my fingers, and I grab his head, holding on to him. Like that, I come again, his face between my legs, my hands wrapped in his hair.

A minute later, or maybe more, I open my eyes to find a gloriously naked and gorgeous Flynn standing at my side, stroking his cock. God, he’s stunning.

Reaching out, I trace the grooves of his abs, the cut of his arms, and I feel his hot, hard length in my hands. He shudders when I touch him, thrusting against my palm.

“You’re mine,” I whisper.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs. “And you’re mine.”

I sit up. I’m still in a daze, but I pull off my dress, and I’m completely naked. “Flynn, can we go bare? I’m clean, and I’m on birth control.”

“Fuck, yes. I’m clean.”

That’s all we need to know. He flips me to my knees, and I want to weep with happiness.

I hate missionary.

I love being taken.

He knows what I need, and he’s going to give it to me. He’s put me on my hands and knees, spreading my cheeks, rubbing the head of his cock against me.

I ache.

Exquisitely.

Deeply.

My body craves him like a filthy drug.

I am desperate for my fix, and he gives it to me, shoving deep inside with a carnal groan.

I cry out. “God, it’s so good.”

“It’s better than the first time.”

“I know,” I whisper.

And it’s not the position, though I love how he grabs my ass as he moves in me.

It’s not the depth either. But I adore how he’s reaching the ends of me, how I can feel him everywhere.

It’s not even how he pushes on my back, making me lower my chest to the futon. Or how he loops my hair around his fist, though all of that sends me into the stratosphere.

It’s how he loves me, even when he fucks me.

It’s better because we’re Angel and Duke, city explorers, wordsmith and mathematician, poetry reciter and poetry receiver, and most of all, we are us.

Loving and fucking, fucking and loving.

There’s no more role-playing tonight. We have no need to pretend because we both want the real thing.

As he goes deep another time, swiveling his hips and stroking me, I’m there again at the edge, coming like it’s all my body ever wants to do, like I’ve been trained to do this, like I can’t stop.

He grips me harder, groaning and turning wild. Saying my name. The way it sounds from his lips, like a benediction, like a rock song, like a primal scream of pleasure, is the highest high.