“Rafe, wait,” I stammer, putting my hands up without touching him. Quickly I sit up, since lying down seems to only invite trouble. He takes a heavy breath, looking annoyed.

“What if…” I mumble, not exactly sure how I should approach this question. “What if we tried something else?”

“Like what?” he growls, his eyebrows wrinkling a crease right in the middle of his forehead.

“I don’t know. There are a lot of things we can do...things I can do...without touching you.” My cheeks flush, red hot as the words come out of my mouth, and I can tell he wants to say no. But he hesitates.

“Shelby,” he says with a warning. “You don’t understand—”

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

His shoulders relax, like the burden of having to explain himself was weighing him down.

“You’ve already made me feel good,” I say, clenching my fists to keep from reaching for him. “I just want to do the same thing for you.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he finally mutters, and I see the effort it took to just say those words. He’s not the kind of guy who easily admits defeat.

“Let’s try it, and if you can’t do it...then we’ll stop.”

I wait patiently, and the restraint it takes to not jump on him is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Finally, he nods.

I move down off the couch until I’m kneeling between his legs, staring up into his dark eyes. His pulse thumps rapidly through the vein in his neck, and I let my eyes trail down his face from the stubble on his cheeks to his solid chest and down to his abs I see peeking out between his shirt and pants. I want to touch it so bad, run my fingers over the washboard and around his pecs. I forgot what it felt like to wrap my hands around a man’s muscled shoulders and feel a bare chest pressed up against mine. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Slowly, my hands reach for the zipper of his pants, and on instinct, his fingers wrap around my wrist with a fierce squeeze. Our eyes locked, I let him hold my arms as I continue unbuttoning his pants.

My heart wants to crack my ribcage in half with as fast as its beating in my chest. Every second feels like torture as I pull open his jeans and peel down his boxers, my fingers brushing the soft skin of his abdomen. Then, my mouth goes dry as I see the thick hardness that springs forth.

His chest is moving so fast with his breath, and my wrists are still held tightly in his hands. I keep my eyes on his face when I move forward, placing a wet kiss on the soft, pink head. His hips jerk as soon as I make contact, and I watch his face morph into anguish.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.