“Good, because the last thing I want to do is talk,” I reply, opening the sheets next to me so he gets the hint. Judging by the still rock hard erection jutting straight out, he’s ready for round two.

He hesitates for a moment, but before I can start to get anxious about it, he walks over and climbs in. I still try not to reach for him unless I know he’s okay with it. He’s loosened up about the touching rule, but I know it hasn’t completely gone away.

So I wait for him to reach for me, which he does. Hooking a hand around my waist, he pulls me toward him, positioning me under his body. Gently, he nudges my knees open and rests between my legs. Then, he leans down hovering his face inches above mine and staring into my eyes for a second before kissing me.

When I feel the head of his erection against my clit, warmth courses through my body. It’s amazing how ready I am just after doing it once, but with him, I want to go crazy. I want all of the things I didn’t know I wanted. Tie me up, talk dirty to me, make it rough and make it sensual. It doesn’t translate to anything other than two people who trust each other, which considering how all of this started, is a very stupid thing to do.

When he reaches for the side table drawer again, I grab his arm. “Feel me without it,” I blurt out. This is next level trust here, and I can see the same thought in his eyes as he stares at me.

“I’m clean, and I’m on the pill.”

“Are you sure?” he breathes, and he asks it in a way that tells me he’s really praying I’m sure. When I nod, he leans back in to kiss me again.

With our lips still tangled, he presses himself inside me again. The way his body melts into mine and the husky groan that comes out of him tells me that he enjoys it much more without the rubber, and I have to bite back the smile on my face. I want him to feel everything, and I want him to enjoy it. Free of shame or pain and not beating himself up or trying to run.

Suddenly, I find myself wanting to give him everything I have, including my heart.

Chapter Eighteen

Rafe

“Keep your elbows in,” I tell her again before she punches the pads I’m holding again. Shelby is a natural, but I’m not surprised. Boxing isn’t about strength or skill. It’s about fire, and you can’t practice that. She has it naturally. I saw it then, and I see it now.

Maybe it’s from years of feeling neglected by her mother or the struggle of being a nurse that can never truly heal her patients, but Shelby punches with more than muscle.