It was all happening so fast. Heat rippled through my body, short-circuiting any rational thoughts I might have had. Because if my brain had a chance to catch up, it might have told me that what I was doing was a very bad thing. That Gabe was used to women throwing themselves at him. That if I did this, I would be just another starstruck fangirl who slept with her favorite movie star. That if I ever wanted to have a normal relationship with a normal person then I was setting myself up to be disappointed after this kind of experience.

Jeremy would probably never forgive me.

It was completely and utterly unprofessional.

But I wasn’t thinking any of those things.

I was thinking that Gabe’s hands and mouth and all the rest of him felt fucking amazing. I was thinking that I wanted desperately to tear off his clothes and lick him like a lollipop. I was thinking that it was very, very possible I could come apart just like this.

Gabe’s arms were wrapped around my back, and I could feel them shaking. It was unbelievably hot knowing that he was just as affected as me. That he wanted me as much as I wanted him. Or if he didn’t, he was an incredible actor.

He pressed his forehead against mine, both of us breathing heavily.

“This okay?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Very okay.”

He leaned back far enough that I could see his grin. It was a little soft, a little droopy.

“Good,” he said. “Great.”

Then, before I could comment on his level of sobriety, and with great balance and dexterity, Gabe flipped us both so I was lying back on the couch, and he was on top of me.

“Still okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

His body settled on mine, his hips moving, his hand sliding up my shirt. He was going so fast but I didn’t want him to stop. Instead, I shoved my palms beneath his shirt, bunching it up under his arms.

He leaned back as I did, just far enough for me to pull it over his head.

And there was his chest. His movie star chest—all mine for the touching. He was strong. Lean. I could feel the slight stubble on his chest as if he’d waxed or shaved it recently and it was just starting to grow back. It was a reminder of the work required to look the way he did. Work that I was very grateful for in the moment.

His skin was damp, his hair sticking to his forehead, which he pressed against mine as I raked my nails down his back.

“Do that again,” he ordered, stretching in my arms like a bear rubbing up against a tree. “Oh yeah,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his mouth hot against my throat.