But then he actually touches me—his thumb circling the inside of my knee, the stubble of his beard brushing against my inner thigh—and I know that every sexual experience I’ve ever had in my life pales in comparison to the way it feels when Gabe puts his mouth on me.

His tongue is hot and wet and eager as he drapes my leg over his shoulder. And I can tell he’s making a point down there. Making up for what happened ten years ago.

It’s the tremble, though, that makes my heart feel like it’s a vibrating anvil. The slight shake of his hands when he touches me, the groan he let out when he first knelt on the floor, the way his fingers tighten around my hips, holding me as if he’s afraid I might disappear.

My head is against the mattress, my arm over my eyes. My other hand is in his hair, and it’s so soft against my palm. I want to capture everything, hold it in my memories forever.

Gabe’s tongue stokes a forest fire of need inside me, burning brighter and brighter. I dig my ankle into his shoulder blade, toes curling.

“There…Please…Gabe…Please…” I’m a broken record, unable to verbalize anything but the same words over and over again. “There. There. There.”

I squeeze my eyes shut like I’m standing on a twenty-foot-tall diving board, about to hurl myself off the edge.

I realize I’m coming a half second before it happens—that moment after leaping, when your heart is still in your throat and there’s nothing but air around you.

Maybe I scream his name. Maybe it’s all in my head.

When I come back to reality, Gabe is there, leaning over me, his hair sticking up every which way and a bead of sweat sliding down his brow. He’s laughing, but his arm, planted next to me, is shaking.

I stare up at him, both shocked and spent.

“Good?” he asks, and I want to kiss that cocky smile right off of him.

But hell if he hasn’t earned it.

“Good,” I say, my throat raw.

His hand comes up to cup my face, and I lean into it, lean into the kiss he gives me, at first gentle, his smile imprinting on my own. My desire feels like a wave, still and settled one minute and then, in the next, a rising swell.

The kiss goes from soft to desperate and this time it’s Gabe’s fingers in my hair, almost as if he’s bracing himself.

“Gabe,” I murmur, his lips still against mine.

“Mmm,” he says, the sound strained and distant, as if he’s reciting baseball statistics or math equations or whatever men do when they’re too turned on to function.

“Now,” I urge him. “Now please.”