Miles nods, a wicked smile curling his lips.

With my phone timer up and running, we’re kissing again, and I cannot, cannot get enough of his mouth.

One of his hands cups my chin, gently, like I’m something precious to be kept safe. His other hand spans my hip, hauling me closer, and there’s nothing gentle about the way his thigh presses flush between my legs. The moan that escapes my lips belongs entirely to him.

He turns me in his arms so my back is pressed against his front.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs in my ear from behind, his words languid and full of promise, “I’m going to make every second count.”

My pulse jumps and my knees threaten to buckle. I swivel again in his arms so we’re facing each other, and I run my hands roughly through his hair. It’s just as thick, and soft, and perfect as I imagined it would be. It’s time to admit I’ve been thinking about this for a while.

So many emotions flicker through my mind. All the anger, all the hours I’ve spent glaring at him from across the café (wanting him, I realize now), needing him, or at least needing to grip his hair in my hands and tug, hard, the way I am now. But it’s tempered by the realization that what’s happening between us isn’t spontaneous lust, or at least not just spontaneous lust; it’s grounded in something real—for me, at least. We’ve had more than two dozen “coffee dates,” we had that dinner with my parents, we’ve had hours and hours of flirtatious banter online, at night, in my head, as I walked around the High Line . . . He’s unaware of the last half, but the way he’s kissing me, like nothing could ever separate us, tells me he’s happy to be here in this moment.

I glance at my phone.

“How’s the countdown going?” Miles asks into my neck, nuzzling it. His warm, strong hands coast over my body, and I lean into his touch, craving it, wondering why I’ve spent my life thus far without it.

“Twenty-seven minutes left.”

He yanks his shirt off and I help him.

“Hurry, hurry,” I urge him. Holy hell, his abs are firm. I can’t take my eyes off him. His runner’s body, lean and smooth, is a gorgeous canvas. I drop to my knees so I can paint his chest with my lips.

“You’re—you’re—” I stammer.

“Less talking, more stripping,” he teases me.

I rise, kiss the smirk off his face, and proceed to remove my shirt and jeans.

Now it’s his turn to gaze, and the heat of his eyes—centered on my black bra and lacy panties—makes me flush all over.

“You’re stunning,” he says quietly.

“Less talking, more stripping.”