He stopped, tipping me gently, loosening his grip to encourage me to let go of him, but I didn’t. I flexed my arms and legs, keeping me resolutely locked around him. Kash laughed into my mouth and popped my bare ass, the snap and sting earning him what he’d asked, though he didn’t let me go until my feet were on the ground.

“Stay,” he commanded like I was a puppy.

But didn’t tell me to be still. I watched him spread the blanket between rows of blush chrysanthemums, undoing my blouse and shucking it. I dropped it without care onto the dirty concrete and shimmied out of my skirt, impatient and aching.

He was right—it was unacceptable that I’d been unattended for months. That the man I had been with couldn’t be bothered with my pleasure, only his own. That I had to take what I needed, frustrated and ignored.

Kash turned and stilled, his eyes dragging down the length of my body, then back up. Hungry appreciation zinged between us. His empowered me. Mine was heavy with the desire to get his clothes off, including that T-shirt, which I only just noticed said, Gardening Makes Me Thorny, framed by classic American tattoo roses and thorns.

I drew my bottom lip into my mouth. When it came to Kash, gardening made me thorny too.

“Take that off,” I ordered, nodding to his shirt.

His lips flicked into a smile, his eyes locked on mine as he reached over his shoulder to grab a handful of shirt. He pulled it off in what felt like slow motion, first exposing the deep ridges and flats of his abs, the canals of his hips. The breadth of his chest, the discs of his pecs. Down one arm and over his head, his eyes instantly connecting with mine again. And then, the shirt was gone.

“What else do you want, Lila?” he asked, a challenge behind a sideways smile.

Panting. I was panting, too hot, too eager to contain so much heat. “Fuck me up,” I said without thought or care beyond that moment.

“Oh, I plan to,” he promised, devouring the space between us to scoop me into his arms and kiss me in the same motion.