Finally, I get the courage to free my hands from where they’ve been planted and move them to skin. All that skin. Bare and smooth, a light dusting of blond hair over his chest and body burning up as much as I am. My hands rub up his back before dropping again, sensory overload, holding him tight and making sure there isn’t a crack of distance between our bodies.

St. Clare’s teeth bury into my bottom lip, hard enough to bring out a choked-back cry but not hard enough to want him to stop. The light pain ripples through me and when he finally lets go, my head drops back, barely able to take any more.

His mouth moves to my neck instead. Prickling up every nerve in my body as he kisses and licks what feels like a live wire delivering impulses straight to my cock.

It’s not enough. It’s too much.

Each thought flitters through my empty brain, gone as fast as it hits, scrambled into more nonsense than has ever existed, and really, at this point, I’m not even completely sure I exist.

We’ve gone from kissing to sex in less time than I’ve had to think it through, and I’m glad for it. My brain gets in the way sometimes, making me do stupid shit that’s the complete opposite of what I want, and without it, this is so much easier. Because I’m letting myself have this moment without anything else trying to get in the way.

This. This is what I want.

St. Clare. On top of me. Sinful hips grinding confidently against mine, pulling so much precum from me that the material separating us is sticky.

“Ah, fuck,” I grunt into the dark room, and St. Clare answers me with a groan of his own.

My hands drop to his mouthwatering ass, and I thrust up against him.

What the fuck are even clothes at this point? All that exists is his mouth on my skin and his cock rubbing delicious friction right where I need it.

I stop holding back, stop trying to draw it out, just give in to the moment and let it take over. His panting, his tongue, the sweat building between our chests. The tight grip on my hair, making my eyes sting, as my fingers dig into his ass.

St. Clare thrusts against me, and I thrust against him, and my brain is like water down a drain, swirling faster and faster, building to that final release.

A pleasant zapping fills the base of my spine, and I tremble against him.

“Close,” I pant. “Gonna … I’m gonna …”

“Me too, Perry.” His rasp is right by my ear.

The sound of my name in that deep, rough tone sets me off. The high hits, a stupidly brief moment of the greatest pleasure I’ve ever had, and almost as fast as it fills me, it disappears again.