St. Clare shudders against me, and it’s the weirdest fucking feeling, the way his cock throbs against mine. When it’s over, I want to ask him to do it again. And again.

But I can barely breathe, and as soon as he untangles his fingers from my hair, I drop back against the bed, arms splayed out like a snow angel, and let the first real inhale hit my lungs.

“I think I’m dying,” I groan.

St. Clare climbs off me. My eyes follow him, every movement, and then he looks down at his underwear. “Well, that was probably a dumb choice.”

“Umm … is insults after sex a guy thing or a you thing? Because it’s hard to bask when you’re called a dumb choice.”

Amusement sparks on his face. “Not you.” He waves a hand down the front of him. “Coming in our fucking pants when we’re sort of low on clothing.”

“Ohh …” That’s better. And a fair point. “I can’t remember the last time I popped one off in my underwear.”

“Can’t say it’s common for me either.” His gaze travels steadily over me. “Damn, it’s hot though.”

His words hover between us. Because fuck. It really was.

“Did that help your before I die bucket list?”

I’m still too lost in orgasm land to really follow the conversation. “It sure helped something. Not sure of specifics. Need hydrating. And feeding.”

“Do you ever stop eating?”

I rub at the ache in my lower stomach, feeling far from satisfied. “Yes? No? I think when I came, a little bit of brain shot out too.”

Laughter bursts from him, and he reaches a hand down to pull me to my feet. “Go eat.”

“Food. Yes.”

“Wait. No. Clean yourself up first, and then eat.”

That sounds like the smarter option. “Will do.”

I lean in to taste his mouth one more time, and damn, even with the edge off, he kisses as good as I remember.

“Perry …” He pulls back a little. “We’re going to end up back on the bed again.”

I groan and physically have to pull myself away. “I’m going. Yes.” Except then I make the mistake of running my gaze over him again. From his messy hair to his puffy lips to that mouthwatering body and then, finally, to the wet stain on the front of his underwear.

I have to cover my fucking eyes. “Point me in the direction of the door. I’ll find it.”

“Sort of worried about touching you again though.”

“Fine.” I take a few steps forward. “Am I close?”

“Ah, yeah. Forward some more.”

I go forward some more, and when he doesn’t say stop, I keep going. And keep going. And keep⁠—

I plow headfirst into the wall.

“Fuck.”

St. Clare is wheezing he’s laughing so hard, and I turn my glare on him.

“And you wonder why we have trust issues.”