Her lips part as if welcoming me home, and everything I thought about our first kiss was wrong.

It's nothing compared to the fire she stokes inside me. She uses her tongue like a rolling pin, gently gliding it against mine, then pressing harder with every stroke until I'm dizzy with my little peach's ability to make me forget about anything but her.

My hand moves to her leg, and I tug on it. She bends it, slings it around my waist, then does the same with the other, and I think I've died and gone to heaven. Her grip intensifies, holding me closer. Her tongue massages mine with more fervor.

My fingers slide between us, grazing her nipple.

She whimpers, a sound so sweet I wish I had my phone recording it.

I trace the hard ridge, then move into a pinching motion, gliding my tongue around hers faster. My erection's so stiff, it pops out of my boxers.

I need to get these flannel pants off her.

I break our kiss, leaning into her ear, murmuring, "I want my mouth on your pussy."

She freezes, except for her hard breathing.

I move my hand to her pants and tug at the drawstring, ordering, "Lift your hips."

She takes a deep breath, then releases my hair, pressing her palms against my chest. She says, "Get off me, Sebastian."

"Why, Sunshine?" I question, not sure why she's stopping me.

"This isn't right," she claims.

My past haunts me again. I object, "Why? Because I said pussy?"

"No."

Surprised, I inquire, "Then what is it?"

She turns her face toward the wall.

I move it so she's facing me again. "Tell me why, Georgia. What makes it wrong? We're two consenting adults, are we not?"

Her bottom lip quivers.

A new thought hits me. I ask, "You don't like sex?"

"Of course I like sex," she replies.

Relief fills me. I continue, "Then if it's not because I said pussy, and it's not because you don't like sex, what's it about?"

She shuts her eyes for a minute.

I take it that she doesn't really want me to stop and arrogantly declare, "I promise you if you let me lick your pussy, you'll want me to do it again. In fact, I bet you that you'll beg for me to do it again."

Her eyes pop open. She blurts out, "This isn't real, Sebastian."

"Last time I looked, you and I were both real people," I retort.

She stresses, "We aren't real. Remember the prenup?"

I huff. "So? What about it?"

She sternly says, "This isn't love."

"So?" I ask again.

Her face hardens.

I retreat a tad, taunting, "Don't tell me you only have sex with someone when you think you're in love."

Offended, she argues, "Think?"

"Yeah. Love isn't real," I claim.

Appalled, she huffs. "Is that what you believe?"

"One hundred percent," I answer.