He smelled so good. She inhaled, filling her senses with him until her knees were solid again, then leaned back to look up at him.

“I . . .” The thought trailed away because . . . Oh my God. His face was flushed, his jaw taut, a muscle twitching in his cheek. And his eyes . . . She stared, mesmerized. They were dark and intense. And hungry. He was so hungry.

So am I.

Tightening her hold on his shirt, she yanked him down and kissed him hard. He froze for a split second before exploding into movement. Another growl rumbled in his chest as he took control of the kiss. One big hand slid down her back to palm her ass, the other slid up to tangle in her hair. She felt herself being lifted off her feet as if she weighed nothing and her control was severed. Her arms went around his corded neck, her legs around his powerful thighs, and she clung to him like a vine.

“So damn hot,” she mumbled into his mouth. “You are so damn hot.”

He swung her around so that her ass pressed against the kitchen island and he pressed against her. All of him.

Oh God. He was hard. And huge. She wriggled, trying to get closer. “I want you,” she whispered. “All of you.”

His groan was guttural. Broken. Molten. He tugged on her hair, roughly tilting her head for his next kiss. He simply . . . took her. Took her mouth. Took her breath away. He ripped his mouth away and buried his face in her neck. He was panting.

And so, so hard.

“I’ve waited so long,” he said hoarsely. “Be sure, Dani. Please.”

She kissed his ear, taking a second to catch her breath. “I’m sure. But only with condoms. Always. Forever, Diesel. I won’t have you exposed. Promise me.”

Abruptly he lifted her to sit on the island and released her hair before taking a step back. His eyes were wild, his pupils blown. But before she could even form a question, he was digging in the pocket of his jeans.

He took her hand and pressed something into her palm. A brown plastic prescription bottle, she realized. Lifting it, she examined the label and the last of her resistance crumbled to dust. The name on the prescription label read Elvis Kennedy. The prescribing doctor was Dr. Jeremy O’Bannion.

The bottle had originally held thirty pills. There were two left.

“Truvada,” she whispered, her throat too thick to speak. Tears filled her eyes, blurring the label. She blinked, wiping at her eyes with her free hand so that she could see his face. “You’re taking Truvada?”

He nodded wordlessly, his gaze never leaving her face.

Truvada. Pre-exposure prophylaxis. Medication to reduce the risk of contracting HIV. This was . . .

“For how long?” she asked hoarsely.

“For the past six months,” he answered, just as hoarsely. “Jeremy wouldn’t prescribe it until I’d tested negative for a solid year.”