I start by licking the head, thoroughly, delicately. But he feels smooth and warm against my tongue, and I immediately get impatient. I flip my hair so it’s not in the way and seal my lips around him, suck gently once, twice, and then . . .

I hear a growl. Then the sound of something ripping. With the corner of my eye, I notice Ian’s large hand fisting the sheet. Did he just tear my—

“Stop,” he says, pleads, orders me.

My brow furrows. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s not—” I tighten my grip around his length, and I can almost hear his teeth grind. His cheeks are bright red. Mars Red. “We can’t. Not the first time. We need to do it in a way that won’t make me . . .”

I press a soft, lingering kiss at the base. He inhales once, audibly, from his nose. “So what you’re saying is . . . you don’t want to come?”

“It’s more—shit—about keeping my dignity,” he rushes out.

“Dignity is overrated,” I say before running my teeth up his length to take the head in my mouth again. This time, he seems to just give in. His hand slides through my hair, cups the back of my skull, and for a second he keeps me there. Pulls me closer. Presses me against him until I feel the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I yield to Ian, enjoying the feeling of him losing control, the salty flavor, his trembling thighs, the helpless way he tugs at my hair to get me to take more, deeper, better—

Suddenly, it’s all upside down. I’m being dragged up his body, flipped on my back, pinned to the bed. One of his hands can hold both my wrists above my head, and when I look up I find him caging me. I first notice the panic in his eyes, then how close he was to coming, then the sheer relief that he managed to stave it off.

“Hannah,” he says. His tone is laced with command.

“What?”

His cock twitches against my abdomen. “I think I’ll be in charge now.”

I pout. “But I—”

“I’m sorry, but—it’s happening. I’m going to fuck you. I’m not going to come in your—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just leans forward to kiss me, and by the time he’s done, I’m nodding, breathless.

“Do you have condoms?”

“No. But I’m on the pill. We can do it without anything if you’re not giving me gross STDs. But I trust that you wouldn’t save me from the walruses just to have me die of chlamydia, so—”

I think he likes the idea of us doing it without anything. I think he loves the idea, because first he kisses me breathless, then he gets to work on taking everything—every last layer—off both of us.

The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I was fully naked with someone. When I’m having sex—the type of sex I usually go for—there always tends to be the odd irremovable layer. A bra, a tank top. Not-quite-all-the-way-off panties. My partners have been the same, with boxers twisted at their ankles, skirts pulled up, still-cuffed open shirts.