“You asked for it!” He chokes on a laugh, blocking my advances to overpower him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to noogie you into submission.”

Aleck bends down, pressing his shoulder into my stomach, then picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I swat at his back, squealing and laughing all the way to the sofa where he drops me with a thud so hard, for a second I fear the couch and I will go straight through the floor to the room below us.

I reach up and pull at Aleck’s joggers, making him fall forward. He lands on top of me, and I open my legs to give him space to settle between them.

“Apologize,” I demand.

“No, you apologize.” He peers down at me, bracing himself on his palms on either side of my head. He grinds himself so slightly between my legs, I wouldn’t feel it if it weren’t for his growing erection. “You were using my assistant to make me jealous.”

I lift my hips from the couch, meeting his thrust. “I was not! I was just saying hi. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but people say nice things to be friendly. You only said what you said to let him know that I’m… What? To let him know that I’m what, exactly? That I’m off limits, or something?”

Aleck’s mouth lowers to mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. His warm breath tickles my lips and his eyes search mine for the answer to that question.

Aleck Fox is relationship material as much as I could be the starting linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks. I know it, and he knows it. Which is why he’s not responding to my question with an answer. His body only responds to mine, that’s what he and I are good for—sex.

Even if we haven’t actually had it yet.

The storm in my body picks up speed and intensity as Aleck’s thrusts become less delicate and more deliberate. He skates his nose over my cheek and into my hair, breathing in my scent deeply as his fingers dig into my hip.

Jane Austen’s ghost! I need this!

After last night, my vagina is harboring the power of a thousand suppressed orgasms. My clit is touchier than the time Max Herrington rubbed me over my panties in his dorm room, bringing me to the brink of orgasm, then stopped when his roommate—who clearly ignored the sock on the door—abruptly walked in.

At the time, I lived with my father and two overbearing brothers, and he lived with a very intrusive roommate, (peeping) Tom. At eighteen, I didn’t possess the patience or the wrist stamina to give myself orgasms, and I was certainly too immature to consider vibrators. And Max was hot. Capital H hot. Simply being in his presence made me tingle with pre-orgasm.

We broke up having never really done the deed, and I didn’t climax for another year until I started dating Luke Pritchard, the habitual pleaser.