She would have had difficulty pinpointing exactly how that tenderness was taking shape. It was the way he cradled her in his arms, his body making a nest for her to burrow into, her limbs coiling into the warmth of him. It was the way his kiss moved away from her lips and along her jawline, soft pecks and light nibbles giving over to what she could have sworn was an actual bite on the curve of her neck. That was what really gave the show away.

He was tasting her, sampling her, devouring her.

Sophie had been kissed plenty of times before. In fact, she’d started young. The teenage cancer ward was a breeding ground of exploratory vice, so many of the kids unsure how much time they had left that they weren’t leaving anything—including sex—up to chance.

But this? Wow. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been devoured before.

“Holy crap, you’re good at this,” she said, and turned her head to give him better access to her neck. She also buried her hands in his hair, holding his head in place in case he got any funny ideas about stopping before things got really interesting. “Amazing, actually. Do you practice on your pillow at night or something?”

It was a good thing she’d had the foresight to hold on to him, because he tried lifting his head at that. “Yes. I routinely make out with my pillow. That’s what we Sleeping Beauties do.”

She moaned, letting him know she wasn’t about to let him put a wall up against what had to be one of the hottest make-out sessions she’d had in a long time—or, you know, ever. She also pressed her hips against his, doing a lot more than moan when the hard line of his groin hit her right in the sweet spot. Would it be awful if she gyrated against him a few times? Just a little?

“Lucky pillow,” she said, and this time, she was the one doing the kissing. She had to hitch a leg around the back of his thigh and tug on his hair to reach his lips, but it was well worth the effort when his mouth opened to let her in.

Harrison’s hand naturally found its way to her leg, his wide palm searing her skin through the see-through panel. The sensation of tingling, liquid heat didn’t abate any as his hand began moving in a determinedly upward direction, skimming along the rounded curve of her thigh until he was almost in derriere territory.

“Why, Harrison Parks,” she chided—as much as a woman could chide when she was climbing a man like a tree. “Do you also feel your pillow up like that?”

“Every chance I get. Fortunately, it’s not made of memory foam.”