She looks over at me, her eyes telling me before her words do. “Until now. You set me on fire inside, Ezra Stern.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. I can’t move. My composure teeters on the head of a needle, but I at least have enough presence of mind to know exactly what I should say right now. “I love you, Tru.”

It feels like the words have been waiting on my tongue for years, for the moment when I was old enough, free enough to feel them, to say them. The look on her face says she’s waited that long to hear them from me. She slides her fingers into my hair and touches her soft lips to mine.

“I love you, too,” she says. “So much.”

I kiss her so deeply, I struggle to breathe, but I can’t make myself stop. She’s my air and her heartbeat a talking drum, telling our story through the walls of our chests. I want us to be one, to be joined and hooked and sealed together. Breaking the kiss, she sits on the bed and lies back, her lips wet and full. She watches me with a sultry expectation. Keeping her eyes on me, she undoes the line of buttons holding her sundress together. The panels fall away, revealing plump breasts cupped in gold satin and lace. She sits up, shrugs out of the dress and reaches behind her back to unclasp the bra. Her breasts spill free, and I reach out a hand to touch her, but she shakes her head, her eyes dark and molten.

“Watch me,” she whispers.

She lifts, pulling the dress from under her, tossing it aside. She does the same with the gold panties, sliding them off and tossing them away, leaving her naked on the bed. She lies back in a cloud of curls. I swallow hard when she lifts her knees and spreads her legs, honoring me with this beautiful, bare intimacy.

“Are you watching?” she asks, her voice husky and hot.

I manage to nod and try not to drool.

She slides slim fingers down the plane of her belly and between the fat lips of her pussy, squeezing her clit.

“Shit, Tru,” I hiss, moving forward.

“Watch.”

She palms herself, an aggressive move that flattens the lips and the tight bud of nerves. Her fingers go to work, brushing against her clit at first slowly, then with more speed, more pressure. Her back arches and she moans, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. I can’t resist. I sit beside her, hoping to catch her scent. I know how she smells, how she tastes, and my mouth waters for it, but she’s so clearly in charge of her own pleasure I don’t even want to intrude.

“My breasts,” she gasps. “Suck my breasts.”

Thank God.