“Something wrong?” The question is humorous, prodding me to share. The asshole knows he’s a knockout and is trying to get me to admit it.

Fine. I will.

“No.” Feeling brave enough to show my blazing cheeks again, I find Henry, assumed sex-god extraordinaire, grinning back at me. His sinfully dark eyes brim with lust and longing, a far cry from the family-friendly gaze he wore all night. “I’ve always begrudgingly thought you were hot.”

“Don’t make me twist your arm to admit it,” he remarks, and I reach out to swat him. He catches my wrist, emitting a sultry laugh as he leans forward.

The laughter extinguishes when he catches my mouth in a kiss I return emphatically, pouring every ounce of my being into the display of affection. My arms climb up his stomach, over the firmness of his muscles, draping around his neck to pull him closer. Even flush against me he’s too far away. His teeth sink into my bottom lip, hard enough for me to barely distinguish between pleasure and pain. It’s a thin line I’m gleefully toeing, eager for more.

“Lie back,” he instructs, running his hands up and down my arms. The large, warm palms cover the goosebumps he created with the instructions.

I nod, wiggling away and resuming my position against the mountain of pillows. I prop my head up so I can watch him, not wanting to miss a second of what might be waiting for me.

He doesn’t move or attack. He… sits back and stares at me.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he takes his dick in his hands, giving himself a single stroke.

“Going slow,” he responds roughly, and I shiver at the new timbre of his voice. He crawls up my body on all fours, thighs bracketing my hips. Thick, male hardness presses against the inside of my thigh and I whimper, hating the word slow and how often it’s been repeated in the last few hours.

I don’t want slow. I want now, instant gratification and immediate reward.

I never thought I could hate a man for being too nice or establishing boundaries. Enter Henry fucking Dawson, wanting to do things right.

Damn him.

His thoughtfulness and subdued reaction to the length of my unintended celibacy is appreciated. There was no laughter. No smirking. No questions about why I’ve shied away from intimacy with others. No quips said in jest.

He took it in stride, unflinching at the extensive time span, a possessive glint twinkling in his eye.

Never in a million years did I expect him to be the one to break my dry spell, yet here I am, knees parting automatically to give him more space, accommodating his tall frame.

“Okay,” I agree. “Slow.”