“Hey,” he says as a crooked smile slides onto his lips, and his eyes glance down to where my nipples are no doubt hard as rocks and straining against the thermal material of my pajama top.

There is a suspension of time as sexual tension crackles, and every part of me ignites from the darkening of his eyes when they look back up to meet mine.

“Did you need something?” I ask, trying to act casual when every part of me aches and screams the answer I want to hear.

Me.

You need me.

Now.

“Just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.” His tongue darts out to wet his lip.

I emit a nervous chuckle as I suddenly realize I should have shaved. Spritzed perfume on my skin. Painted my toenails. Did the “I’m going to have sex” prep on the off chance this would happen.

The very off chance that now doesn’t seem so very off.

Christ.

“Yes. I think. Sure.”

He takes a step inside and closes the door behind him without asking me if I want him to come in.

Of course, I do.

And now that the door is closed, this space suddenly feels so much smaller. The air feels electric. The attraction is undeniable. What will happen next was predestined from the minute he shut the door.

“I wanted to know if you needed any more help.”

“With?”

I stand still as he takes a step closer.

“How to plot the rest of your story.”

“Meaning?”

“In some stories, there is a natural progression of things. In others . . .” He shrugs.

“In others?”

“In others.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the chafe of his stubble against his hand filling the room. He looks to the floor, emits a chuckle, and then meets my eyes again. “In others, progression doesn’t matter. Chemistry. Lust. Necessity is all that matters.”

“Necessity?”

“Mm-hmm.” The simple sound rumbles through the room.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Did I just play the helpless female and act like I had no inkling of what he meant?

Damn straight, I did.

And by the way he takes another step closer and reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear, I think he heard it too.

“Maybe it’s best if I show you,” he murmurs.

“I think it is.”

From one moment to the next, we crash into each other. Demanding lips and possessive hands as we shrug out of and slip overhead any barrier preventing us from touching.

There is a frenzied desperation to touch skin as our lips move and tongues tangle and bodies find each other.

We leave a trail of clothes along the floor—shirts, socks, pants, underwear—as my every thought is Saint.

More.

Now.

God, yes.

There is no first-time awkwardness as we move through the bedroom door into the darkened room.