“Does champagne make you horny?” Yup, that was her voice.

Raising those very sexy eyebrows, he pointed at a cup on her nightstand. “Can you drink some tea? It will settle your stomach and keep your throat from hurting tomorrow.”

“Will it stop me from thinking the word—” She scooted up to sitting and tried to reach for the cup, and toppled over.

Naturally, he caught her. Because he was her hero. And now they were both laughing and she was draped all over him and his body was warmer and harder than anything she’d ever held in her arms. And it was pressed against hers. And champagne had to make you horny.

Her nipples beaded against the thick muscle of his chest. Heat shivered through her, dotting her skin with goose bumps. Cotton rubbed against cotton, and the friction made her want to press harder. Something strained between her legs.

Pull away.

Pull. Away.

She dragged the painfully hardened peaks against him and a moan escaped her.

It had been years, years since she’d touched anyone like this. All Yash had ever done was pull away. She shoved at the sting of rejection. Shoved at it with all her might.

It had never been like this. Like this. Like heat and hunger. An age had passed since someone had touched her. Since her breasts had touched skin other than her own hand. Since her clit had throbbed between her legs, starved for human friction, pulsing with need. She pressed herself into him.

The relief was like a fever. Like rage. Like a spasming muscle releasing, then cramping tighter, harder.

She should have been mortified, but her brain seemed to have given up registering anything but how hard his body was, how hot, a furnace. How it felt against hers. She couldn’t tell if he was frozen or if he was pressing against her too. His breath was heavy in her ear. His body pulsed with something. Too afraid to move. Too afraid to let her go.

Please don’t let me go.

He didn’t.

Taking him down with her felt like the only possible thing to do. Pulling away from him felt inconceivable.

Please don’t leave me.

She was long past knowing which words she was speaking and which words screamed inside her head.

Then she heard her name on his lips.

Naina. Let’s think about this.

No. She wanted to scream it.

Stop talking.

Don’t push me away. Please.

Their tangled bodies sprawled across her bed, across each other, skin to skin, heat to heat.

He didn’t push her away.

“Your thigh is between my legs.” She was clutching it with her entire being, as though her existence depended on it. It was heavy and hard and ridged even through the silk of his pants. The press of it against her clit was more pleasure than she’d ever experienced in her life.