She settles for stalking toward him slowly like a cat about to pounce. “How dare you,” she says, launching herself at him.

Fox laughs through her kiss attack, expertly holding them both up instead of falling backward. “Is that a deal?”

“Shut up and kiss me, you jerk.”

Oh, and he does.

And the thing is, Joy feels safe, which doesn’t always happen. Without breaking the kiss, she climbs onto his lap. This is a danger zone—always has been, always will be, but it’s her favorite way to kiss someone. Her on top and in control.

Sometimes she held her kissing partners’ wrists to keep their hands from wandering. Because she knew they saw kissing as a prelude—hands touching her breasts, her ass, trying to slide up her skirt, without permission. Kissing didn’t imply anything other than that she wanted to kiss them.

Fox doesn’t do that. As they kiss, his hands rest on her hips, firm and warm, but very still, until his right thumb begins to brush the tiny patch of skin left uncovered by her swimsuit. She runs her fingers along his jaw, brushing against his stubble. He inhales as she does it, his chest rising and pressing against hers—she squeezes closer to him as tight as she can until she feels the faintest thrum of his pounding heartbeat.

Joy pulls back to look at him. His lips are slightly parted, gaze unfocused and yet still so sharp. She’s searching him now, trying to find in his eyes the look she knows all too well, that says Too much. Not fair. You can’t do this to me. The one that tells her the party’s over, to detangle herself before he tells that lie about blue balls. But it’s not there either.

He brings his face close again, but not to kiss. His breath fans out over her cheek as he exhales and places a kiss at the corner of her mouth—the start of the trail. Down, down, down the kisses go, to her chin, along her jaw, in front of her ear, and down her neck, each one more welcome than the last. His hands still haven’t left her hips.

Joy smiles, biting her lip and ducking her head to hide it because she doesn’t want him to see how giddy he makes her feel, like champagne bubbles under her nose and the first perfect taste of decadent chocolate cake. It’s not only his careful, delicate kisses, soft, perfectly sized lips, and scratchy stubble scraping against her smooth skin. It’s thinking about all of him, all at once, holding him in her mind and in her arms.

Hesitantly, she touches his hair, stroking his loose curls and then diving in, fingers lightly massaging his scalp. He makes a noise when she does this—and she stops, assuming she’s gone too far.