Because you like him, a voice in my head says. And you’re attracted to him. And his transparency is disarming; you can’t very well tell yourself he duped you if he’s been honest about his outlook on love from the outset.

Thinking back to everything that’s happened tonight, from our interactions at the sex party to the physical discomfort he put himself through so Natalia could experience the labor she’d envisioned, it all reminds me that Dean has been open and honest and present for me in every way. And right now, in this dimly lit stairwell, after a chaotic night that still isn’t over, I want his lips on mine once more. Just once more. So I move up to his step, then rest my hand against his stomach. “Shove all those thoughts out of your mind and do it, then. Touch me.”

“Solange.”

There’s wonder in his voice, as if I’ve given him a gift he never expected to receive.

I drop my forehead to his chest. Suddenly his fingers are in my hair, leisurely massaging my head, until he lifts my chin so we’re facing each other. “May I . . . kiss you?” The question breaks in his throat and shatters my last defenses.

“Yes.”

He descends a step, then takes my hand and guides me to him, the change in position placing us centimeters apart. A kiss to Dean isn’t just a meeting of mouths. No, it begins with a low drag of his thumb across my lower lip, transitions to a soft peck above my Cupid’s bow, then continues with a brush of our cheeks as he breathes me in.

I wait and wait and wait, until I can’t wait any longer, and soon I’m tugging him closer and assuming control. I bite his lip, not hard but strong enough to let him know I want more. Faster, fiercer, harder. Give it to me, I’m saying with my hands, my lips, my teeth. He obliges, his hand gripping my neck and his mouth setting a deliciously thorough yet frenzied pace.

“Touch me,” I whisper when we come up for air. “Everywhere.”

This close, I can see that his pupils are dilated and his eyes are so darkened by lust they appear brown. We stare at each other, our gazes bouncing from feature to feature as he lifts my shirt and slips his hand under the waistband of my pants.

I gasp, my mouth going slack in anticipation. Trembling with desire, I try to urge him with my eyes. Yes, touch me there. Make me wet. Make me come.

A finger glides over my underwear, along my cleft, then another finger joins in as the first retraces its steps.

“Please,” I say against his cheek.