I lift my chin and meet his gaze, green and hungry. He’s staring at me. Not looking away. It’s almost too much. I have the ridiculous thought that Brody limits his eye contact because it’s a controlled substance. And he doesn’t talk because he doesn’t need to. His body is eloquent. Green eyes, the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, his clenched fists.

All that tension sets up an answering coil of heat in my body.

“There’s something I need to know.” His voice has dropped, low and husky.

“What’s that?” My own voice is barely audible.

“Do you?”

I don’t know what he’s asking, but I feel like he’s cast a spell over me. I can’t move. I’m just—waiting. For what’s already happening. Whatever he wants to know, the question is heavy with intent.

“Do I what?” I dare.

“Have two in right now?”

I’m still puzzled.

He holds his hand out. My gaze drops to it. He rolls two invisible, imaginary ben wa balls in his palm, and the sparklers in my body give way to fireworks.

I make a small helpless sound, and his pupils flare, wide and needy.

“Brody—”

His voice is rough. “Because it’s all I can think about.”

I shake my head. “No. But—you’re making me wish I did.”

It’s his turn to utter a dark, wordless groan. Because we both know what I mean. That I need to be full. Filled.

I’m breathless. I can feel the slick of my body’s lube on the swollen lips of my sex.

He catches me as my knees sag, tugs me into his arms, and kisses me with a rough desperate sound. His hands cup my head, his mouth opens and slants over mine, and I can’t breathe or think. I clutch his head, his hair, his shoulders. His thigh slides between mine, and I can’t help myself, I move against it, hungry and helpless.

And then as fast as it started, like a summer thunderstorm, it’s over, and he steps back. I’m left panting, revved up, needy. I want to grab him and hold him—but I don’t.

“I—” Brody attempts. For a split second I’m sure he’s going to apologize and I will have to disembowel him, but he shakes his head. “Wow, Rachel.”

My voice is shaky. “Can we do that again?”

He laughs, a honey-rough, perfect sound. Then he sobers, the rare and beautiful smile falling away. “Can we talk a minute first?”

I raise my eyebrows. “That’s not your line.”

“I know. But I don’t think on my feet, like I said.”

Part of me doesn’t want to talk. It just wants to do, to keep kissing and touching.

To be filled.