I won’t examine that thought right now. I won’t. I clutch him closer and sink deeper into the kiss, begging him for more of his mouth, more of his hands. He is a skilled multitasker, kissing me and also finding my nipples with his thumb and forefinger, tweaking, rolling, pinching, flicking.

Those sensations gang up with the tension gathering in my core, and suddenly another orgasm doesn’t feel far off.

Which is not my mode of operation, usually.

Brody has found my second gear, and I so appreciate it.

He rolls away from me, fumbling with the nightstand drawer, coming back with a packet in his hand. His hands are shaking. I take it from him, open it, and roll it on him.

“I want to go slow,” he says.

He eases himself through the slick of arousal on my sex, sliding back and forth over my clit. Yup, I’m going to come again, without even trying.

And as soon as I do, as soon as I buck and call his name, he plunges in and fills me, and it’s so, so good. I’m coming and clenching and needing, and he’s big and thick and hot and everything I need.

“Yeah, Rachel, just like that, you come for me, baby, you come.”

He kisses me again, deep and greedy, and there’s no way he’s taking this slow. It feels too good—to both of us. I can’t stop grabbing him and pulling him deeper. I can’t stop kissing him like I want to devour him. I can’t stop trying to touch him, everywhere.

His first couple of controlled, careful thrusts give way to what comes next. I feel that moment—when he realizes it. His rhythm breaks first, then the kiss. He’s up, over me, eyes almost surprised, his hips jerking. Needy. Greedy. Grunts and fingers digging into my flesh.

I love it.

“That’s it,” I tell him. “You take what you need.”

And then he doesn’t even try to stay in control. He thrusts chaotically, hard, deep, rolling and grinding his hips over mine, which makes me come again. Yes. Again.

And then he’s coming, mouth on mine, hands gripping me, every muscle in his body rigid.

“Rachel!”

Condom attended to, he wraps me in his arms and holds me.

There are no questions about whether we’ll cuddle or whether I’ll stay. Who’ll put on clothes or how we’ll share the bed. There’s just this. Brody’s arms and his lips in my hair and his voice murmuring that I have just broken him because he’s never had sex that good before.

Neither have I.

“Maybe it’s not that you broke me,” he says, a minute later. “Maybe it’s that you put me back together.”

I smile against his bare chest.

Another thing there is no question about: