LYDIA

"This is what you want?"

"Yes." I nod quickly and repeatedly. "Yes, yes, yes."

We've moved to his bedroom, another set of floor-to-ceiling windows, another priceless view of the Strip. A king-sized bed neatly made with the sheets turned down for the evening. I wonder if he has maid service or if he makes his own bed every day.

He kisses me again, a soft press of his lips against mine, and then he's moving about the room while I remain rooted to the spot, just inside the doorway. He unfastens his watch, sliding it from his wrist and placing it inside the top drawer of the dresser. His wallet follows and then he's unrolling his shirt sleeves.

"Fear isn't really my kink, Lydia."

I'm not afraid, just unsure. Unsure what to do with myself. Unsure what he wants. Unsure if I'm supposed to strip completely naked and lie down on the bed, or just strip down to my new bra and panties so he can take those off me himself.

"I'm not afraid, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do. And being in charge isn't my kink, Rhys."

"So you want me to tell you what to do?"

"Would you?" I exhale in relief. Finally he's getting it. "Boss me. Teach me. Talk dirty to me. I like all of that. I'm good with instructions. And rules. I love rules. They're so clear and unambiguous and sexy."

He moves to stand in front of me, standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.

"We can't be anything more than this, Lydia. One month. I'm not looking for anything more than that. This won't be some kind of happily-ever-after fantasy." He strokes his hand down my arm and I shiver in response. His eyes are steady on mine, ensuring I'm listening. "Just sex. That's the rule."

"Relax, Rhys. I'm not going to fall in love with you just because you're my first." I don't think. Maybe. There's likely only a solid fifteen percent chance of that happening. At best.

"Your first." He repeats those words slowly, his breath warm against my temple. "I'll ruin you for anyone else." He says it softly and I'm not sure if it's a promise or a warning.

He walks me backwards to his bed, his hands on my hips guiding me, his lips on mine, on my jaw, trailing down my neck. My shirt is lifted. I raise my arms and it's tugged over my head as the backs of my thighs hit the mattress. He unbuttons my jeans and lowers the zipper and I suppose I am a little bit scared. But the exhilarated kind, like that feeling you get when a roller coaster makes the click-click-click ascent to the top and you can't see where the dropoff is but you know it's close, you know at any moment you'll reach the apex and time will hold still for one second, one second that feels like ten, and then you'll fly and flip and soar at speeds so fast all you can do is grip the safety harness with your hands and enjoy the ride, even though it's terrifying and you're not entirely certain you won't die.

Kinda like that.

He tugs my jeans over my hips and drags them down my legs, bending to free them from my ankles. I rest a hand on his shoulder and step out, one foot at a time.

"Sit," he tells me and I do. He's kneeled on the floor at the foot of the bed, my knees spread open to allow him between.

"This is nice," he says, drawing a fingertip along the swell of my breast where my new lace bra lies against my skin.

"Thank you," I say, my eyes on his fingertip as it skims across one breast and then dips into my cleavage and up, repeating the trip across the other. “The panties match," I add in case he missed it and because it's sort of a big deal.

"That they do," he murmurs in agreement and then kisses the spot under my right ear. His breath whispers across my neck while his facial hair lightly scratches and the combination makes me all sorts of crazy. "Let's take a look, shall we?" He gives me a gentle push back so I'm resting on my elbows, while running a finger down the center of my stomach until he reaches his destination. "Very nice."

He's not wrong. They are very nice.

Then he bends his head and kisses me. Right there. Right over the fancy lacy panties and I think I might die. Because it's embarrassing. Because it feels good. Because I want him to do it again and again and again. Rhys presses his nose into my panties and inhales, his eyes on mine, and ohmygod do men do that? Rhys does that. I bet Rhys does lots of things and he's going to do them to me. I bite my lip as Rhys hooks his thumbs into the sides of the material and tugs them down my thighs. His fingers skim the sensitive spots under my knees and down my calves until the material clears my ankles.

"You're bare," he says, rubbing his thumb across the empty patch of skin on my pubic bone. "You weren't before."

"You saw the outfit I was wearing. I thought it was best if I took it all off, because of the lighting and stuff. On stage."

His jaw ticks.

"Did you shave it or get it waxed?"

"I shaved it," I respond and I'm not sure why it's so hard to eke out so few words but I'm kinda breathless, my heart beating so quickly.

"Next time you'll let me do it," he says, his thumb continuing its examination.

"Why? Did I miss a spot?" I try to close my thighs, but he's between them and his shoulders are very wide so the movement doesn't gain me much closure.

"No." He uses his other thumb and spreads me open and licks me and oh, holy hell. My head drops back with a groan and I tighten my thighs on his shoulders.

"Then why do you want to do it?"

"Because it will turn me on. Spreading your sweet legs apart. Lathering you with shaving cream. Running a razor carefully along every inch of your pussy while you blush from head to toe."

He licks me again, a slow sweep with his tongue from bottom to top, ending with sucking my clit between his lips. I grip the bed cover in my fists and try not to grind my pelvis into his face. Holy—I've not, I don't know what this is supposed to feel like but ohmygod. His tongue is so freaking warm and soft and then the scruff on his chin follows and it's lightly abrasive and the mix of sensations is doing all sorts of things to me.

"I'll take my time doing it too," he continues, this time nuzzling his nose into my inner thigh and kissing his way back to my core. "I'll linger. I'll examine every inch of you. I'll make it so you'll never be able to shave yourself again without being turned on remembering how it felt when I did it for you."

I can't answer him because I'm breathing too hard. I like this idea very much.

"My good girl has a very wet pussy, doesn't she? You want me to play with it? Get my fingers wet?"

Yes. Oh, God, yes.

He rims the tip of his finger around my entrance, around and around, and then he flicks my clit with it and I'm on the edge. And then he does it again, and again. When he finally slides a finger inside of me I'm more than wet enough but the intrusion is still foreign to me and I tense. I tense all over, my thighs and my knees and my fists bunched into the comforter, but most especially where his finger is. But he doesn't stop, he sucks on my clit until I relax, then he does something magic with his finger until I come. I can feel myself fluttering around that finger, and oh, holy cow, an orgasm feels different with penetration and I want more. I want him. The moment he withdraws that finger I want it back, I want more than a finger. I feel empty and achy and I need him inside of me soon or I'll combust.

He pulls me to my feet and he kisses me and he tastes like me and it's dirty and shocking and sorta oddly thrilling and primal. He unsnaps my bra. The straps slip down my arms until it falls to the floor and then I'm naked. I'm naked with Rhys. This is the best day of my life. Except he's not naked.

"You're still dressed. Am I supposed to"—I gesture to his shirt—"am I supposed to or are you supposed to? Or do you like to keep your clothes on when you have sex?"

He laughs, his eyes dancing in amusement as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. "No, I'm not going to fuck you with my clothes on, Lydia."

"Oh, thank goodness. I've really been wanting to see you naked. For a long time. Like weeks. Since the bar. The first time at the bar, not the second time. Can I take off your pants?" My fingers hover at his waistband, poised to unbutton and unzip but needing the nudge of permission.

"Please," he says and then my fingers are in motion, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. It's harder to do this in reverse, removing someone else's pants instead of your own, but I manage. I'd manage even if it was a thousand-piece puzzle instead of just a zipper and a button because I want his pants off pretty badly.

When I've got the pants undone they drop to the floor and then the only thing separating me from sex is a pair of briefs, so I make short work of those.

He's beautiful. Head to toe. I could spend all night looking at him, all month, forever. But I don't have forever or even all night since Rhys is worried about his schedule so I take in as much as I can as fast as I can.

Because oh, holy crap, I know what Rhys Dalton looks like naked. The smattering of hair across his chest. His toned abs and flat stomach and the trail of hair from his belly button to his cock. The birthmark on his left hip and the definition of the lines that form on his abs. I send a silent prayer to baby Jesus that I'll get a good look at his butt before this is over because I need to know exactly what it looks like under those suit pants. Then too soon, he's moving me onto the bed because this is it. This is the sex.

Except it's not.