She blinks. “What?”

“I wouldn’t want to…”—I search for a good word—“derail you.”

She stares at me, still confused.

Cut to the chase, Noah. Ask her the question you know you should’ve asked already, before you brought her here, before you pulled her into your arms in the bivvy.

Even if it means shooting yourself in the foot.

I tip my head back for a second and look straight into her beautiful eyes. “What about Zach?”

“Ah,” she breathes out as comprehension hits her.

“Isn’t it him you really want?”

“I do,” she says. “I mean, not your Zach, but someone like him in a couple of years when I’m back in Key West and ready to settle down.”

I exhale slowly.

She smiles. “But right now, here on my Parisian internship-slash-holiday, it’s you that I want.”

My shoulders sag with relief.

Keeping Sophie for me when I’m supposed to set her up with Zach still doesn’t feel kosher. But, at least, I know where I stand now. Sophie isn’t kissing me because she can’t decide between me and Zach or because Zach is taking too long to ask her out.

She’s kissing me because she chose me.

Even if it’s just for the duration of her Parisian holiday. Actually, that’s fine by me. More than fine—it’s perfect. Haven’t I, too, been thinking of another woman for when I’m ready to settle down?

I peer at Sophie, taking in the bounty the universe deemed appropriate to drop onto my lap.

She chuckles softly. “You look like you just won Olympic gold.”

“It feels that way,” I admit.

Taking a step toward her, I back her against the wall, lean in, and place my hands on either side of her face.

Her smile slips, giving way to a wild mixture of emotions that flicker in her expressive eyes. There’s desire and excitement, for sure, but there’s also anxiety. Not surprising, given her history of ham-handed men.

I’ll tread softly.

“Bébé,” I say planting a gentle kiss to her forehead. “If I start doing something you don’t like, or don’t feel ready for, just say it. OK?”

She nods, her expression relaxing. “Go easy, please?”

“I promise.”

She places her hands on my chest, stroking it. Her lovely fingers trail my collarbones, my throat, run down my shoulders, and then return to my chest.

“You’re perfect,” she says. “Better than my secret fantasy.”

“What’s your fantasy?”

She cocks her head. “Don’t you know the meaning of the word secret?”

“Have mercy!” I plead. “Now that you disclosed you have a secret fantasy, you must tell me what it is, or I’ll wither and die of frustration.”

She hesitates for a brief moment and shrugs. “Oh well, here goes. My secret fantasy has always been a blue-eyed American football quarterback.”

A happy grin spreads on my face, no matter how hard I try to suppress it.

Her gaze zeroes in on my pectorals. “But I’ll take a French water polo goalie any day.”

“Take him today,” I say, catching her chin between my thumb and forefinger.

And then I kiss her hard, the way I’ve been dying to kiss her for several weeks now.

She lets me. Better than that, she responds, delving her hands into my hair. Her heavenly breath—chocolate, wine, and Sophie—makes me wild with lust. As I explore the tender interior of her mouth, a sense of urgency comes over me. I haven’t forgotten my promise to go easy, and I’m fully prepared to freeze the moment she lets me know it’s too much, or too soon. But until that moment, I’ll push my sweet Sophie to see how far she’ll let me go.

I break the kiss.

She sways, panting, her eyes glazed with desire.

“Bedroom.” I say. “Unless you want me to take you right here up against this wall.”

Say yes.

The image of Sophie impaled on my cock, back to the wall, makes my hands tremble. I picture her in that position—legs locked around my waist, breasts bared and bobbing as I pound into her with all I’ve got.

Jesus Christ.

What happened to not rushing it? So much for my self-control… The need in my loins is killing all my good intentions. This woman has bewitched me.

The moment those words form in my mind, shame hits me in the solar plexus, making me choke.

What’s wrong with you, man?

Blaming a woman’s charms for your own failure to show restraint is… cheap, to put it mildly. It’s what bad lovers do. It’s what rapists do.

Say no, Sophie.

She blinks and swallows. “Bedroom.”

Thank you!

I grab her hand and lead her through the TV room to the bedroom.

It’s bathed in the golden light of the setting sun as we enter.

I turn to Sophie. “Too much light?”

She nods.

I go to the window and draw the curtains, leaving a narrow gap. When I return by her side, she’s already taken her shorts off and is reaching for the hem of her tee. I watch, mesmerized. She pulls it up over her tummy, breasts, and over her head.

Spellbound, I follow her every move.

Sophie lowers her arms and drops her T-shirt to the floor.

I suck in a sharp breath, awed by what she’s uncovered to my eyes.

Wrapped in a flimsy cotton bra with a floral pattern and a tiny pink bow tie in the middle, her pert, full breasts are the best gift I’ve ever received. They’re perfection itself—the very essence of femininity. Her erect nipples pebble the fabric in the center of each breast.

I kind of knew already her breasts were out of this world—summer materials don’t leave much to the imagination—but seeing them like this robs my lungs of air.

I yank off my T and take a step toward her.

She reaches for my belt and tugs on it. My breaths come shallow and fast, as she undoes the buckle and draws the zipper of my jeans down. Slowly, she works my pants down my hips and thighs. When they fall to the floor, I step out of them.

She stares at my tented boxer briefs.

If only I could tell if it’s anticipation or anxiety that heaves her chest!

She unclasps her bra, freeing her gorgeous boobs. I cup the left one, and nearly growl with the pleasure of it. Her breast is firm, soft and smooth, and it fits snugly in my palm as if it belongs there. Which it does.

I cover her right breast with my other hand, and just hold her like that for a moment.

She smiles. “Big hands and a good grip are definitely an asset, huh?”

“I’m glad you agree,” I mutter as I begin to fondle the treasure in my hands and kiss every inch of her face.

A good ten minutes later, I slip my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and push them over her hips and down her thighs.

My hand slides between her legs before she’s done shaking her panties off her ankle. I can’t wait. Backing her to the bed, I yank off my briefs, crawl up, and loom over her.

Beneath me is a woman hotter and more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.

Regardless of what she believes, she was made for sex with me.

Pressing the ball of my palm against her mound, I rub and slip a finger inside. She’s wet. Not soaked, but definitely wet. I pull my finger out and position myself at her entrance.

“I don’t have protection,” she says.

“Not to worry, I got a whole pa—” I begin, my gaze trained on the thatch between her legs, before I realize she’s hyperventilating.

I look up.

She swallows hard, clearly panicked, her eyes darting to the door.

Fuck.

“Bummer,” I say. “I don’t have any, either.”

The relief in her eyes makes my chest clench.

I roll off her and lie on my side. “That second guy you told me about… Did he rape you?”

“No,” she says. “Maybe. I don’t know. I did agree to have sex with him. I told myself it was bound to be better than the first time. But once we were naked, and he started groping me and kissing me… suddenly, I didn’t want it anymore.”

She searches my face as if her default assumption is that I won’t understand.

“Did you tell him you wanted to call it off?” I ask.

“Yes, but he wouldn’t listen. He explained later that he’d been too far gone by then. I couldn’t seriously expect him to be able to stop at that point.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I guess.” She furrows her brow. “I don’t know how men function.”

“Psychopaths aside, we function like humans,” I say. “Not savage beasts. If we want to stop when a woman says no, we can stop.”

I turn away and reach for my underwear on the floor.

She tugs at my arm. “Wait. I’m not saying no to… everything.”

I tilt my head to the side. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

She looks away, blushing.

If I were a true gentleman, noble in my heart and not just on paper, I’d let her off the hook at this point. I’d make suggestions and ask her to respond with a yes or no. But I’m too keen on hearing her talk dirty.

“Come on, Sophie,” I encourage her. “You can do it.”

She grimaces. “Do I really have to spell it out?”

“I’m afraid you do.”

“Oral sex,” she mutters under her breath.

I cup my ear. “Beg your pardon? Did you say something?”

She chews on her lower lip, looking utterly miserable.

I can’t believe how much fun it is to tease her.

“Oral sex,” she repeats louder. “I’d like some oral sex, please. If that’s OK with you.”

I struggle to keep a straight face. “Would you like to give me a blowjob or do you prefer that I go down on you?”

“You,” she whispers.

I push her legs apart and sit between them.

Suddenly, I don’t feel like joking anymore.

I bend down and nuzzle the insides of her thighs. Then I kiss her folds openmouthed, spreading her with my fingers. I give her a hard, long lick and dip my tongue in. She tastes like sex in its purest form. Sweet, spicy, addictive.

I probe her, pushing a little deeper with each thrust of my tongue. She begins to whimper. That’s all the encouragement I need to involve a finger, so I can lick her at the same time. Sophie’s whimpers turn into moans, and soon she’s writhing on the bed and gripping my hair.

My cock aches.

The temptation to shift so I can grind it against her, or—even better—so she could caress it is so strong I almost give in. But, in the end, I don’t budge. Tonight isn’t about me—it’s about Sophie.

Only her.

When I glance up at her face, Sophie’s eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open, and her cheeks flushed. So hot. Feeling her arousal bathe my finger in warm waves, I go harder, greedier, sucking and nipping at her flesh.

She tenses and spasms around me.

With a growl coming from a deep, previously unknown place in my chest, I lick her orgasm clean.

Then I stretch out by her side and gather her to me.

She gives me a heavy-lidded look, lifts her head, and takes my mouth in a smoldering kiss.

When she breaks it, I stare at her face. “Did you like your taste?”

“I did.” She grins. “Is that weird?”

“Not in my view, bébé.” I run my thumb over her lips. “Then again, my view is remote and unfocused right now.”

She gives me a quizzical look.

I open my arms and spread them like a bird’s wings. “Cause I’m flying.”