Mark’s mouth moves hungrily over mine, his hands sliding to my waist as he walks me backward a few steps, kicking the door shut with a decisive slam.

I should be freaked out—I know I should, but truthfully what’s freaking me out more isn’t how wrong this is but how absurdly right it feels. As though his mouth was made for mine, as though we should have been doing this a long time ago.

I wind my arm around his neck, letting him pull me even closer. His hand slips under my sweater, his palm warm on my back . . .

Which abruptly makes me realize how cold my feet still are in their wet socks. I pull back with a little gasp.

“My feet,” I manage, wanting him to know that I’m not stopping because of him.

He glances down and with a quick nod takes complete control of the situation, putting one arm around my back, the other sliding behind my knees and lifting me to him.

I slide an arm around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss as he walks us into the living room. Mark sits on the couch, me draped over his lap.

His mouth never leaves mine as he tugs off one wet sock, then the other, and wraps a warm hand around my cold feet, gently kneading feeling back into them.

I return the favor, my hands sliding under his shirt and tracing my fingers over the planes of his abs. “You never grabbed your jacket,” I murmur.

Instead of replying, he slides a hand behind my neck, opens my mouth with his, tongue sweeping against mine in wet, delicious friction.

I kiss him back, realizing he probably has the right idea about not talking. If we talk, we might stop, and I don’t want to stop.

We kiss forever. Minutes? Hours? His mouth is perfect, his hands are everywhere.

I feel my head rest gently against one of the couch pillows and my eyes fly open when I realize he’s laid me back and is shifting to lie alongside me.

Mark sets his hand against my stomach, his eyes searching mine. Okay?

I reply by wrapping my now warm foot around his calf and arching up for another kiss. More than okay.

Both his hands are under my sweater, stroking my sides and stomach in a way that makes me feel beautiful instead of a few pounds past slim.

When his fingertips brush the lace along the base of my bra, it’s the point of no return.

I want nothing more than to go over the edge with him.

As his hand slides upward I hold my breath, only it comes out on a moan when his hand brushes over my breast.

Mark’s lips and tongue are hot on my neck as he molds me beneath his palm. Fingers trace along the cup of my bra, then beneath. His thumb scrapes over my nipple, and he captures my gasp with his mouth, kissing me as thoroughly as he explores me.

I feel heat pooling between my legs. I arch up, seeking relief, needing his touch.

He utters a low “fuck” as my hips brush his erection, the first word he’s said since kissing me, and its impulsive dirtiness makes me moan in response.

Mark tugs me up, not giving me a chance to think or doubt as he pulls my sweater over my head. He holds my gaze as his fingers find the button of my jeans, watching my face even as he pulls the tight jeans down my legs, tossing them aside.

Then his eyes travel over my body, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed, too utterly in lust to linger on the fact that my stomach’s not flat, that my thighs are utterly unfamiliar with the concept of a gap . . .

I can’t even think about my body, because I’m too busy looking at Mark’s body. He reaches behind his head, tugging off his shirt in one motion. His boots and jeans follow in record time, and the sight of Mark Blakely standing beside my couch wearing only boxers is mouthwatering enough to have me pushing into a sitting position and pressing a kiss to his perfect abs.

“Perfect,” I say, unable to keep from giving his (perfect) ass cheek a little pat.

His mouth tilts in a half smile and his eyes are warm as he lifts a hand to my face, fingers tangling in my hair.

“These are perfect,” he says in a low voice, both hands sliding down to my breasts, lifting me to make my cleavage even more dramatic. He groans, and my mouth goes dry with want as I see the way his hips arch forward a tiny bit, as though he wants to touch his cock to my breasts.

The thought is almost painfully erotic, even more so when he unhooks my bra, letting my breasts spill into his hands.

His fingers play with my nipples, alternating between teasing flicks and just-right pinching, and by the time he lowers to his knees beside the couch I’m panting.

Mark presses a hand to my stomach, holding me against the couch as he dips his head and wraps his lips around a nipple.

I arch into his mouth as his tongue flicks over the tip of my breast, teasing, torturing, then he sucks it into his mouth once more to soothe.

He gives the other breast equal attention, and just when I think nothing can feel better than his mouth on my breasts, I feel his hand between my legs, rubbing over the lace of my underwear.

I’m dying for his fingers to touch me—really touch me—but he makes me wait, rubbing back and forth with just enough pressure to tease but not satisfy.

It’s only when I lean up and nip his shoulder in warning that he gives in with a harsh laugh, fingers sliding beneath the elastic to where I’m wet and wanting.

He rolls his tongue over the tip of my breast as he slowly slides one finger into me.

“Mark.” I arch as I say it, pressing myself against his hand.

He answers by adding another finger, stretching me ever so slightly. I’m so turned on that if he so much as gets close to my clit, I’ll come.

I feel him smile against my breast and realize I’ve said it out loud, but I’m way too turned on to be embarrassed.

He pulls away slightly, easing my blue lace panties down over my thighs as I lay spread out on the couch for him to devour.

He tosses them aside, then returns to gently pumping two fingers inside me with one hand, the other hand sliding to my inner thigh, spreading me wider so that he can—

Mark lowers his head, his tongue pressing against my clit where he flicks once, twice—

I’m gone.

I’ve never been a silent-O kind of girl, but never have I been a screamer until right this very second, when I’m pretty sure my shouts make the walls shake as much as my body.

Sometime later—days?—I manage to open an eye, watching as he presses soft kisses just below my belly button. He meets my eyes. “Condoms?” he asks softly.

“Upstairs,” I manage. “Although I’m on the pill—”

I don’t even finish the sentence before his boxers are off and he’s lowering on top of me. I guess that’s the benefit of being with your best friend—there’s a level of trust there, so you can skip pesky conversations about STD tests.

The tip of his cock nudges my folds and I moan, all thoughts of tests and logistics out the window.

I wrap my legs around his waist and arch up, wanting him now, but he holds back, his fingers finding my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Kell—”

I frantically shake my head. I don’t want to talk. Not about what’s happening between us and what it might change. What already changed the second we kissed.

I swear I see something like regret pass over his face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by hot-blooded male.

His hands slide down to my hips, forcing my lower body to be still, to take him slowly. He slides inside me a little bit at a time, and I realize with every second how out of my league I am with him.

I’m good in bed, but Mark’s phenomenal. He’s got patience, and he knows how to use it, making every moment, every sensation about ten times more intense than I’ve ever experienced before.

The moment when he’s all the way inside me? Heaven. Better than heaven.

And just when I think I can’t possibly fly any higher, be any more turned on, he starts to thrust. Slowly at first, letting us find each other’s rhythm, and then, faster, harder . . .

He rests his palms on either side of my head, straightening his arms until he’s braced above me watching my face with fierce determination.

“Come,” he says through gritted teeth. “Damn it, Kelly, come with me—”

I do. I come again, clenching around him at the same moment he releases inside me.

Simultaneous orgasms? If you’d asked me an hour ago, I’d have said they’re not a thing. Wrong. They exist, and they’re . . . well, there are no words. There are no words to describe what it feels like to be this close to another person, to share the most intimate moment there is to share.

And wonderful as the moment is, it’s also scary as heck, because it feels important. Life-altering, even.

Mark lowers his forehead to my shoulder, and stays there for long moments as we both catch our breath.

I try to think of something to say, but . . . I’ve got nothing. Him either, apparently, because even after he pulls out, neither of us says a word. Not when he pulls my sofa’s throw blanket over us, and I roll to my side to make room for him beside me. Not when he slides a tentative arm around my waist, or when I lift his hand to my mouth and gently press my lips to his palm. Not when we drift off to sleep, sated and exhausted in front of the glow of the Christmas tree.

And not the next morning when I wake up naked, happy, and . . . alone.