Carefully, almost in slow motion, he leans over and touches his lips to mine. He takes my face in his hands, kisses me softly, like he did in the bar that first time. Back before I jerked him around, back before he had to always have his guard up.

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back, shivering as his hands move up under my shirt. His fingers trace my backbone, stroke the soft skin of my waist. I grasp the hem of my t-shirt and pull it up over my head, and he leans back and just looks at me for what seems a very long time, his hands resting on my waist.

Then he stands, and swings me up into his arms, and carries me to the bedroom. It’s ridiculous, and like something out of a movie—or a soap opera—but if I’m being totally honest, I love it. He lowers me to the bed and immediately his mouth is everywhere: my collarbone, my neck, my stomach, my breasts. I close my eyes against the rush of sensation and pull him up to kiss my mouth again, then slide a hand down to open the button of his jeans. I reach inside and wrap my hand around him as best I can—seriously, I wasn’t kidding when I said impressive earlier—then stroke the smooth skin as he groans and toes off his boots.

I help him strip off his jeans and briefs, one hand still stroking him, the other pushing at his pants until they’re in a pile on my floor. He shrugs out of his shirt, and I trail the fingers of my free hand over his shoulders, his chest, the hard ridges of his abs. He shivers and fists a hand in my hair, kissing me fiercely as his other hand slides between my legs and palms me through my panties, there where I’m so exquisitely sensitive for him.

I drop my head back and moan; he cups a breast in each hand, laving his tongue across first one nipple, then the other, then moves down between my legs. The throbbing at my core grows almost unbearable as he slides my panties down my legs, following their path with his mouth—thigh, knee, calf, ankle.

And then we’re both naked, skin sliding on skin. He takes his time with me. His hands are everywhere, his mouth only a heartbeat behind—and not just the obvious places. He lingers at my neck, the curve of my hip, the small of my back. He turns me this way and that, finding every sensitive patch of skin and exploiting it without mercy. His fingers slip in and out of me, stroking all the sweetest spots, leaving me gasping.

Finally, he clamps his mouth over my hot, wet center, and I cry out his name as a stunning orgasm washes over me like a tidal wave. Swamped, I just lie there for a minute, catching my breath. Then I prop myself up on my elbows, look at him kneeling between my legs.

His size is a little daunting—but I’ve got a real can-do attitude, and I believe in quid pro quo. I sit up, bend forward, and take him in my mouth. He hisses in a breath and runs his hands over my hair, so gently I almost don’t feel them.

But I do feel them, and the restraint of it is so hot I could combust.

So I show him, with my hands and my mouth, that I can give as well as take, that his pleasure matters to me as much as my own.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls me up so we’re kneeling together, our faces so close that our breath mingles. His hands smooth my hair back from my face, then pull me in for a long, searching kiss.

When he pulls away and his eyes meet mine, every possibility hovers in the space between us. But there was only ever one place we were going to end up, I think.

So I reach over to the drawer of the bedside table for a condom—and he looks at it, lifts his eyes to mine.

I bite my lip. “That’s not going to be very comfortable, is it?”

“I didn’t want to be the one to say it,” he says. “I will if I have to … but hang on.”

The universe must have decided to smile on us for a change, because when he fishes his wallet out of his pants, there’s one in there.

Glory hallelujah, I think, closing my eyes and sending a heartfelt thank you to anyone who might be listening. It’s about time something went right around here.

His mouth captures mine again, and he kisses me like he’s drowning.

Then he moves over me, sliding his hands up my legs and spreading them wide for him. He presses his length into me slowly, opening me up, then tilting my hips so that he can go deeper still. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but I know I’m going to be feeling it even when we’re done.

I buck up against him, eager for more. Eager for all of him.

He stops for a moment, holds my hips still. “Give me a second, here,” he says. “I can’t believe how hot and tight you are. Just … give me a minute.”

And he leans over, kisses me deeply, slips his hand between us. His touch is sure and certain; his fingers stroke me to a fever pitch, and I feel another orgasm building. I tangle my fingers in his hair, kissing him fiercely. He pulls back and his eyes lock on mine; I wrap my legs around his waist and squeeze, pulling him into me.

He makes a noise low in his throat that jolts right through the center of me, and I’m nearly there again, my breath coming in gasps against his neck.

Then we are rocking together, his voice in my ear telling me how good I feel, how much he’s wanted me. I press up to meet him with every movement, wrap my legs around his and stretch against him.

“Jenna,” he says, lingering over my name.

“What?”

“Hold on,” he says and then, holding me tightly, rolls over so I’m on top with him still seated deep inside me. I sit up and look down at him, then look down at the spot where we’re joined together.

His gaze follows mine, and he hisses in another breath.

“Fuck,” he says. Just that, then again: “Oh, fuck.” He closes his eyes and lays his head back on the pillow. His hands are on my hips, showing me what he wants.

So that’s what I give him. There’s real power in this—in bringing a strong, clever man to helpless incoherence—and I revel in it, climbing higher and higher. A hard, hot need clenches low in my belly—like a knot, or a fist. It tightens when he moves his hands between us again, strokes me again.

I look down at him and his eyes are open now, locked on mine. He’s looking at me like I’m every answer to every question—and I’m gone, up over the edge, calling his name as he pulls my hips down, hard, and follows me over.

When the aftershocks subside, I collapse on top of him and lay my head on his chest.

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me up to kiss him again, his mouth toying with mine almost lazily, all tension gone. His other hand strokes my hip, my waist.

I put my head back on his chest and listen to his heart beating, strong and steady. It’s so nice, lying here. Feeling the sweat cooling on my skin, his hands on me. I might just stay here for a couple of years.

“Bathroom,” he says, and slides out from under me. He’s back in just few minutes, and when he climbs back into bed I curl against his side.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” I ask.

“I thought you weren’t going to let me.’

“That was before I found out you’re not a normal guy.” I poke his ribs. “Looks like it’s one and done for us.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I could make do if I had to, but it’s not ideal. I’ll buy every box at every Duane Read in Manhattan when I get back on Monday.”

“Well, that should hold us till maybe Thursday,” I say.

He grins at me—dimples, crinkles, the whole nine—and I think Monday can’t get here fast enough.

“I like the way you think.” He closes his eyes and I admire the way his long lashes lie against his cheek. “I assume that’s an alarm clock over there on your side?”

“Yeah.”

“Set it for five, please.”

I wince but I set it, then I make a quick trip to the bathroom. When I come back he’s pulled up the sheet and blankets from the foot of the bed to make a cozy nest for us.

I slide in and he slips an arm around my waist, pulling me tight against him. His chest is warm against my back, he somehow still smells fantastic, and my heart feels so full I think it might burst.

“Mitch?” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I was such a pain in your ass.”

“Me, too,” he says, and kisses my shoulder, “but you’re worth it. Now go to sleep.”

So I do.