If I ever had any doubts, Marshall buries them the moment his lips claim mine.

This is what I’ve been missing. This heat, the way he angles my head and silently commands me to give everything back to him and then do it all over again.

Marshall kisses like how he plays hockey—hard, smooth, and powerful.

I can feel that power coiled under my hands when I clasp his shoulders and hang on tight.

I feel it when his big hand clutches my thigh. I’m not a stick and my butt has been known to test every pair of jeans that I own, but Marshall’s palm spans the width of my thigh and when he squeezes . . . oh, my God.

Literally, that’s all I have for you.

Oh. My. God.

I think it when he skims his hand down my leg, wraps it around my ankle, and then positions the sole of my shoe on his knee.

I think it when I realize that he’s just put me on open display. My panties are wet and I’ve never been more thankful for dim lights in my life.

His kiss devours me, demanding entrance. I give it to him freely and am praised with the smooth stroke of his tongue against my own. Hard, needy, raw—and then the kiss turns languid, like we have all the time in the world to make up for the lost years where I was stupid and stubborn and a million other things I don’t care to think about right now.

He tears his mouth from mine to place a kiss to the leaping pulse just below my jaw. “Do you have any idea how much I craved this?” he demands in a gravel-pitched voice. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to know the taste of your lips? The way you felt under my fingers?”

At the contact of his fingers brushing my inner thigh, I’m not ashamed to say that I act like a complete hussy. I drop my knee to the seat in front of us, giving Marshall ample room should he want it.

And, oh boy, does he.

He cups the apex of my thighs, rubbing the heel of his palm in tight little circles against my clit.

Oh. My. God.

Marshall groans. “Fuck, I can already feel how wet you are for me.”

His name escapes me on a gasp, and I plant my elbow down on the armrest, leveraging myself upward so that I can see everything. I need to see him just as I need to feel him, and when he presses a single finger over my core, I nearly snap.

Please.

I don’t even realize that I’ve spoken out loud until Marshall is lifting my chin with his opposite hand, so that I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “Please, what?” Eyes narrowed, he looks exactly how I’ve seen him on the ice—he’s looking to score.

And I plan to let him.

Blunt fingers brush aside my underwear.

“Please, what, Gwen?” I feel the heat of his palm so close to where I need his touch. It makes me desperate, needy, and I lift my hips in the hope to close the difference and satisfy the ache between my legs.

“Marshall.”

His name is a plea and a prayer. He doesn’t answer the call—not the way I expect him to, anyway.

“Answer the question.” His free hand coasts up my body, brushing the tips of my breasts, and then curls around the back of my neck. “What do you want, Gwen? Do you want me to tear your panties right off you?” He doesn’t play fair, choosing that moment to sink a finger inside me.

My toes curl in my stilettos as I throw my head back against the headrest. I don’t know if I can do this. The sensations sparking through me are sharp, poignant, nothing like I’ve ever felt before. Every nerve is too sensitive; every breath I take too loud and too jagged.

Marshall’s thumb makes contact with my clit, eliciting a whimper from my lips.

“Is this what you want?” he asks roughly, playing my body like an instrument only he knows. “Or maybe it’s that you want something else completely?”

I feel his absence immediately. His hand pulls away from my core, and his other disappears from the back of my head. And then all I feel are his big hands at my hips, dragging me up onto the armrest that separates our two seats. I plant a hand on the back of the chair to stabilize my weight.

“Feet here,” he commands, and then proceeds to move me exactly how he wants me.

Hips tilted forward, one foot digging into the cushioned seat—I worry that my sharp heel will puncture the leather but Marshall doesn’t say a word about it. His seats, his rules. His—

Shripppp!

My mouth falls open. “You just ripped my underwear.”

Marshall grins wickedly. “Guilty.”

Like a white flag of surrender, he holds the fabric up and then tosses it over his shoulder.

Well, then.

“This is your fantasy?” I ask, trying my best not to tremble under the weight of his stare. My dress is hiked up to my stomach, and I don’t even want to contemplate the reality of how I look right now. Messy hair, smudged lipstick, I’m sure. But Marshall studies me like he’s never seen anyone more beautiful, and I . . . melt.

Literally.

My legs fall wide and I reach for him, silently demanding a kiss.

An unnamed emotion dances across his face as he meets me in the middle. His hands cup my face and mine go to his chest. He tastes like pie and sex, and there has never been a more singular flavor I wish I could bottle up and keep forever.

“This is my fantasy,” he whispers against my mouth.

He drops to his knees and his hands go to my thighs.

“As is this.”

The first brush of his lips against my clit is enough to make me see the colors of the rainbow. I make the most ridiculous sounds, and even if I wanted to, there’s no chance that I could stifle the whimpers and the moans.

His tongue traces a line downward, thrusting inside me without preamble. His groan echoes in my ears as I watch him. Eyes shut, he feasts on me like I’m the best meal he’s ever tasted—the one that has been kept from him for so long that he’s starving, almost unforgiving in his caresses.

My cries mingle with his groans, and it’s with a burst of embarrassment that I realize I’m practically humping his mouth.

I’d like to pretend that it’s because I haven’t had sex in almost a year.

But really, it’s the fact that I have never felt more loved than I do in this moment.

I palm his muscular shoulder. “Sex.”

How eloquent. I mentally smack myself in the forehead.

“What I meant to say is, please sex now.”

Because that’s any better?

Marshall chuckles against me, gives another swirl of his tongue in the most delicious way, and sits back. “Is this your fantasy or mine?”

His tone is nonchalant but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his gray eyes.

“Does it matter?” I ask, yanking on his shoulders so he’ll stand. When he does, my fingers go to the zipper of his jeans and I tug downward. Simultaneously, he makes quick work of his belt like we’re in a rush to the finish line, then shoves his jeans down the length of his powerful legs.

I know that I saw him on our video chat, but . . . wowza.

Who says wowza?

Obviously, when faced with the godliness of Marshall Hunt’s body, I do.

Wowza, wowza, wowza.

Andddd now all I can think about is Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.

“What’s so funny?” Marshall asks. “It’s bad form to laugh at a guy when he’s half-naked.”

That cuts my laughter real quick. I eye his shirt. “I wouldn’t be opposed to all naked.”

He gestures to my body. “After you, honey.”

He won’t hear a protest out of me. I fumble with the zipper of my dress, and tug that bad boy down, down, down until I’m shimmying out of the material completely and tossing it to the side. My bra is off in seconds.

I should be a lot more nervous than I am—but I just can’t find it in myself to be that way with Marshall, a guy who’s wanted me for years.

A guy, if I’m pushing for honesty, that I’ve secretly wanted in return.

I nod at him. “Your turn.”

In that hot-guy way, he hooks his shirt up and over his head. Every inch that’s revealed is ripped and gorgeous. Chiseled abs and rock-hard pecs. Huge biceps, and tattoos that line the length of his arms.

And, knowing that it’ll get to him, I murmur, “You’re so pretty, Marshall.”

He reacts as I expect him to—with a low-seated growl that sends wisps of excitement down my spine. Strong arms haul me upward, and then he’s dropping me onto the seat in front of us so that I sit on its cushioned back.

Marshall shoves his briefs down his legs, and his cock springs forth unapologetically. It’s big, just as I remember, with a thick crown.

I can’t help myself.

“Your cock’s even prettier,” I whisper, with a waggle of my brows just to show I’m teasing.

“The only pretty one around here is you,” he growls. His fingers find my heated flesh, thrusting inside and then hitting my G-spot. All in one go. Either Marshall is a bedroom genius or he simply knows how to work me to the very edge. “I’m going to fuck you until the only word you remember is my name.”

Um, yes please.

“Any last words?”

I grin, just a little evilly, as I tug his head down to whisper in his ear: “I hope I’m half as pretty as you when this is all over.”

He enters me a second later with a deep-seated thrust. He’s big, bigger than I expected. Or maybe it’s that it’s been so long for me. My hands find his arms and my nails bite into his skin and it feels so damn good that I don’t know whether to cry or tell him to get moving.

“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead pressed to mine, “a condom. I forgot—”

I’ve never been without one despite the fact that I’ve been on birth control since my teens. The men I’ve slept with . . . I refused to give them access to that last part of me. Having me without barriers wasn’t part of that dynamic. With Marshall, it’s different. With him, he asked for my heart—and I want to give him more than just that. I want him to have my trust, as well.

I kiss his cheek, stubbled with a five o’clock shadow. “I’m on the pill,” I say, wishing there was a less clinical way to put it, “and clean.”

“Same here.” His arms grow tighter around me. “Are you sure?”

I can tell it’s taking him every ounce of control to remain still.

My answering nod is jerky. “I’m good.”

He lifts his head to meet my gaze. “If you’re not now,” he murmurs, “you will be.”

As his hips pull back, his mouth finds mine. I will never get over kissing Marshall, not today or tomorrow or ten years from now. He pours every bit of emotion into his kiss. Right now, I taste his worry that he’s hurt me, his need to dominate, his desire to see me lose control.

When he thrusts forward the next time, my mouth parts on a gasp. Yes, yes, right there. Fingers grip my sides, holding me still, and then he changes the angle and I’m done for. With each pump of his hips, he slides against my clit.

The pressure heightens as his hips churn faster.

I lift my gaze to take in his handsome features. Tension lines his expression and his gray eyes burn bright with lust. Marshall is a king taking what’s his . . . and, in this moment, I’m his queen.

“More.” The cry is ripped from my soul, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for. More of his hard cock? More of our chemistry, which is off the charts wild? More of his affection?

Whatever I’m asking for, he gives it.

His hips slam into mine, hard and fast.

As promised from that night in Faneuil Hall, I come all over his cock, my head tipped back as his lips press feathery light kisses to my chin and my neck and my forehead. His orgasm follows seconds later, and he shouts my name like I belong to him.

“Holy shit.”

I don’t know which one of us says it. Maybe both of us.

With my forehead against his damp chest, I say, “Pretty sure if we had sex like that at an actual theater, we’d be arrested.”

“The perks of having your own theater.” He pauses, the silence drawing out until all I hear is our ragged breathing. “Not gonna lie, honey, you’ve ruined me. I don’t even think my legs are going to hold me up for another second.”

If he feels all wobbly the way I do, I don’t blame him. I pat his shoulder. “Sit your Jell-O legs down and take me with you.”

He wraps his arms around me and hoists me up into his embrace, bridal-style. He makes a move to sit, mutters “fucking armrest,” and then shifts over to the next seat.

I snuggle against his chest, my arms wrapped around his neck, as I inhale his scent and wonder if it’d be weird to ask for a shirt. Not to wear, just to . . . keep. Okay, yeah, that’s weird.

Marshall collapses as gently as possible with me in his arms.

I hear the distinct sound of metal clattering to the floor, and then—

“Fuck. Me.”

I jerk back to stare at him, only to find that his eyes are wide with panic.

“What?” I poke him in the chest. “What’s wrong?”

His gaze clashes with mine. “The pie.”

Um . . . “It was tasty, right?”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. “The pie”—he swallows audibly—“is underneath me.”

No. I lean to the side, blink a few times, and wish that our shadows weren’t throwing the entire seat into darkness. I glance back up at him. “Are you sure you’re sitting on the pie?”

His tongue sweeps over his bottom lip. “Yup. I’m going to need you to get up, Gwen. And to also never mention this again.”

“But—”

His gaze zeroes in on me, as though daring me to challenge him on this.

So I do.

“But how will we ever tell anyone about our first kiss then? It’s all part of the fantasy, after all.”

“All part of the . . .” he trails off, and I don’t have time to register the fact he’s pulled me up into his arms and plopped me down in his place until I hear a very loud squishhhh. Oh. My. God. He swallows my shriek with a kiss and a full-belly laugh.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers in my ear, “I’ll be sure to lick you all clean.”