I lost my nerve.

There was a moment there, after Archer told me his life story, that we were gazing into each other’s eyes, and I thought about kissing him—for real, not a stage kiss to impress one of my sisters. I wanted to somehow let him know that he was so much more than just a pretty face and a hot body. God knows he was plenty of both, but he’s also smart and self-reliant and determined. His past makes me sad, but it also makes me admire him.

But at the last moment, I chickened out, afraid of getting a let’s-be-friends speech, or worse, that he’d think I was just another well-heeled woman after some easy companionship

So we left the tree house.

It’s not until we’re almost back at the house that I realize Archer’s been holding my hand the entire time, even though there hasn’t been anyone to see us. I tell myself it just means that we’re friends, that he trusts me and likes me … Could it mean more?

“How about a swim?” he suggests. “I’m pretty hot.”

In more ways than one. How about you just take me upstairs, and …

“Okay.” I bring my mind back to reality. “I’ll go get changed.”

A little while later, I’m floating lazily, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on my face and the cool water around my body.

Archer slides into the water beside me with a satisfied grunt. He swims a few strokes then stretches in the water. He’s so at ease in that long, strong body of his—and why wouldn’t he be? He's beautiful.

Archer catches me staring at him, and I blink away, embarrassed, but he gives me a sly smile. “C’mere,” he orders, swimming around to the far side of the dock, the one most sheltered from the house.

I swim after him. “What?”

He smiles at me, then holding on to a railing with one hand, he wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me closer. My breath catches. I can feel his whole body pressed up against mine, his long, lean legs against my thighs and his muscular abs against my stomach. He’s holding me up so that I don’t have to sink my feet into the silty mud at the bottom.

Surprised, I wrap my arms around his strong, wet shoulders for balance, relishing the excuse to feel his bare skin under my hands. Heat curls in my belly, my heart beats in my throat, and I stare at him in surprise.

I’m hoping, praying, that he’ll kiss me, but instead he dips his head and presses his lips to my neck. I swallow as he trails his mouth down my throat to my shoulder, which he kisses, and gently bites, and kisses again.

The hormones are in full-on revolt once again. It’s all I can do not to wrap my legs around his waist and beg him to take me right there in the water. Stupid one-piece bathing suit, I think.

“Who’s watching?” I choke out in a whisper.

In answer, he brings his mouth to mine, and for the first time in my life, I experience a kiss that is both completely dominating and perfectly gentle. It’s seductive and sweet and powerful, and I melt into it forever before he breaks softly away.

“No one’s watching,” he whispers. “This is just for us.”

Much later, we have dinner. Carina, a vegetarian, has cooked an amazing array of dishes that include quinoa-stuffed red peppers, spinach polenta with a creamy basil sauce, and a heart-of-romaine salad. It’s delicious, and the tastes and the textures, even the colors, seem enhanced. The electric energy from this morning is back, buzzing and sparking with every breath I take, and every sensation is heightened.

My make-out session with Archer at the dock lasted both an eternity and a moment. Given the barest encouragement, I probably would have slipped out of my floral bathing suit, planted my feet in the mud, and gone all the way right there, but he was a gentleman, never pressing his advantage below my collarbone.

Which didn’t mean I hadn’t felt his hardness pressed up against the soft flesh of my belly. He wanted me too, and the knowledge that a god like Archer could desire me—short, button-nosed, unglamorous me—sent an extra thrill through me whenever our eyes met.

Somehow, without discussing it, we've reached an agreement. We want each other and we're going to have each other. I want the anticipation to last forever … and I want to run upstairs with Archer then and there.

Dinner lasts ages. Then there is the usual evening of cards, and conversation, and that damn puzzle. Finally—finally!—my parents drift off to bed. After waiting what I hope is a decorous amount of time, I fake a yawn, declare that I'm tired, say goodnight to my sisters, and take Archer’s hand as I lead him to our room, Carina’s and Brianna’s sly smiles following us.

No sooner have I closed the door of our room behind us when Archer presses me up against it, his lips crushing down on mine, his tongue parting my lips impatiently, his hands pulling my blouse out of the waistband of my skirt.

“We can’t make too much noise,” I whisper, afraid that my entire family will hear us once we give in to our rising temptations, and then deciding that I might be able to live with that if we can just please get going.

“That’s going to be hard,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But I like a challenge.”

He picks me up and my legs wrap around his waist of their own accord. His fingers press into my bottom, his hardness into my sweet spot. With me still wrapped around him, he carries me to the bed where he lays me down gently, my head sinking into what was, just last night, our chastity pillow. The lamplight casts a warm glow on his face and his eyes are dark with desire. I smile at him, and for a moment, I think a shadow crosses his expression, but he lowers his mouth to mine and all other thoughts are driven out of my head by the exquisite weight of his body fully against mine.

I tug at his t-shirt and he responds by pulling it over his head. I run my hands over his bare chest, relishing the feeling of his jeans against my legs, bare where my short skirt has ridden up. Archer’s skin is silky but the muscles beneath it are like iron, and I think I could spend the rest of my life just touching him. I lean up and run my tongue over one powerful pectoral muscle. He groans, and I feel him grow harder against my thigh, but he presses me down again.

“Slowly, sweetheart. I want this to be all for you.”

No, I think. I want to give him as much pleasure as I can, I want to touch every part of him, kiss and explore each gorgeous inch of skin, become intimate with his hands, his face, his legs, his chest, his everything.

But he’s unbuttoning my blouse and opening it, and tracing his fingers over the lace of my bra, and I’m losing my mind, and then he lowers his mouth to one nipple and even through the lace, the hot, wet feel of his mouth elicits a high-pitched gasp that I hardly recognize as coming from me.

“Oh!” I moan. “Oh, please …”

“Arch your back for me, sweetheart,” he orders, and I do. Behind me, his fingers fumble with the clasp of my bra and then it’s gone and I’m bare-breasted beneath him.

He lowers his mouth to my breast again, pulling slowly, gently, and my nipples, which were hard before, respond by becoming almost painfully tight.

I whimper.

He begins to explore. His tongue trails white-hot flames across my skin, and his fingers stroke and pinch and pull, and his mouth leaves tiny bites everywhere it touches.

Somehow he gets my skirt off, and I’m down to nothing but a small pair of panties, the nicest ones I’ve brought with me. He traces one finger like a snake from my collarbone, between my breasts, down my belly and finally, excruciatingly, he circles my sweet spot through the fabric of my panties.

I’m so wound up by now that I want to cry and scream and explode all at once. I half sit up and fumble at the waistband of his jeans. I can see him straining through the fabric and long to release him, but he shakes his head and gently removes my hand.

“Not yet, babe,” he says and gently pushes me back again. “Just lie there and enjoy.” He grips my panties on either side of my hips and begins to pull them down slowly, an exquisite torture.

Finally, they’re off, and I’m naked. I should feel vulnerable, but instead I feel like I might combust. He slowly draws one finger through my folds, and this time, skin to skin, I can’t repress a sob of frustration.

“What are you waiting for?” I groan. “I’m so ready.”

He smiles darkly at me. “I can tell,” he says, slipping first one, then two fingers inside me. I press against him, my hands fisting the sheets.

“I want you inside me.” My voice is low and hoarse. I’ve never been this forward with a man … but then, I’ve never wanted one this badly.

“We’ll get to that,” he promises, “but first I want to see you come.”

Without warning, he thrusts his fingers into me, hard, again and again, his thumb grazing my clitoris, the heat building, until I’m only barely holding back the screams that threaten to let the entire house know what we’re doing.

Finally the pressure releases in an explosion of pleasure so exquisite it’s almost painful. I choke back my shouts and fall into a mumble of incoherent words and phrases in a desperate attempt to let him know how amazing, how wonderful, how incredible he is.

I’m lying in his arms and he’s holding me tight as I calm down and get my breath back. Gently, he kisses my forehead, a gesture that goes straight to my heart.

I'm dying to ask him what he's feeling, what he’s thinking, where this passion and affection have suddenly come from, but I retain just enough sense to keep those thoughts to myself. I know better than to ruin the moment with a bunch of questions that I might not want an answer to. There will be time to sort out what this means—if it means anything—later.

For now, I just want to live in the present and make the most of it.

“Your turn,” I whisper, running a hand down that beautifully sculpted chest to the waistband of his jeans where I tug at the button.

His eyes are dark with desire, but I can sense hesitation in him.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

Are you kidding? I barely keep from rolling my eyes. “Yes, I'm sure. I want to feel you inside me, and I want to know that you're having at least as much fun as I am.”

He still looks doubtful.

“What's wrong?” I ask, a hint of unease running down my spine. Is he doing this because he feels sorry for me, poor little Annabelle who can't get a decent date? Or because he feels like he needs to hold up his end of our bargain? That he doesn't really want to have sex with me at all?

He’s silent for a moment. Then, “You’re not a virgin, are you?” he asks.

I breathe out a sigh of relief mingled with exasperation, roll my eyes and shake my head. Maybe I should be offended that he thinks I'm that inexperienced, but I'm mostly relieved that that's what seems to be holding him back. “Tommy Lipstein, remember?” I cock my head at him. “Is that what you're worried about?”

“A little,” he replies, not quite meeting my eyes. “You seem so innocent.”

“I’m not that innocent,” I insist. “I’ve slept with lots of guys.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How many?”

I pause as if taking time to count. “ … At least … three.”

The corners of his mouth start to curl. “So, does that mean I’ll be number four?”

I smile at him. “The point is, I have tons of experience. Let me show you.”

I sit up and push him onto his back, not missing the opportunity to run my hands across his shoulders. I don't think I could ever get tired of touching this man—or having him touch me. I swing one leg over him, straddling him, and press my center to the hard bulge in his jeans, the rough denim against my soft flesh igniting my desire all over again.

Naked and shameless, I rock against him, watching his expression become less ambivalent with every movement. I shift so that I can unzip him, and I free what is really a magnificent specimen of manhood.

I let out a little moan of delight. “Tell me you have a condom,” I whisper.

He nods and makes a vague gesture toward the side of the bed. “I put one in the bedside table drawer earlier,” he says, his voice hoarse, “just in case. Get it and put it on me.”

I find the idea of being ordered around by this man strangely exciting, but I'm still in control—for now.

“Not yet,” I say, peeling away his jeans and box shorts until he's as naked as I am. Then I lick my lips, scoot down and take him in my mouth.

“You don't have to do that,” he says, though I can tell it costs him some effort to say the words.

I look up. “I want to,” I say. “You like it, don't you?” For emphasis, I run my tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip.

He makes a groaning noise. “God, yes …”

I giggle. “Good. I want to make you happy.”

He surrenders to my ministrations, and I kiss, suck, lick and tease until he’s the one fisting the sheets and groaning. Suddenly he pushes me away and flips me onto my back.

The chastity pillow takes on a new life as he pushes it beneath my hips, angling me toward him. I’m completely exposed, but I feel shameless and wanton and excited about it.

Archer, kneeling between my legs, retrieves the condom from the night table and swiftly sheathes himself. “You’re sure about this?” he whispers. “Tell me you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Hurry up!” I half giggle, half gasp.

He enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust to his girth. It takes only a few strokes for me to realize why he’s placed the pillow where it is; the angle gives him perfect access to my g-spot. I didn’t think I’d be able to climax again after that first orgasm, but it’s not long before the heat is building all over again.

I wrap my legs around Archer’s waist and surrender myself. His mouth caresses my throat, my lips, my shoulders. His hand toys agonizingly with my breast before sliding down to the apex of my legs to stroke my clitoris. I feel his muscles ripple under his damp skin, taste his sweat on my lips. I’ve been reduced to something elemental. Both needy and powerful, I’m an incoherent, moaning incarnation of desire. I’m no longer myself.

And yet I don’t think I’ve ever been so fully, completely me.

“Oh God, baby girl, you make me want to shout out loud,” Archer groans softly in my ear. “When I get you back to LA, I want to find a soundproof room where we can both make all the noise we want.”

The image is erotic, but it’s the sentiment—he wants to see me again after we go home!—that pushes me over the edge. It’s like diving off a cliff only to find yourself being pulled upward into the sun. The very air around me seems to shimmer. I bite my lip to hold back a scream, and shatter.