I don’t wait for him to speak, I take him. I was drunk before, and I might be drunk still, but I know what I want.

I wanted it before tonight. This pulsing, warm feeling that’s only satisfied with one thing: touch. It’s blinding need that hums in me. Something hot and eager that can’t be sedated. He opened me up earlier, his hands gripping my waist, his erection hard against my thigh. I want to feel that desire again.

To feel him again. Maybe to prove that I can do this—have a normal relationship, prove I don’t have to spend the rest of my life alone, prove that I can heal. Even if I have to fight with every breath not to fall into those wrong thoughts. I can refuse to act on them. Ignore the echo. I have to. Because I don’t know what else to do. This hot-edged feeling I have for Dean won’t be satisfied any other way.

I want him.

I grip onto his shirt and pull him down to me.

“Ella.” My name is a twist of emotion. Desire and warmth, but it’s also mixed with hesitation.

I force my hand to release his shirt and step back. The room is nearly dark, and all I can see are the edges of him. Muscled shoulders that run down into strong forearms. Hair tousled—probably from my hands. I can hear his breath, feel his presence. Feel his need. It’s almost sharper than my own.

“Ella,” he says my name again, softer this time. “What’s forty-eight minus twelve?”

“Thirty-six.” I reach out and smooth my fingers down his shirt, trying my best not to grab it this time. Maybe I was a bit too... demanding. “Why are we doing math?”

“I don’t know.” His voice deepens at my touch. “I thought it might clue me in to your state of mind.”

I step closer, my hand on his chest as my guide to where he stands. I want to see him, but the dark gives me confidence too.

“You mean if I’m drunk or not?” I find the bottom of his shirt and slide my hand underneath. He jumps at my touch, my fingers following the lines of his abs. And the dusting of hair across them. He’s so strong and steady, like how he stood balanced on the gunwale. As if there is nothing in the world that can knock him off his feet.

“That and other things.” He lets out a weighted breath as I trace up his stomach, flattening my hand against his sternum. I spread my fingers, feeling the muscles of his pecs against my thumb and pinky. His heart beating against my palm. The coin on his necklace rests on the back of my hand. He stands so still, as if waiting.

I know what I want. And I can control the voices inside of me. They’ve been under control all night, and I can keep them there.

“I-I want to try something.” I pull up his shirt, bringing it up until he takes it from me. He slips it off, throwing it to the side. I reach up and run my hands along the tops of his shoulders, stopping where his collarbone cuts across like the spine of a kite. “Will you let me?”

“Yes.” His voice is low and certain, and my whole body lights at the word.

“Step back?” I shake my head. I didn’t want it as a question, but that’s how it came out. Maybe because I’m nervous, and slightly confused with my thoughts bouncing around so much.

But he steps back, guided by my hand pushing against his chest. I push him back to the wall, and let out a breath.

“Put your palms flat against the wall on either side of you.”

His chest moves as his forearms turn. The outlines of him remain so still—except for those deep breaths. My eyes have started to adjust to the dark, and I can see more and more of him with each passing moment. The coin glints in the low light. I trace the tattooed rope that winds over his shoulder. It meanders over his heart and then drops along his side to end in an anchor that covers his ribcage. I trace the pattern, and he lets out a low groan that lights another round of desire in me, heating my core, and I react. I step forward and tiptoe to press my lips hard against his.

One of his hands moves to my hip, and I take his wrist and push his palm against the wall.

“No,” I order. “Don’t take your hands off the wall.”

Oh. No. Did I just say that?

I squint at Dean, trying to read his expression. His lips are slightly parted, and his eyes flash. But not with anger. With something else. The same thing that flashed when I was kissing him earlier.

He’s taut, restrained. He’s taller and stronger than me. He could push off from the wall and step around me. I wouldn’t stop him. But he doesn’t. He stays locked, staring down at me with that heated gaze, and I have the desire to reward him. It’s the strangest thing—it pulses through me, this desire to reward.

I crash into him, tasting the edge of his jaw, my mouth simmering down his neck and across that collarbone to his sternum. His breathing is erratic, a groan winding out as I lick across his chest, my hand moving from flesh to fabric, rubbing over his erection. He’s hard against my palm, and his hips pitch forward. I stroke him through his pants—hard and quick, and his head knocks back against the wall.

He’s vibrating with tension. His hands locked on the wall at his sides. The sound of his desire falling from his lips. I tear at the top button on his pants, ripping it open and sliding my hands beneath the fabric. He’s warm in my hand—no boxers—just hard and thick, and I leave little bites down his chest and stomach, light bites that seem to harden him even more with each brush of my teeth, as I fall to my knees and tug down his pants.

“Ella.” My name’s a mangled whisper. I look up to see him staring down at me, jaw clenched, gaze so hot that I can practically feel it. I can tell he wants to touch me, but I’m not done with him yet. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” I say. But my mouth waters for him. Him listening, flattening himself against the wall, trusting me. It’s woken feelings I didn’t even know that I had. Desires that were buried and forgotten. He brings my desires to life.

He brings me to life.

This confused girl who was always trying to fit into this box, but knowing that I never quite fit. Here, on my knees before him, I’ve never felt so solid and certain.

I smile, and then still looking up to see the change in his expression, I lick a slow circle around his head, watching as his eyes widen and then drop to a half-hooded gaze.

“That feels so good.” He’s forcing the words out, not breathing.

Just when he starts to breathe out again, I take him into my mouth. Every part of him ripples, and his hands lift off the wall for a moment, but then they return. I taste him—feeling the weight of him against my tongue, and he groans, thrusting himself into my mouth so hard that I have to lean back.

“Fuck,” he whispers as he slips from my mouth. “Sorry. Fuck.”

But I smile because his eagerness only gives me more confidence, and I’m already taking him again. Worshiping the way he tastes, the way he moves with me. His groans as my hand comes up to wrap around his shaft because he’s too big to take all the way into my mouth. I build him up, and then slow him down. I make him wait, straining against the wall.

I’m on my knees before him, but I’ve never been more in control of anyone. I control every breath, every groan. I tempt him with my rhythm. When he’s pressed to the end of his ability to take it—tension zapping through every muscle in his body, I give him what he wants. I increase my pace, responding to his thrusts. Taking him as deep as I can. Listening to every sound he makes, and I build him higher. His hands fly off the wall as he starts to come, but I don’t tell him to stop this time. He grabs the back of my head—but softly. Not as if he’s trying to get me to take him deeper, but just as if he wants to hold on to me. Then with a last grunt, he arches against the wall, breaking eye contact for only a moment before his blue eyes find mine again. He surges through me, and I take all of him, greedy for his taste and for the feel of his release. The abatement of his desire.

But his gaze is still heated as I kiss up toward his stomach, licking across his abs and up to his chest. His breathing slowly returns to something more regular, but still deep. He’s twitching and still hard.

I lean against him, my legs shaky. “You can move now,” I say into his neck.

He clears his throat. “No, I’m pretty sure I can’t.”

I settle my cheek against his shoulder and feel the rise and fall of his chest and the warm satisfaction of what we did. Which doesn’t make sense since he never even touched me. In the few times I’ve tried to be with guys in the past, I squeezed my eyes shut while they finished doing whatever they did so that I didn’t say or do the wrong thing. I’d never had this contentment sitting in me like I have right now.

“I’ve never done that before,” I admit to his shoulder. Never let myself do it.

He emits a surprised chuckle. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” We’re both aware of that, but I like that he said the words. “I’d like to do it again sometime. A lot of sometimes, if you’ll let me.”

“It’s going to be pretty difficult for me, but I guess I’ll let you do that again.” He laughs as his hands wrap around my waist, pulling me tight against the solid length of him.

I peek up at him. “So, it was okay? I mean, what I told you to do. It was…”

“Ella.” He tips my chin up toward him. “No one has ever done anything like that for me. It was sexy and surprising and exhilarating. And the only thing I really want right now is to put you on the bed and do the same.”

“I…” Nervous energy seems to come from nowhere and everywhere. I lick my lips, and I can still taste him. Then I hear myself. Crap, I’m humming one of those lullabies. I cut it off, but not before his gaze falls to my lips. His face shadowed in the dim light, his fingers press lightly under my chin, asking me to look up at him.

This was a first step. A good first step. But I already want more. What if I push him too far? What if he gets up and walks out of this room?

I don’t think I could handle that. I step away from him.

“Hey.” He leans down to place a soft kiss against the corner of my mouth. “It’s probably three in the morning. Let’s just sleep.” He pulls me toward the bed and tucks me against him. Warm and solid and close. Like being tucked in one of those small spaces I like so much. And so, so safe.