Silence.

“I’m not going to have sex with you, Penn.”

“Why’s that?”

“You have a girlfriend.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“But you do.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Huh?” I let out a nervous laugh, but it stops between his fingers pressed against my throat. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t really get into it right now but think about it for a second. Am I with her? Do I go to her? Do you see us talking on the phone? Shooting the shit? Hanging out? Have I ever talked about her? Brought her over? Adriana is not my girlfriend.”

So you just knocked her up. Sweet.

“Ever watch Lady and the Tramp?” He drags the tip of his nose along mine, trying to distract me from whatever’s in my head.

“Y…yeah?”

“Remember the spaghetti scene?”

“I think so.”

“Who was the one to pull away from the kiss, Lady or Tramp?”

I search my brain for the answer, but it’s been years since I’ve watched it. Honestly, it wasn’t one of my favorite movies. I always wondered what a royal bitch would find in a dirty stray. But I know now. Oh, I know very well why girls of pedigree love the mutts. They’re forbidden. Exciting. And taming them is a challenge no silver-spooned princess can turn down.

“I think she pulled away,” I say. “Lady.”

“Ding, ding, ding. Ten points.”

“What is the point?” I swallow as his knee digs between my thighs, pressing at my clit, spreading delicious pressure all over my sensitive area.

“You never pull away when I kiss you.” He still holds my gaze.

“I don’t?”

He shakes my head, looking down at me, his longish hair falling across his eye.

“You want me,” he says simply.

I snort. “Jesus, you are conceited.”

He leans in until our noses touch again. His hand is still wrapped around my throat. He squeezes it lightly as his tongue brushes from the base of my chin all the way to my forehead, where he kisses my hairline.

“Tell me you don’t want to fuck me as much as I want to fuck you, you screwed-up, messed-in-the-head, gorgeous girl with skulls in her eyes,” he whispers hotly, his free hand traveling over my thigh, up my skirt, his callused finger pads grazing my bikini line. My throat bobs against his hand.

“Tell me you don’t want me to push my finger into you and make you come.”

“I don’t want you to…” I start, but then his hand skims between my legs, and I shudder. My eyes are at half-mast, and I can barely see what’s happening. I spread my thighs wider for him. He said he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Why should I hold back?

“Finish the sentence,” he commands.

I look the other way, closing my eyes. It is humiliating to admit that I want him to do all those things to me, and he is not even my boyfriend. He’s not even my friend. Penn slips his hand into my bikini and flicks my clit with his thumb, groaning when he touches it. He shifts a little on top of me to press his cock against my thigh. It’s hot and hard even through his jeans.

I buck my hips to meet his touch, but he still doesn’t kiss me. It’s when I wince a second before an orgasm washes through me—my whole body a tense knot of muscles and red, hot pleasure—that he presses his thumb against my clit hard and slides his middle finger into me. And I’m wet. So wet. So embarrassingly wet for my foster brother. And now some time has passed, and I realize that it’s what Penn has really become. A family of sort. I’m sleeping with someone who’s supposed to be my relative. Giving my virginity to someone I should feel brotherly feelings toward.

Marx help me.

His lips are on my ear now, his toffee-hued hair all over both our faces. Our foreheads are sticking together with warm sweat. We are heaving, in sync.

“Tell me not to kiss the shit out of you.”

When I remain silent, his lips crash on mine. I’m still buzzing from the orgasm he gave me when he fingered me. He doesn’t know that I’m a virgin. Not yet. But he is about to.

I pull away from him, breaking the kiss. “Tell me you don’t want all my firsts,” I challenge.

His jade eyes search mine for clues. I move my groin to meet his erection, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Tell me you don’t want to take my virginity,” I rasp.

His eyes snap open. I know that despite his initial shock, he believes me. So many guys didn’t believe me when I told them I was a virgin, so I stopped telling people. There was no point in trying to convince my friends. They didn’t want to listen.

I press my hips to his again, and we meet like a perfect puzzle.

His cheeks are so pink, his face is so beautiful, and I am so beyond screwed.

“Tell me that you don’t,” I whisper.

“But I do.” His forehead crumples in anguish. “There’s nothing I want more than every single thing you have to give.”

Closing my eyes, I inhale as he reaches into his back pocket for a condom. It’s not romantic. Or intimate. Or perfect. But it’s us. Two dirty kids in a forest where no one can see or find us. Penn retrieves the condom and kicks his pants to his ankles. As he rolls the condom on, he asks me if I’m sure.