My breaths are violent jerks sucked in by necessity and pushed out by a wild beast in my chest. I’m completely naked except for the cotton of my underwear, and I relish the scratch of the denim on the soft skin of my thighs, but I want to feel him. The warmth, the skin, the tickle of hair. While his mouth plays along my neck, to my collarbone, and over the top swell of my breast, I slip my fingers between our bodies, unfasten his jeans, and work them as far as I can down his hips. I feel the rumbling groan in his chest before I hear it. He rocks his hips forward, making me gasp sharply when he presses himself—now only in his boxers—directly against my clit.

Oliver bends to move his mouth up my neck in a hot trail of teeth and lips. “Holy fuck, Lola—”

He cuts himself off when his mouth finds mine already open and searching for his, and I know the second I taste him that we’re skipping the slow exploration. His lips are soft and strong, sliding with mine so urgently we quickly grow messy—teeth grazing and chins captured in the hunger of it.

Want hits me like the lash of a whip, propelled by adrenaline. I grip the back of his neck, urging him to kiss me harder, to touch me. The sound I make when his thumb slides across my nipple is nearly one of pain; it pulls every nerve ending into a tight bunch, stroking me into fire, and he does it again, and again, in small, pressing circles. My heart pounds beneath his hand as he holds me there for his mouth and bends, sucking wetly . . . biting sharply . . . and his hips press forward and back, pushing himself right up against my clit until I’m scratching at his shoulders trying to get his weight to push me into the mattress, push my legs farther apart, push into me.

I tickle my fingers down his stomach, feeling both frantic and terrified.

“Yeah. Touch me,” he begs into my open mouth.

I slip my hand inside and gasp at the warmth. He’s urgent in my grip and exactly how I imagined he would feel: silken skin wrapped tight around iron and fire. Oliver’s face falls in relief as I stroke him, gently slipping his foreskin down and up, over the crown, and he begins to move, forward and back, lips distracted and hungry over mine.

The last eight months have been the slowest, most torturous foreplay, and there’s a fever beneath my skin that makes me impatient, lets me release him only long enough to push his boxers down far enough for him to kick them and his jeans the rest of the way off.

He’s unable to remain still over me, stubbly jaw razing across my sensitive nipples as he kisses down my ribs, under my arm, teeth scraping over my bicep as he rocks into my hand.

He fumbles between us, pulling my underwear down so I can free one leg and then his fingers are there, sliding over and into me and it’s like being plugged into the solar system, everything inside me is light and fire, and I’m squirming under him to get there because, already, I’m close. I want to know what he feels, how he feels when he’s touching me and I’m there, too, one finger twisted around his and he laughs into a kiss, telling me how amazing it is. How can he find words when I’m completely speechless? His thumb grazes my clit again and again and I’m so swollen and desperate and pushing up off the bed so he can reach deeper with his forever-long fingers. His cock brushes against our hands and then he shifts his hips and moves our fingers out of the way and then it’s there, closer, and with a tiny synchronized catch in our breath he’s pushing forward and he slides into me.

“Lola. Oh fuck me. Oh fuck me.”

And it turns to frenzy.

not just moving but

it’s Oliver and he’s inside me already

and he’s moving so deep in and out, groaning into my neck.

Oliver plants his knees into the mattress and moves—there is nothing but sound in the darkness around us: the headboard slams against the wall, the hinges of the bed groan in protest. He’s grunting in my ear because it’s work, fucking me like this: fast and messy. His fingers slip over my chin and my mouth and he’s following with his tongue, licking my taste from my skin.

We’re laughing into kisses because it’s good—it’s so good—and my hands are everywhere between us: his chest and hips and stomach and the base of his cock. Somewhere deep down I knew it would be like this, I did. In the corners where I let myself imagine being close to anyone in this way, it was him. Always the fantasy had a flash of dark hair tucked into my neck, long fingers wrapped around my hip, his mouth curved into a knowing smile when I start to come—

My words are cut off by pleasure. Smoke runs through my veins, hot and weightless until I feel like I’m floating, grappling for him with hands and nails, begging with unintelligible sounds to keep doing whatever he’s doing that’s already so good, so good, please, I’m screaming under him, so loud I hear the echo bounce sharply back to me.

Pleasure fills every limb until I’m mindless and I’m melting, burning, dissolving into relief.

His rhythm is frantic through my orgasm but as soon as I quiet, choking for air, he’s jerking back and pulling out so abruptly I feel immediately hollow.

“Fuck,” he gasps, sitting back on his heels with his chest heaving as he wipes a hand down his face. He bends, tucking his chin to his chest as he takes several gasping breaths.