Alex is in serious boob nuzzle mode. I almost expect him to do the whole motorboat thing. Fortunately, he doesn’t. He winds an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. At my slightly desperate whine, he shifts his hips.

What I’m about to do will make me a full-fledged hockey hooker. Whatever, it’s only for tonight. I’m resigned—and excited—as I try to slip my hand past his belt and into his pants.

“We could go to the bedroom, if you’d like.” Alex’s hands have migrated down the back of my jammie bottoms.

“The couch is good.”

“The bed’s more comfortable.” His lips move up my neck to my chin.

I’m sure it is, which is the problem. I know where this is going. I won’t say no to him. I’ve seen Alex play hockey; he has incredible stamina. The point is moot, but the denial makes my failed attempt at resistance seem less offensive.

He kisses me, soft and searching. Like gummy bears left out in the sun, I melt right into him. Finding the clasp on his belt, I slip it through the buckle.

He must think my actions mean I agree with his suggestion. He grips my ass firmly and stands. Locking my legs around his waist, I hurry to free a hand from his pants and clutch his shoulder.

This is really happening. Like, for real. At twenty-two, I’m going to have my first one-night stand. With a hockey player, no less. So much for good judgment. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

Alex sets me on the edge of the bed and flicks on the lamp. Of course he’s going for mood lighting. The soft glow magnifies the dips and curves of his body, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the bruise below his left eye.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know.” My voice trembles, excitement and nerves fusing.

I’ve always been a serial monogamist, waiting until the requisite fifth date or beyond to let a guy into my pants. It eliminated most potential mistakes. If the sex was decent, and so was the guy, I’d see where things went. Sometimes there were repeat performances, sometimes there weren’t.

I’m holding the waistband of his pants like there’s a pot of gold tucked inside. Letting go, I shimmy back on the bed, giving him enough space to join me. It’s a king; there’s plenty of room for frolicking. His eyes are low-lidded, his expression intense as he follows after me.

Fumbling and uncoordinated thanks to my loss of fine-motor function, I struggle to pop the button on his pants and pull down the zipper. Alex watches my hand disappear inside. It has to look good from his point of view. How can it not? Someone else’s hand in your pants is a winner of a situation. Soft, hot skin encases the hardest dick on the planet. It’s as solid as tungsten carbide. And there’s a lot of length.

I need to take a look at this thing. I push his pants over his hips, giving me room to check things out. Alex, being the helpful guy he is, takes them off the rest of the way, leaving him in a pair of boxers. I stick my hand back in, and when I finally manage to wrestle it free, my eyes are at risk of popping out of my head in visual-stimulus-induced fear.

First things first, Alex manscapes: there’s no 70s style dick fro going on down there. He’s not quite like my beaver—she sports only a short Mohawk—but he’s neat and tightly trimmed. I know some guys do this to make it appear bigger. In this instance, I’m positive I’m not gawking at an optical illusion. It’s huge.

Sometimes people exaggerate how big a guy’s dick is to make it seem better than it is. Like it’s clearly impossible for someone’s dick to be that big. This isn’t one of those times. Alex Waters is an aberration of cock.

“What is that?” The question is inane. But, honestly, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

Alex chuckles nervously. As is appropriate since I’m holding his dick and I’m clearly not sane.

“I mean, I know what it is. Obviously. Do you have some kind of . . . disorder? Like elephantiasis of the penis or something?” I did not say that out loud.

“It’s not that big.” His erection slides in my grip.

I can’t stop staring. My thumb and middle finger must have a good inch or more before they can meet. I squeeze to see if it helps bring them closer together. It doesn’t. What it does is make Alex groan, and that, oh holy monster of cock, is one hot noise. He’s also laughing, so it comes out all heavy with a snort thing at the end. It’s quite cute and endearing while also being sexy.

I finally look up to see if he’s serious. Bad idea. His arms are loose at his sides, head bowed, eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling. He’s staring at my hand. I’m so glad Charlene convinced me to get a manicure earlier this week.

Licking my lips, I glance at his cock. He’s uncut. This is a night full of firsts. The way the skin wrinkles with each stroke toward the head and smoothes back out as I reverse the motion is entrancing. I bet it’s fun to play with when it’s soft. I remember he’s said something which requires a response.

“This is like a porno dick. I realize it’s not like a foot long or anything, thank Christ. The girth alone is staggering. There’s no way . . .” Have I been deprived of oxygen? Am I seriously coming up with arguments against having sex and voicing them?

Instead of stopping, I continue like the head-trauma victim I am. “It’s like a person who wears an extra-extra-large shirt trying to fit into an extra-small. What the hell do you think happens to the shirt? The seams split, and they burst out of it like the Hulk. I can’t even imagine the tragedy if my beaver exploded.”