‘Holy crap,’ she breathed. I swept her off the counter and carried her to my bed, laying her down in the centre and kissing her until she was breathless. I stripped off her sweater and she unbuttoned my shirt while I went back to kissing her. When I touched a finger to the zipper of her jeans, she said, ‘Yes.’

I told her I hadn’t tried this with anyone significant in a long time, and she misunderstood and thought I was telling her I hadn’t had sex with anyone. I almost laughed, but there was nothing funny. ‘Not with anyone I cared about or … knew,’ I amended. ‘One-time things. That’s all.’ I was worried she’d be disgusted by that. Three years with Kennedy Moore – pretty sure she’d been there with him. But I figured there was a good chance that he was it.

‘That’s all – ever?’

‘It’s not like there’ve been tons of them.’ I felt like I should cross my fingers behind my back. ‘There were more before, in high school, than there have been the past three years.’ That much was true.

Braced above her, I stared as she told me she wanted this. Wanted me. ‘Please don’t ask me to say stop,’ she added.

She didn’t need to worry about that. My only concern was taking this slow enough to please her. I wanted her to feel beautiful and desired and fully, intensely, thoroughly satisfied.

I tugged her jeans down her legs and off, allowing my eyes to graze over her lovely body while I stripped off my shirt and jeans. I swept my fingers over her, lightly – the swell of her br**sts above a lacy pink bra, the tiny oval hollow of her navel above the matching pink lace – and not much more – below. She was so incredibly hot, reaching for me, tracing the lines of my biceps and shoulders, palms sliding across my abs – her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

I grabbed a condom from the night table drawer, but when I resettled over her, she was shaking. I knew it wasn’t from cold, even if that’s where she placed the blame when I asked. She was tense, almost panicked, and I wasn’t sure why. I prayed it had more to do with inexperience than it did with what happened to her that night. Inexperience I could remedy. Dread or fear that summoned echoes of something as distressing as what happened to her – I wasn’t sure how to combat that.

I could stop. I could hold her. If her fear didn’t abate, that’s what I would do.

I sat back and pulled the covers down beneath her. The sheets were cool, increasing her shivering until I pulled the comforter back up and over both of us, laying on top of her, kissing her softly and warming her with my body. I felt her muscles loosen below my fingertips, her breaths coming faster, but deeper. I took her mouth slowly, gently, my hands cradling her head, coaxing her back to the heated state we’d been in when we left the kitchen. She snuggled under me, trusting, warm, relaxed.

‘Better?’ I asked, and she answered yes. ‘You know you can say it. But I’m not asking you to, this time.’

I bent to kiss her again, and she opened for me, tangling her tongue with mine, licking my lip, sucking lightly on the ring and pushing her fingers into my hair – holding my head at the exact angle she wanted me. When she scraped her short little nails from my shoulder blades to my hips, fingers dipping below the elastic of my boxer briefs as we kissed, I knew she was ready, but I kept the pace slow, intent on appeasing every desire she had. I unfastened her bra and removed it, slid her panties down her legs, removed my boxers and fixed the condom in place, and we never stopped kissing.

One hand at her hip, I leaned into her, opening her mouth with a deep, penetrating kiss as I thrust into her and remained just long enough for us to both feel the connection fully. Warm and tight, she was a perfect fit. Of course she was. I kissed her chin, her jaw, the edge of her hairline right next to her ear. ‘Beautiful girl,’ I murmured, withdrawing and returning. Stroking the interior of her mouth, I told her without words how I loved her.

She gasped, fingers pushing into my hair and gripping, sucking my tongue, coiling one leg round mine and bracing her opposite foot flat on the mattress so she could arch up to meet my thrusts as I began rocking into her.

I shuddered above her – so good, so good, moving with her, sliding my hand over her soft body, kneading and stroking. When I took her breast in my hand and bent to suck her nipple into my mouth, she murmured my name, writhing and whimpering softly, needing this, needing me.

I rolled on to my back, taking her with me, hands at her waist, pressing her down as I surged up, guiding her until she took over and set the tempo she required, knees pressed to my hips, arms trembling. Her hair tumbled all around us as my hands slipped to her thighs, and beneath the curtain of her silky, honeysuckle hair, I mapped the curves of her br**sts with my tongue, skimming the soft undersides, the full outer contours, the pectoral line down the centre. She hummed so deep in her throat that I felt it with my cheek pressed to her chest.

‘Come, Jacqueline,’ I whispered. ‘Come now, baby.’ She whimpered again, frustrated, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I rolled her under me, flattened her hands to the mattress on either side of her head, and thrust back into her.

‘Oh, God,’ she gasped, her fingers curling over mine. ‘Lucas,’ she moaned, her eyes closed.

‘I’m right here.’ I said, leaning to kiss her as she tightened and convulsed.

I followed, never more satisfied in my life.

I couldn’t see anything of her below her bare shoulder, cuddled beneath the comforter – though I could certainly feel her. She was warm and soft, folded in my arms, our legs tangled. I attempted to focus on the parts I could see – features I knew as well as the patterns embedded under my skin. I decided her eyes were my favourite. They were also the most difficult to capture on paper. Impossible, to illustrate the multihued facets and the way she looked at me. Or maybe her mouth … I touched her lips and she stared, waiting.

So unfair, how much I wanted her. I kissed her and peeled the covers to her waist. Men are visual, as are artists, so I doubled-down on the desire to see her bare skin. Goddamn, she was so very beautiful. ‘I want to sketch you like this,’ I said, struggling not to laugh when she asked, jokingly, if it would go on the wall. I would never get to sleep if I did that. I’d either have her in my bed, repeating what we’d just done, or I’d be using my very vivid imagination to imagine her there.

‘I’ve done several sketches of you that aren’t on the wall,’ I said. Oops.