“Not yet,” he said, and nodded to her chemise. “Continue. Everything but my wristwatch,” he added with a wicked curl of his lips.

They held each other’s gaze for several beats.

She would be naked; he would not.

He wanted control; she would give it to him.

Her tongue was heavy in her mouth. In two quick motions, she tugged down her chemise’s straps and removed the last bit of silk covering her body, and then kicked it away and stood in front of him.

His eyes took their time looking her over as he stepped closer and lightly, delicately ran the tip of his middle finger from the center of her collarbone down between her breasts, and didn’t stop until he’d circled her belly button. Her breath came faster.

“Leng,” he murmured. Beautiful. “I must have thought of your body a thousand times since that afternoon I saw you in the fitting room mirror. Maybe ten thousand. But memory is a poor substitute for the real thing, and you were right. You’ve changed . . . here,” he said, running his fingers over the slopes of her shoulders to show her. “And here”—over the flare of her hips—“and here.” His palms cupped her bare breasts.

She inhaled sharply and bowed her back as he rolled her nipples between index finger and thumb. It was too much and not enough, and she was very aware of the wetness surging between her legs. Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he bent low and replaced his fingers with the suction of his mouth. The flick of his tongue. The gentle scrape of his teeth. First one nipple, then the next.

If what he’d previously done to her earlobe had been wicked, this was positively satanic. Her fingers dug into his hair. Her hips swayed forward. But when she rose up on her tiptoes, he took one last lick and released her. Cool air rushed over the puckered tips so fast, the sensation bordered on painful.

She whimpered and tried to draw him back, but he made a clucking sound with his tongue and pulled her hands between them while he waited for her to submit. Then he gave her another command.

“Finish undressing me.”

She glanced at his open belt buckle and took a deep breath. The buttons of his pants were a struggle until she gave up on delicacy and pulled them open with force, gaze locked with his as she did. He looked back at her with a barely restrained wildness that was dark and hungry and vibrating with delight. She’d never seen him look like that. Ever. And she loved it. With one last pop of a button, she got his fly open and tugged everything down over his hips and looked at what she’d revealed.

The ridges of his stomach dipped over lean hips. The trail of black hair she’d touched in the darkened car trailed down to a cock that stood long and proud, curving upward from wiry black curls. It was thicker around the base and a darker shade than the rest of his skin, and she was astonished, and possibly a little bit intimidated. She was no expert by any means, but she reasoned the matter wasn’t much different from evaluating a finely made gown; she knew quality when she saw it.

“Stars,” she murmured.

He chuckled low and deep. “Pretty good, I think.”

“It’s impressive.”

“It’s yours. Go on and claim it, huli jing.”

Delight surged through her when he said that. She hesitated, just for a moment, but long enough for him to guide her hand forward with his. Her fingers wrapped around him. He was shockingly warm and silky, heavy in her hand. She stroked upward and saw his stomach muscles flinch. Stroked downward and pulled back the foreskin to reveal a glistening dark pink tip, beaded with fluid.

He sucked in a sharp breath and shivered. She glanced up to see his head tilted back, eyes shut. A thrill shot through her, and she continued stroking him, slowly. While she did, Bo’s hand wrapped around the back of her neck and kneaded her tense muscles. Just that—just him touching her while she touched him—seemed to complete an electrical circuit between them. To put things in motion that couldn’t be undone.

Bo’s hands ran down her back, fingers splayed. He rounded over her backside and palmed her with a slow, proprietary squeeze. Then he reached a little farther. Warm fingers slid beneath her buttocks and between her legs, dipping into the wetness there and stroking.

“You do want me,” he murmured, equal parts smug and surprised.

She couldn’t answer, because his roaming fingers slid away, only to be replaced by another hand in front. Skimming damp curls, he traced her swollen flesh, making lazy rotations until one finger dove through and found her clitoris, brushed it, testing. A touch like a whisper. The pleasure this caused was an avalanche that made her lose track of her strokes on him and weakened her knees. They wobbled a little and then gave out completely; she might have fallen to the floor if Bo hadn’t sensed it in time and slung an arm around her waist.

She grabbed his hips and fell against him. And with her breasts pushed to the solid wall of his chest, his hot erection trapped between them, he urged her backward, repeating, “I’ve got you.”

A single bed was pushed against the cottage’s outer wall, beneath the band of windows overlooking the ocean. The mattress was thin; the blanket, tucked military tight around it, was old and worn. Bo pushed the pillow aside as they sank into it together, his mouth covering hers. His kiss was achingly soft. Erotic. And all at once nakedly hungry. If she was hot before, she was burning now. His hands drifted over her with abandon while his knee wedged between hers. She needed no urging. Her legs parted shamelessly, and this time, when his fingers found her center, his stroke wasn’t experimental, but sure and steady. He touched her like she touched herself when she thought about him too much before sleep. He touched her like he’d had all the time in the world to imagine how it might best be done. He touched her like it was his own body, and he was pleasing himself.