But with Kate, kissing is a whole f**king event in and of itself. The way she tastes. The way she moans. The way her tongue slides against mine. It’s goddamn dizzying.

My hands come up to remove her coat, but she grabs them. And she pulls back, a little out of breath. “Wait. Not yet. I left work early today—to pick some things up. For you.”

“I got you something too. Can I go first?”

I like being first. It’s just how I am.

“Okay.”

I stand in front of her. Then I slowly unbutton my shirt, keeping eye contact the whole time.

Kate tries to guess. “Did you take strip-tease lessons?”

I smile. “No. But I’ll keep that in mind for next year.” My dress shirt hits the floor. I lift my white T-shirt over my head. And Kate’s hand rises to my chest and trails down my stomach. I back away and wag my finger. “Patience, Kate.”

She stomps her foot and pouts. And I want to tell her just where she can put those pouty lips. But I don’t. Gifts come first.

Then it’s our turn.

Ha—did you get that?

I turn to the side and remove the gauze bandage that covers my upper right bicep. And then she sees it. Her eyes glaze over, and her jaw goes slack.

And she whispers, “You got a tattoo…of my name?”

It’s a black whip—that spells out KATE.

I hope you weren’t thinking it was going to be an engagement ring or something. Screw that. In today’s day and age, rings don’t mean much. Ask any married man who frequents the titty bars—rings can be removed.

But a tattoo? That’s forever. Permanent—unless you like the idea of having several layers of skin scraped off.

Kate’s fingers slide around it disbelievingly. “I love it, Drew. It’s the most…amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me. I love you.”

I cup her cheek with my hand. “Not like I love you.”

She smiles for a moment. But then her expression changes. And she looks…disappointed.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…it’s just…you branded my name on your flesh. I guess I just feel a little stupid. All I got you were toys.”

My ears perk up. Like a dog hearing the rustle of his food bag.

“Toys? Would these toys be…naughty…in nature?”

Kate bites her lip. And nods.

Sweet Jesus. My mouth goes dry. “Can I…see them?”

Some guys aren’t into toys. Dildos—with their bells and whistles—can be intimidating. But not to me. I think of them as tools of the trade. Power tools, to be exact, and there’s no shame in using them. Even a master carpenter wouldn’t try to build a house without a handsaw and hammer, you know?

Kate takes a bag out of her purse. She reaches in and pulls out a short, velvet-tipped riding crop.

And my c**k comes alive like Frankenstein’s monster.

For all you ladies out there? Take notes. Sex toys are the ultimate gift. Fun for the whole family. Okay, not really. But they’re definitely the gift that keeps on giving.

She hands it to me. “Remember a few weeks ago? In the living room when you…you know…with your hand?”

My voice is breathless. “Yeah.”

Of course I remember. You might not know it looking at her, but deep down, Kate is a total c**k tease. She likes to push me to the edge—see me snap. And on that particular day, she’d been taunting me all morning, walking around braless in a barely-there tank top and underwear. At one point, she sat on my lap and wiggled around.

Then she hopped off claiming she didn’t have time to finish what she’d started because she had work to do.

And I lost it. I pulled her back, threw her across my thighs and spanked her.

Like the naughty girl she was. Wasn’t anything to write The Story of O about—just a few short slaps to the ass. But it was fun.

Kate smiles shyly. “I liked it.”

Oh, baby—she wasn’t the only one.

Kate reaches back into the bag from heaven. And pulls out a small silver cylinder.

It’s a vibrator. It almost looks like one of those practical-joke electric buzzer things we all had when we were kids. She hands it over.

“It’s called a—”

“Bullet,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I know.” I stare at it. And images of Kate writhing under me—bordering on the brink of insanity and begging to come—fill my head.

My voice comes out rough, but worshipful. “You are the most awesome girlfriend ever.”

I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. And it’s long and slow and appreciative.

Kate pulls back and smiles big. “There’s one more thing. I saved the best for last.”

She slides the belt of her coat slowly from the loops and grips the lapels with both hands. Then, in one fluid motion, she drops the jacket to the floor.

And I almost come on the spot.

Lots of women think lingerie is the magic ingredient of seduction. They buy something lacey and expensive and expect us guys to be drooling into our frigging laps. But it doesn’t really work that way.

At Christmas, for example, when you see a big, brightly wrapped package under the tree with your name on it, you’re interested. But it’s not the wrapping paper you’re looking forward to. It’s the present inside. Lingerie works the same way. It’s nice—but naked is always better.

Except for this.

This is the wet dream of every man born after 1975.