All mine.

I sit up and kiss him instead, needing the anchor of his embrace.

“You’re such a good kisser,” he says.

I bark out a really mood-shattering laugh. “I am no such thing.”

“If I say you’re a good kisser, then you are, Carrie. You’re not the judge of your own kissing ability.”

“But I — ” I frown. “Okay. That’s some strong logic. Fair enough. What makes me a good kisser?”

“You kiss like you mean it.”

“Explain, please. Because I don’t know what that means, but then again, half my brain exploded with that orgasm you gave me with your thigh.” Did I really just say that? Oh, God. If I could smother myself with one of these twenty-seven decorative pillows, I would.

“I gave you an orgasm with my thigh.” He looks at the body part in question the way some guys look at power tools.

“And a little help from your tongue and fingers.”

“They played a supporting role?”

“You could say that.”

“My tongue would like the opportunity to play the lead.”

“That can be arranged,” I respond, my voice suddenly a thousand miles away as he kisses his way from the spot between my breasts down my belly.

“Wait until you see the orgasms I can give you with other body parts of mine. But tongue first.”

“Is it hot in here? I’m feeling dizzy. And hot.”

“You’re hot all right. Hot and sweet and I need to taste you. Now.”

I’ve never been so aware of my own breath, of how my body and my mind work together. Reaching down, I cover Ryan’s hand at my hip, taking in the feel of the back of his hand, the thick muscle of his palm, the simple majesty of the size of his masculine hands. He retreats, respectfully, and I jut one hip up, making it easier to slip out of my panties, sliding them down and over my thigh-highs.

Now I’m naked. Naked, in heels and stockings, with my best friend on top of me, eyes dark with desire, broad chest expanding with every hushed breath, the room thick with anticipation.

Somehow, the silence is comfortable. It shouldn’t be. Two Carries are at war inside me, one fumbling and awkward, the other deliberate and yearning. No man has ever treated my body the way Ryan is right now, with an expression of worship, a gentle, slow absorption that makes me wonder how I’ve lived for so many years without knowing that a man can look at me like this.

A woman could bathe in this kind of attention forever, floating in bliss, enveloped by the high regard of a lover who is here, fully, to enjoy and be enjoyed.

All my internal weirdness drains out of me, fading into the shadows as if it’s been told to step down, told to go back and rest. Heal. Recover from years of being on guard for a battle that never ends.

In Ryan’s eyes I see a warrior, a peacekeeper, a general with reinforcements.

A benevolent king.

His eyes tell me I am a queen.

His queen.

As he bends toward me, one hand stroking my ribs, his mouth descends over my breast, tongue circling my nipple with tight, wet heat. It feels so good, my belly moving as I begin to breathe, excitement infusing everything. With hesitation, I reach down and run my fingers through his hair, enjoying his touch at the same time I keep thinking, This is Ryan!

He slides up my body, kissing all the way, until his hard heat presses over me like a protective forcefield, his mouth taking mine in a kiss that makes me think Oh, yes.

This is Ryan.

I run my hands across his shoulders, fingertips brushing along the big, built joints, covered with fine muscle that feels so smooth yet so calibrated, honed through effort. He is raw power in motion, a gentle giant with my body as he breaks the kiss and moves down, down between my breasts, over my navel, kissing his way to that line of no return where his hands smoothly part my thighs and his face, oh, his face is between my legs and he’s about to —

“You don’t have to do that!” I gasp, my hands on my breasts, frozen. I want to reach for his head but he’s right there, breathing warm fire on my vulnerable, wet clit, which throbs so hard, pulling toward him, wanting what he’s about to give but terrified of the unknown.

“I – what?” Ryan kisses the inside of each thigh, drawing out his moves, moving up to my torso and staring right into my eyes.

“You don’t, you know. Have to do, um, that.”

“Do what, Carrie?”

I wave in the vague direction of my screaming, throbbing sex parts. “You know.”

“Say it.”

A new wave of wet warmth rushes between my legs. His voice is commanding, soft and urgent, with a steel tone that makes me feel like I’m a student in the hands of the ultimate master.

“Erm?” I squeak.

“Tell me what you don’t want me to do, Carrie. Tell me,” he says between taking mouthfuls of my nipple, “what you don’t want. Because I don’t think you can.”

“You don’t think I can tell you what I don’t want?”

“I think you want everything I’m about to do to you. With you. In you.”

THIS IS RYAN!

“I just mean, um, I know guys don’t really like to do, um, that.”

“That?”

“You know. Oral sex.”

“You think guys don’t like to lick you. To taste you. To slip their tongue between your legs and bury themselves in your sweetness?” He reaches down and uses his thumb to perform magic between my legs. Pure magic.

All the heat in my body rushes to my face, breasts, and clit. All of it. My organs turn to ice and my blood has fled to Argentina.

“Um, well.” Words escape me. They all went to South America, too, along with most of my brain.

Ryan pauses. My body sputters, hips moving up to catch his touch again. “Carrie, who told you that?” His words are so soft, so skeptical. A little angry.

“What?”

“Who told you men don’t like to do this?” He crawls down my body, shoving my legs apart fast, putting my knees up and heels on the bed. A blast of chilled air hits my exposed vulva and he dips his head between my legs, giving me one beautiful, perfect lick that makes me arch up, body begging for more.

Self-consciousness wars with the desire to let go, to follow Ryan’s lead, to actually believe what he’s saying.

“Carrie? Answer me.” He’s looking at me from between my legs, confident and bare, intent on hearing my answer. I can’t get out of this, his eyes say.