I turn around to face Nero, to see his face as best I can.

In the darkness, I can only see the gray gleam of his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks.

I have to feel my way to kiss him. I kiss him softly, tasting the salt on his lips.

“That wasn’t your fault,” I say.

I kiss him again. And then I repeat, “That wasn’t your fault, Nero.”

I’m hoping that after all the things I told him tonight, with total honesty, he’ll know I’m telling the truth right now.

For a moment he seems frozen, unable to respond to me.

Then he kisses me back, deeply and intensely.

All my senses are heightened to a fever pitch. I can feel his lashes tickling my cheek, his tongue tangled up with mine, his fingers thrust in my hair.

I’m cold, because the heat of the day is finally leeching away. I pull Nero’s shirt up over his head so I can run my hands over his warm flesh. I kiss his neck, I run my tongue down his throat, all the way down his chest.

I can taste the salt on his skin. It seems to burst against my tongue with visible sparks. The smoothness of his skin is incredible – it would almost be like a girl’s, except there’s nothing feminine about Nero. His energy is wild, angry, vengeful, animalistic . . . but never feminine.

Nero comes alive in response. He pulls down the top of my jumper and presses his bare chest against mine, holding me tight. Then he runs his hands over my breasts, feeling their shape without really being able to see them, as if he were blind.

“Fucking hell, Camille,” he groans. “Your body is unreal.”

I laugh. I can’t help it.

“You thought I was a boy under the coveralls?”

“No,” he growls, “I saw you that one day in the garage. I knew you were hiding the most gorgeous fucking breasts imaginable.”

He takes them in his mouth, flicking the nipples with his tongue until they harden to aching points of flesh. He sucks on them in turn, going back and forth between them as the sensation builds and builds in waves.

Now I realize why MDMA is called Ecstasy. The heightening of physical pleasure is acute and extreme. Even the smallest things become insanely pleasurable—Nero’s hand sliding down the outside of my arm, or his fingers twining in mine. Things that would already be sexual become near-orgasmic. I want him to suck on my breasts forever. It is so achingly good that all I can do is moan and writhe against him, grabbing the back of his head and pressing his face harder into my breasts.

Nero pulls the romper all the way down so I’m completely naked. Then he grabs me by the hips and buries his face in my pussy.

I’m not a virgin. I’ve hooked up with a couple guys before. But what I’m learning is that Nero possesses skills on an entirely different level. I thought that girls threw themselves at him for aesthetic reasons. What I didn’t know is that he’s a master of sex. It’s no wonder that women turn into desperate Ophelias when he moves on—after five minutes of this, I think I’m completely addicted. I don’t know how I’ll live without it.

He’s using his fingers, lips, and tongue in ways I never imagined. He’s gentle, yet intent. Seeking out all my most sensitive areas, then teasing and tormenting them until I could almost sob with pleasure. He’s licking my clit, the folds of my pussy, and even my ass.

When he ventures down there, I try to squirm away, but he holds me pinned with those big, strong hands, forcing me to let him put his tongue absolutely everywhere he wants to go. And that part of my body that I never even imagined as sexual, suddenly seems to be made of a thousand pleasure receptors, just waiting for the right kind of touch. It’s kinky and naughty and outrageously intimate.

He moves his tongue back up to my clit, using his fingers to apply just the slightest amount of pressure to my ass. He’s not penetrating me with his finger, just rubbing his thumb over that tight little bud, which has become as slick and wet as the rest of me. It intensifies all the other sensations, creating pleasure in an entirely new way.

He slides two fingers into my pussy, increasing the pressure of his tongue against my clit. I’m rolling my hips against his fingers and tongue, so wildly stimulated that I barely even have the breath to moan anymore.

I look up into the dark sky and I see much more than stars—I see streaks of light like a meteor shower. It’s like rain made of lightening. I don’t know if it’s real or imagined, and I can’t ask Nero because he’s more than busy. All I know is that the light seems to rush across the sky as the orgasm finally explodes inside of me. It’s an arc of bright white brilliance, so dazzling and intense that I could cry.

My legs are shaking, my whole body is shaking so hard that my teeth chatter together.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “What the fuck did you do to me . . .”

Nero is pulling my clothes back on my body, trying to find my sandals in the dark. He gets me entirely dressed again, before I think to say, “Don’t you want to keep going?”

“Of course I do,” he growls. “I feel like my cock is going to rip through my pants. But I’m not doing anything else until you’re sober.”

“I’m totally lucid!” I tell him.

“That’s not the same thing as sober.”

I try to kiss him again, but he stops me.

“Camille,” he says. “I want you. But not . . . not like I usually do. Not to just fuck and get off.”

Before, I would have thought that was an excuse. But I felt the way he kissed me, the way he touched my body. I know Nero wants me as badly as I want him.

He’s exercising self-control. Something I couldn’t do to save my life right now.

“I’m going to take you home. Tomorrow . . . if you want to call me . . .”

“I do,” I say.

“We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

I’m too limp to argue.

He half walks, half carries me back to his car.

And I let him take me home, my body and brain still flushed with pleasure.

18

Nero

Dropping Camille off back at her house is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I’ve almost never turned down sex. And definitely not from somebody I actually liked. But I never really liked anyone before.

It scares me.

I know how sex can twist emotions. How it causes pain and conflict.

For the first time, I actually feel a connection to a woman. I’m terrified that I’m going to fuck it up by acting like I always do. Terrified that I’ll destroy this fragile thing between us, like I destroy everything else.

God, Camille looks stunning. She’s dressed up in this cute little outfit that I know she must have put on for me. The fact that she did something so outside the norm, when she’s usually so practical and stubborn . . . it pricks at me.

And on top of that, it really suits her. The blue looks beautiful against her skin. She’s got this wild mane of curls, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen, and her eyes look bigger and darker than ever with her pupils dilated like a cat’s.

She’s lolling back against my car door, exposing her smooth brown throat and the tops of those luscious breasts. Fucking hell, I wish I could have seen them in the light.