His arms close around me, and I feel his hands smooth up and down my back, before gripping my hips and pulling me close, onto my tiptoes. I gasp into his kiss as his hardness settles into the cradle of my thighs. Inside, I clench with a pure wanting. I’ve had sex hundreds of times, more probably, but I’ve never ached for it like this. I can’t quite grasp why everything is different now.

My back meets the cushions of the couch, and Quan settles against me, kissing my mouth, my jaw. “You still with me?” he asks against my neck, and shivers race down my spine.

I can’t talk, so I run my hands down his chest until I find the hem of his shirt and pull it up. His eyes meet mine for a burning second before he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the ground.

Thought fails me as I touch shaking fingers to the lean muscles of his abdomen, push my palms up to his wide chest. He’s scalding hot, but smooth, starkly masculine. I can feel his heart beating, his lungs rising and falling. The sight of my unmarked skin against the dense designs inked onto him mesmerizes me. There are crashing black waves with intricate detail like in a Japanese watercolor painting, a water dragon, wide-sailed ships. I trace my fingertips along the calligraphy that continues from his neck down one side of his chest, ending beneath his ribs. I want to know the story written in his skin, but I suspect it’s too personal to be shared with me.

Hidden in the waves by his right hip, my fingers find … a small octopus, and I draw in a sharp breath and gaze at him in wonder. “You have …”

He grins. “That’s the tattoo you want to talk about? Out of all of them?”

“Is it the one from the documentary?”

“Nah,” he says, smiling wider before he kisses my neck. “I got that one a long time ago. I like the ocean and sea creatures and things.”

“Are octo—” His lips part, and the wet heat of his mouth sears my skin. I forget what I was talking about. All I know is the feel of his lips, his tongue, his teeth. I arch closer to him, unable to control the sounds coming from my throat.

The front of my dress falls open as he kisses his way to my collarbones and down to the edge of my bra. Instead of going through the work of undoing the clasps in back, he yanks it down, baring my breasts to the cool air for an instant before he sucks my nipple into his mouth. My entire being tightens in response, my stomach, my core, between my thighs.

“You’re really good at that,” I hear myself say, my surprise evident in the wondering tone of my voice.

He releases my nipple from his mouth, and a knowing smile touches his lips. Watching me, he licks the hardened tip, nuzzles the underside of my breast, and takes a tiny bite, sending a starburst of sensation washing over me in a red haze before he soothes me with his warm palm. He kisses his way to my other breast and teases me. He blows on my nipple, licks it lightly, pinches it with his fingertips, and then he takes me into his mouth and draws with exquisite pressure.

I cling to him, alternately gasping and hissing through my teeth as he caresses me with his hands and mouth. It turns out I am absolutely crazy about breast play. I had no clue.

When our lips meet again, I kiss him with abandon, tangling my tongue with his as I touch him everywhere my hands can reach. His chest, his shoulders, the broad expanse of his back, his head. His closely buzzed hair scrapes against my palms in the most interesting way.

He shifts against me, pulling my thigh up along his side, and rolls his hips. I feel him, hard where I’m soft, and I know what’s coming. The good part of sex is ending, and the not-so-good part is starting. I don’t mind, though. This has been the best sex of my life.

I expect him to sit back and remove our underwear so we can get things moving, but he doesn’t. He continues kissing me, touching me. One hand cups my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. With his other hand, he strokes my thigh, my butt, squeezes it.

“What do you like, Anna?” he whispers.

When I stare at him, completely stunned by the question, he works his hand between us and eases his fingers beneath the waistband of my underwear. I catch my breath when his fingertips slip through my folds and explore me with languid strokes. I’m wet, extremely so, and that’s unusual for me. When Julian and I have sex, it’s uncomfortable for both of us until my body eventually warms up and self-lubricates, but even then, I’m not like this.

He trails his mouth to my ear and asks, “How about this?”

I don’t know what he means until he begins circling my clitoris in slow, gentle circles. It feels … almost good. So close to good. If he would just—

His slippery fingertips shift and rub directly over me as he nips my ear. A moan escapes my throat—that bite, I don’t know why I like it so much, but I do—and he continues the same motion with his fingers, which, again, is almost good. I hide my face against his neck as he strokes me. It’s arousing. I get wetter. But it’s not what I need.

“Anna,” he asks, teasing a finger into me just the barest bit. “How do you like to be touched?”

I press my face tighter to his neck. I want to be the kind of woman who can boldly tell a man how she likes to have her sex touched. But I can’t answer him. Someone could threaten to kill me right now, and I still couldn’t answer. I wish he just knew. Why don’t men just know?

His finger pushes deeper into me, and I arch into the penetration, surprised when he slides in with little resistance.

“More?” he asks, and a second finger works into me gradually.

I love the sensation as my body stretches to accept him. It’s decadent and unbearably sexy, but it isn’t long before the pleasure ebbs. When he strokes his fingers in and out and curls them, touching me deep inside, it’s nice. But that’s it. Just nice.

Clinging to him tightly, unable to look at him, I whisper, “I’m ready now.”

“Ready for what?” he asks.

“Ready for you.”

ELEVEN

Quan

IF THERE WAS ANY QUESTION WHETHER OR NOT THINGS WERE in working condition, it’s definitely answered now. My cock is so hard I hurt. She’s soft and tight against my fingers, drenching me, and I want inside her.

“Is that what it takes for you to come?” I ask, breathing kisses into her hair because her face is hidden from me.

Instead of answering, she hugs me tighter and burrows closer, and feelings of tenderness nearly overwhelm me.

“Anna?”

Silence. At this point, the first shreds of worry creep into my mind.

“Can you talk to me? Did I do something wrong? If I did, just tell me, and I’ll fix it. I want this to be good for you.” That’s important to me, maybe more important now than it’s ever been in the past.

“Can’t we just … keep going?” she asks without looking at me. She runs her hand down my arm and then presses on my hand that’s between her thighs, undulates against it, so my fingers push deeper into her. Fuck, that’s hot. “This is fine.”

Fine? I don’t want sex with me to be fine. I try to ease her away from my neck, so I can see her face. “Will that be—”

She presses her mouth to mine before I can finish the question, and hell if I don’t respond. I could kiss her for hours, just kissing, nothing else. Her mouth is perfect, her tongue, those breathless sounds she makes.