I hardly notice when he settles me on the bed. I just know that our bodies are closer now. Closer is better. I push his shirt up, impatient with the layers of fabric between us, and he breaks the kiss to yank it off. Our mouths come back together like we can’t stand to be separated. I suppose that’s true, for now. I’m addicted to his kisses. And his taste, his scent, his skin. I slide my hands down his back, trailing my fingertips along his spine, luxuriating in the feel of him. When I encounter the waistband of his pants, I slip my fingers underneath and venture down, so I can fill my hands with the perfectly rounded globes of his ass. Instantly, I’m obsessed.

“You’re in trouble,” I say between kisses.

“Why?”

“Now that I know what you feel like, I won’t be able to stop touching you here. I’m going to do it all the time.” I’m being completely honest, so I don’t understand at first when he breaks out laughing, but I decide it is a little funny.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can tell he’s smiling from the timbre of his voice. “Touch me as much as you like.”

“Anywhere?” I ask, because I remember what happened last time.

He pauses for a moment, and then the bed shifts as he moves. I hear the zip as he undoes his pants and the thud when they hit the floor. It doesn’t make sense, but I feel intensely self-conscious as I pull my dress over my head, toss it aside, and remove my underclothes.

I shouldn’t feel this way. He can’t see me. I can’t even see me. But it’s like my mind still hasn’t accepted that the darkness is real. I’m waiting for someone to judge me, my body, my actions.

He stretches out next to me and pulls me toward him so our bodies are flush together, front to front, skin to skin. The rigid length of his sex burns against my pelvis, but I ignore it.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, running his hand up my leg and over my hip.

“So do you.” I touch his face, his neck, and rest my palm against the center of his chest. “I can feel your heart beating. It’s fast. Are you nervous?”

“A little,” he admits.

“Me, too.”

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

“No.”

Brushing his lips softly against mine, he whispers, “Should I stop talking and get back to kissing you then?”

“Yes, pl—”

His tongue strokes between my lips, and he kisses me with so much feeling that my toes curl. For ages, that’s all we do. We kiss until we can barely breathe. We touch each other, but our hands remain in safe places—arms, legs, stomachs, backs. Yes, I grab his butt because I’m an indecent woman, but I don’t have the nerve to do more than that after last time.

When I shift restlessly, his length slides between my thighs and rubs over my sex, and he groans against my neck as his body stiffens.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Breathing roughly, he nuzzles my neck and sucks on my earlobe before saying, “If I show you how I like to be touched, will you do the same?”

“Can’t I just touch you?”

He makes a frustrated growling sound and presses a hard kiss to my mouth. “I want us both to enjoy this.”

“I am.” Sex with Julian was work—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Because I was always trying to be something other than what I was. This is … something else.

“You know what I mean,” Quan says. “Talk to me, or show me, anything.”

“I can’t. I want to. For you. But I can’t. It’s embarrassing, and if anyone—”

“Anyone what? It’s just the two of us here, Anna.”

“I know, but …” I don’t finish. I don’t know how to explain.

“You want me. Unless I’m imagining things.”

“I do.” I turn my burning face away from him, but then I remember he can’t see and I feel silly.

He gathers me closer and kisses my temple. “I can’t leave you with lady blue balls. That’s shit-boyfriend territory.”

“That’s not a thing,” I say, unable to contain my amusement.

“It’s totally a thing. You just don’t notice because you have them constantly.”

“I really don’t.”

“How often do you touch yourself?” he whispers.

My face burns hotter, but I make myself answer, “I don’t know. I haven’t tracked it.”

“Once a day?”

“No.”

“Once a week?”

It takes me two tries before I manage to say, “Maybe.”

“When you do, do you touch here?” His fingers trail from my collarbones down to my breast, and he teases the nipple until it hardens into a tight peak.

My throat locks, taking away my ability to speak. Before I met him, I never touched my own breasts that way. But after he kissed me there, I did try to replicate the way he made me feel. I wasn’t successful.

“I guess I don’t need to ask. I already know you liked what I did last time.” He adjusts his body position slightly, and in the next instant, the heat of his mouth closes around my nipple. He sucks and strokes with his tongue, and I feel the draw deep inside. I can’t help the sound I make—half gasp, half moan. “You made that same sound. I fucking love that sound.” He switches to my other breast and mirrors his actions there. I try not to, but I make that sound again. I grasp at the bedsheets, clenching them tightly as I writhe beneath his mouth.

“I wish I knew how to get that sound when I touch you here.”

With that, he smooths a hand over my stomach, down to the curls between my legs. A finger eases between slick folds and circles my clitoris with languid motions. My breath tears, and my hips rise sharply against his hand. It’s so close to being what I need. So close. But still so far.

“Faster?” he asks in a low voice.

I can’t answer.

“Harder?”

I stare into the darkness, quietly raging against … everything. But mostly myself. Why am I like this? Why can’t I change? Why can’t I speak up?

“Should we stop, Anna?” he whispers.

My eyes flood with tears that slowly spill down my face and soak into the blankets. “I don’t want to stop.”

He’s silent for a long span of time before he captures one of my hands and kisses the knuckles, sucks on the tip of a finger before nipping at it, and then guides my hand between my thighs to my sex. “Let’s try this, then,” he whispers, maneuvering my fingers so they’re pressed against my most sensitive place. “I can’t see you. I won’t know what you’re doing. You don’t have to say a single thing.”

“Quan, I can’t—”

He silences me with an openmouthed kiss as his fingers sneak between mine and stroke my clitoris, trapping my hand beneath his as he touches me. Just like before, it’s so close to being what I need. But still so far.

Only this time, my fingers are right there, and the temptation to do as he suggested is nearly unbearable. I fight it. I try to do the good thing. I succeed.

For a while.

But the longer he kisses me, the greater the temptation grows. My hips push against his fingers, seeking the kind of caress that’s eluding me. He doesn’t give it to me. He can’t. He doesn’t know how. But my fingers are right there, and they’re impossibly slippery from the force of my need. Every muscle in my body draws tight as an A string.