I shake my head. “I do like poker, but I don’t want to do that. I think . . .” I do a status check, and my heart is finally beating normally. “I think I just needed to talk to you first. I feel better now.”

“We can talk all night if you want. I meant what I said last night. No regrets. No pressure.” He sweeps some hair off my shoulder, making me shudder. “Do you want to talk more now?”

The truth is . . . I do. Because talking to him settles me. This connection with Crosby is what I like. This is why I want to be with him tonight. My eyes drift down his body, taking him in again—his navy-blue Henley stretched snug across his firm pecs and showing off his strong biceps, his faded blue jeans fitting him just so, then finally his . . . corgis?

I peer at his purple socks, then up at him, arching one are you serious brow. “Are there corgi butts on your socks?”

He waggles a foot. “Why, yes, there are. These are my new lucky socks. Bought them today.”

I laugh, truly laugh, from deep within. “So a dog’s rear end? Those are your getting-lucky socks?”

He slides his foot up my leg. “What’s hotter than corgi butts?” he asks, his covered toe reaching my knee.

I laugh harder, pushing his foot away. “You really love your good-luck charms.”

“I’m a superstitious mofo.”

“So without the new socks, nothing would happen tonight?”

He slides his arms around my waist and shakes his head, the mood shifting, intensifying. “Honestly, Nadia, I just like socks a lot. They’re kind of my thing. And maybe the ritual makes me feel calm, makes me feel centered.”

“Do you feel calm right now?”

He licks his lips. “I feel certain.”

My body hums at his words, at his gaze, all possessive and open at the same time. “Certain about what?”

“About you,” he says, a husky sound that ignites a shiver of sparks down my spine.

“What about me?” I ask breathily.

“This.” He leans in close again, takes my face in his hands once more, and reconnects with my lips.

He’s torturously slow and deliberately gentle, like he’s kissing me in slow motion.

He flicks his tongue across my bottom lip, and I shudder. We’re talking full-body tremble here, pleasure spinning through my veins.

He’s achingly tender, kissing me like he’s luxuriating in every second, like he’s exploring my mouth in the most unhurried way. He slides his tongue across it, then nips on the corner, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

“Ohhh,” I moan, and the melting begins.

It starts as a warm, hazy sensation gliding over my skin. Then it becomes more intense with each brush of his lips, with each sensual graze of his mouth on mine.

I go boneless, my knees weakening even though I’m sitting, as he cups my face and kisses me like I’m the answer to every question.

His hands slide into my hair, his fingers tangling through the strands as he deepens the kiss.

And I deepen it right back, kissing him the way he kisses me.

Because he’s the answer too. He’s the answer to all my questions about sex, about intimacy.

Especially, maybe, about why I waited.

I waited for this.

This connection.

This sense that we’re the only ones in the world, that our kisses are all that exist.

That no one has ever touched the way we touch.

These are endless, floating, hungry kisses that become full-body experiences. Soon, he’s shifting, stretching me out on the couch, sliding next to me, taking me in his arms.

We don’t stop making out.

We go at each other’s mouths more intensely, breaths coming faster, legs wrapping around each other, bodies tangling.

His hard-on presses against my pelvis, and the feel of him sends a wild, erotic thrill whirling through me, settling between my legs.

Yes, I have officially melted in his arms.

And at long last, we break the kiss, coming up for air. His lips are red, and his eyes are shimmering with something more than desire.

Something wildly powerful.

Maybe the same thing I feel.

I grab his shirt collar and own this moment. “I’m not nervous. Not anymore.”

“So, the corgi butts worked,” he murmurs.

I laugh softly then run my hand over the back of his head, my fingers curling into his hair. “Crosby?”

“Yes?”

I gaze up at him, speaking from the heart. I don’t want games, or plus-ones. “You’re the one I want. I want this with you. You know that, right?”

A grin tugs at his lips, playful and happy.

Wildly happy.

“I do,” he whispers. “I do know that.”

“Good.” All those nerves are long gone, and I’m so here, so ready.

So sure.

“And I want it to be so good for you,” he says. “Do you know why?”

“Why?” I ask, feeling like we’re hovering on the edge of something new.

He’s quiet at first, then he licks his lips. “Because this doesn’t feel like just friends with benefits, Nadia,” he says, unexpectedly intense. “Not at all, not anymore.”

My breath hitches, and tingles light up my body from head to toe. But they aren’t just tingles from desire. They’re from my heart. From the possibility that he feels the exact same way.

My chest is glowing, my heart is squeezing. And the rest of me? The rest of me is wanting.

Craving.

I tug on his hair, dragging him closer. “I’m aching for you.”

His lips crook up. “Let me take care of that.”

He sits up and unbuttons my blouse, keeping his gaze pinned on me the whole time. “I want to taste you first, sweetheart,” he says, and I arch my back, arching into that new word.

Sweetheart.

I’m no longer Wild Girl, or Wild Woman.

I’m sweetheart, and the significance isn’t lost on me.

The affectionate name, the possessive tone.

“I want that.” I help him along, unbuttoning my jeans, unzipping them. “But I have to warn you about something.”

He shoots me a curious look as I shimmy down my jeans. “What’s that?”

I take a beat, smiling wickedly, because I might be virginal, but I’m not innocent. “I’m outrageously wet right now.”

The groan that falls from his lips is carnal, and somehow it makes me even wetter.

We’re a blur of clothes and nudity as he tugs off my jeans and I push down my lace panties.

He slides down the couch, moving to the end, kneeling between my thighs as he parts my legs and gazes at me like I’m his next meal.

And I am.

“Fuck, you’re soaked, sweetheart.”

I have nothing else to say.

Nor does he.

Talking is overrated when there’s this.

This man sliding his hands up my thighs then pressing the most decadent kiss to my center.

24

Crosby

The instant I brush my lips over her heat, she trembles.

And she moans.

It’s the most fantastic sound ever, the kind of ohhh that says her toes are curling.

Hell, maybe mine are too.

Because . . . my God.