“Feels so good,” I say.

“Feels amazing.”

“You’re so fucking wet.”

“You’re so fucking hard.”

I laugh lightly as I thrust. “Guess we got the basics down.”

She laughs, too, and, impossibly, that turns me on more, how easy the talking still is. How messing around hasn’t changed a thing between us. We’re still the same people.

“Think you can come again?” I don’t want to be presumptuous. Maybe she’s a one-and-done.

“God, I hope so,” she says in a broken pant. “Think you can get me there?”

I love a good challenge. “I know so,” I answer, then slide my thumb between us, rubbing her sweet clit as I stroke in and out.

“Oh God,” she gasps. She drops her hands to my waist and slides her fingers up my back, under my T-shirt. “Yes, yes, yes,” she says in my ear, urging me on.

I fuck, and I rub, and I focus on her. She is the center of my world.

A bead of sweat falls down my forehead. She raises her face, brushes her lips over my eyebrow, and kisses it off. That gesture sends an electric charge through me. She moans, and I’m so worked up that I know I’ll be coming soon, and it will be epic. A jolt of pleasure rockets down my spine, then ripples across all my bones.

“Need to get you there,” I moan, rubbing her clit, feeling her slickness on my thumb and all the fuck over my cock.

“So close, Wyatt. I’m so close. Keep doing that. Please,” she begs, her voice hoarse, as if she’s been screaming at a rock concert or on a rollercoaster.

And I realize that’s what we are tonight. We fuck like a rock song. We screw like a wild ride that twists and turns. We are edge-of-the-seat lovers.

I jab into her with fast and powerful thrusts.

“Like that,” she moans, as my thumb rubs furious circles on her clit and my cock gets to know the inside of her even better, reaching her G-spot.

She drags her nails down my back. Holy shit. She’s digging in. She’s scratching me. I can barely control how much I want to let go.

But she goes first, and she just detonates. She explodes with a bang, writhing and wriggling and falling apart with a loud “oh God, oh God, oh God.” She drops her face onto my shoulder, muffling her moans.

But I can hear her—her sexy murmurs, her relentless cries of pleasure, and her groans of my name, again and again.

Like the chorus to that rock song.

It’s just an oh god, over and over and over, but it’s more than enough for me to blast off, too. My balls tighten, my neck goes tense, and I groan. I’m louder than I want to be, but I can’t control the rumble that falls from my lips. “Gonna come,” I warn, and those words turn into grunts and curses as I drive deep one last time, coming hard inside her on a pinball machine somewhere in the storage room at an arcade in a Vegas hotel.

I pant and breathe out hard. She loops her arms around my neck. The after-effects of epic pleasure hum in my bones. Damn, this is a fucking awesome night. And it’s only just begun.

“You’re a loud one,” she says, smiling at me.

I shrug. “Loud is good.”

She nods. “It is.” She sighs contentedly and plays with the ends of my hair. “We’re good together,” she says softly, and her words take root deep inside me. They feel right. They feel true.

“Yeah, we are,” I whisper. “And there’s more where that came from tonight.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” she says, then her lips curve up. “What’s next on the agenda of Wyatt and Natalie’s Excellent Adventure in Vegas?”

I stroke my chin, thinking. Then it comes to me. “I’ve got just the thing to show you.”

11

We top off on the way out of the hotel. A double round of shots for both of us keeps the night shimmering in a fine coat of a it-just-gets-better-and-better buzz.

Though, it’s not just the smooth taste of Casa Noble going down that makes me feel so damn good. It’s Natalie’s hand in my back pocket as we leave New York-New York. It’s the way she squeezes my ass as we walk along the Strip. It’s how she runs her other hand through my hair while we chat.

She can’t stop touching me, and it’s fantastic. “You’re quite the frisky mittens,” I tell her as we stop at a crowded crosswalk, waiting in the throngs of tourists taking in the city of sin.

Running her fingers across the front of my T-shirt, she says, “And I get the impression you like me so . . . hands on.”

“Guilty as charged.” I cover her fingers with mine and drag them down my abs as far as the top of my jeans.

By the time we reach the fountains at the Bellagio, I’ve surpassed all ordinary levels of turned-on to the point that I’m mildly grateful we have something to do besides touch. If she keeps up at this rate, I’m not sure how I won’t be arrested for public fornication in a few minutes.

Public decency is so overrated.

I gesture grandly to the lake. “I believe this was on your Vegas Sites to See list.”

She parks her palms on the railing, bouncing on her toes as she waits for the aqua extravaganza to begin. “I’ve wanted to see the water show here ever since I read a book that has a scene where the hero gets the heroine off in front of the railing.”

Well, that’s not helping my situation south of the border. “Is that your way of telling me something, Frisky Mittens?”