“Fuck,” Monroe breathed. “I knew you were going to kill me, but jeezus. You look . . . wow.”

Monroe steps into my space again, claiming my waist with those big hands of his, and I’m no longer out there alone and self-conscious. The heated look on his face says he approves. No, not just approves. Fully endorses. He lets his hands drift down over my ass and draws me against him.

“You have way too many clothes on,” I declare.

He smiles and kisses along my collarbone. “Patience.”

But when he lifts his head, he reaches back and tugs his T-shirt over his head. And damn, the view’s even better than I expected. I could totally leave the quarter-bouncing up to him. I take my fill, my gaze tracing over all that bare skin and smooth muscle. The guy is beautiful. Like art. And the ink is even more stunning without clothing in the way. The tattooed arms are the showpiece as they give way to a mostly unmarked chest—but the small bluebird that seems to be flying away from a branch inked on his shoulder captures my full attention. I reach out and run my fingers over it, fascinated for some reason. He presses his hand over mine and smiles.

I want to ask if the bird has any meaning to him, but he’s kissing me again and I sort of forget about conversation. Tattoo analysis can wait. Especially when those long, calloused fingers have unhooked my bra and are caressing me beneath it, tugging and teasing. I reach between us and unfasten his jeans. He makes a sound that seems like relief, and I smile into the kiss as I dip my hand inside his fly.

I wrap my hand around his warmth, and we both make dirty sounds simultaneously: him because I’m sure it feels good, and me because my body clenches everywhere, the need punching through me like a fist. I curse under my breath, the desire almost too much to process. I’m no virgin, but I can’t remember ever feeling this all-consuming need to have someone.

Monroe lowers down my body, trailing kisses along the way, and shoves my bra all the way off to take one of my nipples into his mouth. I grip his shoulders hard and electricity runs right from the point of the connection straight down, where I’ve gone wet and warm and desperate.

He gives the other side the same sensual treatment, and then he’s gripping my waist and guiding me to the bed. He gives me a gentle shove, and I fall onto the mattress with a bounce. When I start to scoot back to get farther up on the bed, he grabs my ankle and drags me forward. “Not quite yet, princess. I’m not done tasting.”

“Oh.” It’s a dumb response, but I’m not capable of much more. Not when he’s lowering to his knees and slipping my panties down my legs. The strip of red lace is swept away with a flick of his wrist, and I’m spread out before him with nowhere to hide. But the anxiety doesn’t have time to fully form because he’s stroking my thighs and kissing a path upward and making me forget my name. All I can think is—yes, yes, yes. I don’t know what my name is, but that’s his new name—Yes. And when his mouth finally reaches its destination, pleasuring me in a way that has my fingers curling into the sheets, the world seems to disintegrate around me. There’s only his tongue and his lips and the decadent sensation of being consumed one nibble and lick at a time by a man who knows what he’s doing.

Monroe doesn’t rush anything. This isn’t a duty. A step in the checklist. Not like with Caleb, who seemed to think this part of the sex procedure was cumbersome and only for special occasions. This is a man who relishes this privilege.

His lips tease my hot button, making my hips tilt upward, and he slides his finger inside me. It glides in easily, my body clamping around him. I feel like I’ve been aroused for hours. Ever since that first kiss, it’s like my body has been on standby, just waiting—hoping that this would be at the end of the journey. He moves with easy confidence, stroking inside me with one and then two fingers. I feel the pressure building low and fast.

Oh, shit. No, this is too fast. I’m not ready for it to be over yet.

Use your words. But I’m having trouble finding the right ones. “Monroe, wait, I’m going to—”

He pauses for a moment. “I know, princess. That’s the point.”

“But I don’t want it to be done.”

He gazes up at me, lips glistening with my arousal as they curl into a wicked smile. He looks obscene and so fucking gorgeous I can’t stand it. “Over? Not even close, princess. This is just the first one.”

“The first?”

But he’s dipping his head down again and his fingers are curling inside me, rubbing at the perfect spot. I can’t speak anymore. I can’t think. All I can do is feel. Monroe. I go over, losing the battle.

My back arches off the bed, and my fingers lock in his hair. I cry out like a crazy person, the sensations fanning out like the waves of a bomb blast. I can’t even try to be demure or sexy about it. I just freaking lose it. I’m calling his name. I’m begging him to stop, to keep going, to yes, yes, yes. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

And when I’m finally left in a gasping, panting lump made of The Girl Formerly Known as Natalie, Monroe gets up and shucks the rest of his clothes, and I’m ready to die all over again. Good God. Men shouldn’t be allowed to look that good.

Usually after an orgasm, I’m done. Tension released, let’s move on and watch some late-night TV. But right now, I feel far from done. I don’t just want him. I need him. Inside me. Preferably now.

Lucky for me, he seems to have the same idea. He wrenches open his bedside drawer and comes up with a foil packet. The condom is rolled on in record time. “You okay?”

“So very okay,” I say, and scoot up the bed.

He smiles and climbs onto the bed, and I realize just how big of a guy he is. I feel small beneath him. I like it.

“I want to kiss you.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s asking permission. And maybe I should be weirded out that I’ll taste myself, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange. Because I want to kiss him, too. We’re sharing all of this. And nothing feels awkward or gross or out of bounds. I wrap my hand around his neck and draw him down to me.

He makes a greedy sound in the back of his throat and we kiss, long and languid. He grabs my knee, situating himself between my thighs, caressing me along the way. I’m melting into the bed. I feel him at my entrance, and my fingernails dig into his back. I want to absorb him. I almost can’t take the anticipation.

“Please,” I whisper against his lips.

And he answers my plea, pushing inside me—easy at first, making sure I’m okay, and then sliding deep when I tap his back like he’s some racehorse who needs to pick up the pace. I make some oh-God-yes noise at the feel of him, at the way my body stretches to accommodate him. Sweet pressure and fullness. We’re joined. Me and this stranger who wanted to make my birthday a happier one. For a moment, we stay that way, him inside me, our lips kissing whatever they can find, hands mapping.

I’m having a one-night stand. Somewhere that thought floats through my head. But this doesn’t feel anything like I expected. I thought it would be a fun thing—wild, physical. And this is physical. But it feels like so much more than that. Because when Monroe braces his arms alongside me and holds my gaze while he moves inside me, I feel like this is bigger than a hookup. This is what sex is supposed to be like. Not just a whole-body experience, but a whole-mind one. And even though this will only be one night for us, I know somehow that there is a bar being set in my life. There will be no going back to the world of Before.

I will want this.

I deserve this.

“You feel so good,” Monroe says as he reaches back and grips my thigh, somehow sinking even deeper. “And you’re so damn sexy when you come. I can’t wait to see it again, to feel you lose it around me.”