“Be brave, sugar. I know you are. You just gotta prove it,” he says softly.

In a million other situations, I’d get stubborn on his ass. I’d slump down in the bed, hiding under the covers, and I’d let him go take his shower, refusing to step up to the plate. This is different, though. If I did that right now, I wouldn’t be winning. I’d be losing, big time. I let out a shaky breath, pulling myself up a little in the bed. “All right, fine. I don’t want you to go for a shower. I want you to stay here. With me.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

I could kick him in the shins for being so quietly smug, but it’s actually a very sexy look on him. He pulls it off well enough for me to be squirming in the bed as he slowly faces me again. “You know why,” I tell him.

“You have to tell me.”

“Because…”

“Because?” He takes another step closer to the bed.

“Because…I want you.”

A bright fire burns in Rebel’s eyes. “How?”

“I want to feel you on top of me, pushing my legs apart, pushing your way inside me. I want to get lost in you.”

“You want me to fuck you hard or slow, Soph?” He seems fascinated by the words I’m forcing out of my mouth. He seems to be savoring every last one. He stares at my mouth as he stalks purposefully toward the bed.

“Slow,” I whisper. “I want you to fuck me slow. I want to feel every last movement. Every last second that you’re inside me. I want to feel your arms tight around me, so I can barely breathe. I want to forget.”

He gives me a sharp look. “Forget about what? Bron? Dela Vega?”

Slowly, so slowly, I shake my head. Why is this so damn hard to say? I’ve come this far now—the rest of it should be easy. It isn’t, though. Opening my mouth, telling him what I want, is the hardest thing in the world. I’ve climbed mountains and overcome so many ridiculous obstacles recently, and yet this is where I flounder—here, trying to tell him the truth. He makes me feel small. Vulnerable. Afraid. “No,” I say. “Not about them. I want to forget where you begin and I end. I want to forget what it feels like to exist without you. I don’t want to dance around this anymore. I was scared back in Alabama, you’re right. But now the only thing that scares me? The only thing that scares me is not being with you.”

As he rushes the last few steps to the bed, Rebel doesn’t seem to care about his injuries anymore. I think he’s going to jump on me, rip the covers from my body and devour me, but he doesn’t. He kneels on the bed, sitting back on his heels and bracing his hands on his thighs, staring at me, his chest rising and falling quickly. “You have no idea…” he growls. “You have no idea what I want to do to you, Sophia. But you’re about to find out. Are you ready? Do I have your consent?”

Panic grips me, but I force myself to let go of it. In the past I’d have grabbed hold of this fear with two hands and refused to let go, giving myself an excuse to back out of whatever situation I found intimidating. I can’t afford to be that way, though. Not if I want to find out where all of this leads. Despite every single warning bell going off in my head, that’s exactly what I want. I nod, slowly drawing in a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, you have my consent.”

Rebel eyes glitter. I can see his intention in them, and it’s both thrilling and frightening at the same time. I know he’s going to come for me now, but knowing it and seeing it happen are two very different things. When he bends slowly, placing both hands on the bed in front of him, and begins making his way closer, I feel like I’m about to pass out.

“You want me to come inside you, Sophia?” he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble in the back of his throat.

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” He moves so he can peel back the comforter that’s still covering me, and then he takes a second to inspect the length of my naked legs. The t-shirt I’m wearing seems really damn short all of a sudden. As if that bothers Rebel, though. He gently makes contact with my skin, running his hands lightly up the outsides of my thighs. I break out in goose bumps at his touch, sending violent shivers chasing through me. When his hands hit the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing, he fingers the material, following the stitching along the hem until his hands meet in the middle. I know things are about to get crazy when his eyes meet mine and I can see the lust burning in them. “You know you should be naked right now?” he says. I’m going to respond, going to tell him that I want to be, but I’m not given the opportunity. Rebel grips the bottom of the t-shirt in both hands and pulls, splitting the material right up the middle.

The action is violent and makes me jump, but he doesn’t hurt me. The t-shirt’s in ruins, though. Completely unsalvageable. It’s kind of ridiculous that I’ve been wearing a shirt that says, It’s Not Going To Suck Itself anyway. Rebel removes the rest of the shirt from my body with persuasive hands, but he doesn’t touch my naked breasts. Doesn’t even glance at the rest of my bare flesh. His eyes remain locked onto mine, his breathing growing faster and faster. His skin is still boiling hot. He’s still feverish, though he doesn’t seem likely to let that hinder him in his current activity. Once I’m naked and lying on the bed in front of him, Rebel carefully positions himself in between my legs, kneeling over me.

“You’re a problem, Sophia,” he tells me. “You’re like the most complex, infuriating math problem I’ve ever attempted.”

I curve an eyebrow at him, trying not to look at his increasingly noticeable hard-on. I smile a little, determined not to hide my body from him, even though the effort is killing me. “More complicated than Legendre’s Conjecture?” I ask.

Rebel laughs. I could be wrong, but I get the impression he’s a little impressed. “You remember what it’s called, huh?”

“What it’s called, yes. If you asked me to draw it out, that might be a problem, though.”

“Oh, well, we can solve that.” He leans back and grabs the pen he was using before, pulling the cap off with his teeth. How such an action can be sexy, I have no idea, but he manages it. It’s hot as hell, in fact. He spits out the cap and then holds up the pen—a blue sharpie—giving me a questioning look. “You ready for me to get mathematical on you, sugar?”

“You want to scribble messy equations all over my body?”

When he opens his mouth, he’s switched on the Alabama charm. “Why, I’m a tattoo artist. I ain’t never made a mess on nobody’s skin. And I sure as hell ain’t ever scribbled on anyone, either. Now, please be so kind as to oblige me while I create a work of art on your already perfect body, darlin’.”

The southern accent has always made me cringe, but when Rebel speaks slow and deep the way he just did, I find myself reacting very differently. Very differently indeed. I want to press my knees together again, to stem the building need I’m experiencing, but I can’t because he’s still kneeling in between my legs.

I am frozen marble as he takes the tip of the sharpie and begins to slowly draw on my hipbone. From there, he travels upward toward my belly button in an arcing beautiful cursive that incorporates long, sweeping blue lines and curlicues that dip down low onto my stomach. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. I feel every hot breath he takes as he works over me, frowning in concentration.

I have no idea what true values the numbers or shapes represent as he marks them onto me, but he was right; this isn’t a scribble, and it’s sure as hell not messy. It’s remarkable. He works for another fifteen minutes, his movements becoming slower, more considered, as the seconds tick by. My nerve endings jump every time tip of the pen makes contact. My heart races a little faster every time he exhales over the expanse of my bare skin. Eventually, I realize he’s noticed my involuntary reactions and he’s taking his time with me on purpose, drawing this out, making it last longer.