“You want poetry? I could write a fucking sonnet about the way your tits are bouncing right now. I want to burn the way they look into my brain.”

He leans in to bite me, and I can’t help laughing again. “You are such a boy.”

“Because I like the way you look naked?”

“Among other things,” I tell him, kissing his lips. “Shh. You’re distracting me.”

“I’m trying to have a moment here.”

“With my breasts?”

“Your breasts.” He sits up, nips at my neck before sucking gently. “Your neck, your mouth, your whole body.” His lips trail closer to mine, brushing across. “You.”

We kiss for long minutes and my movements narrow into small rocks forward and back, just feeling him inside me. I try to keep it together, try not to moan into his mouth or cry out when he reaches down and his thumb starts moving in practiced circles over my clit. I’m trying to keep this about sex, but the way he’s looking at me, the way he feels—it’s no longer that simple.

I dig my hands into all that thick hair, steering his mouth back to my breast and watching as he captures my nipple with his tongue. He bares his teeth, sliding them over the sensitive skin and I cry out, feeling him twitch inside me

“You like that.” It isn’t a question, it sounds like a revelation, like relief.

I nod, breath trapped in my throat and eyes locked on his expression of hope, like he wants to please me. Like it means everything to him right now.

“Can you feel it all the way down to your clit when I suck you here?”

I nod again, gasping at the tightening in my belly when he licks and sucks harder, growling around my skin.

His cheeks are pink and he’s flushed all the way down his neck. He’s watching me, watching us, the way we move together and the place where our bodies connect. I follow his gaze and look down between us, the way the muscles of his flat stomach clench, where the beads of sweat have collected in the hollow of his collarbones. I circle my hips and he groans, tightening his grip where he holds me.

“Jesus Christ. Do that again,” he says, and I do, moving over him and using the back of the couch for leverage. I could get drunk on his sounds, the moans and whimpers when he thinks he might be getting close, the shaky breaths when he holds off to wait for me.

Luke smacks a hand against the cushion before he throws his head back. “I’m so . . . I’m . . .” he says between short lungfuls of air. His fingers return to my clit with renewed enthusiasm, and he looks up at me. “Like this?”

I can only nod, eyes closed as I try and chase down this feeling, like a cord has been wrapped around my spine, connected to my nipples and where he fits inside me. It tightens with each rock of my hips, each thrust of his.

Tighter.

Tighter.

“Oh, God,” I say, the feeling spreading outward.

Tighter.

Luke pulls me down so our foreheads meet and it’s so intimate, I’m not sure whether I want to wrap my arms around him, or push away.

He changes the tempo of our movements and I want to scream but he’s suddenly so deep and I’m so close . . .

“Fuck, I can feel it. I feel it,” he says, eyes suddenly wide. “Yes. London.”

It’s like my muscles stop working as my orgasm twists through me. My skin is too hot but covered in goose bumps, my nipples hard and just shy of sore. I can’t think. Luke must sense the moment it happens because he takes over, grip tightening to the point of pain. He presses up into me, hard and fast and over and over until he’s coming with a long, helpless groan against my shoulder. When the haze finally recedes, I open my eyes to find him stretched out beneath me, arms splayed across the back of the couch, chest rising and falling and his torso slick with sweat.

I feel like I’ve just been on a run with Harlow, the kind where she makes us keep going and going until I can’t feel my legs and even my fingers are numb. My muscles feel wrung-out and my heart is pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears. I can’t catch my breath.

He reaches a weak arm up, brushing my hair out of my face. “Stay over.”

Nothing sounds better than falling into his cool sheets and not having to move again for another eight hours, but awareness pricks the back of my neck, tripping the heavy pounding of my heart: I like Luke.

I hear his phone buzz on the counter in the kitchen, and it’s like he’s opened a window, let in an icy breeze. I register that it’s been buzzing on and off the entire time we’ve been in here, but it just didn’t matter.

I climb off his lap and fall back to the couch, forcing myself to sit and search for my clothes.

“Hey,” he says between breaths. “Did you hear what I said? Stay with me.” He reaches for my arm and even the touch of his fingers against my skin is too much right now. “I’ll even forget those codes and let you kick my ass at Titanfall.”

“Let me.” I grin over at him, but I know it doesn’t look genuine. I am a mass of knots inside. I stand, slipping into my underwear. “Sorry. I really need to go.”

He pushes himself to sit up, and groans. “Oh my God, my abs. How is it that I was on the bottom and I’m this sore? I’m taking ninety-five percent of the credit on this one.”

I stand to face him. “You wish.”

He pauses with one hand dug into his hair. “You know, one of these days I’m going to get my feelings hurt with this little Nail and Bail thing you have going here.”

“‘Nail and Bail’?” I repeat. I reach for my shorts, but Luke stops me, taking my hand.

“I’m serious.” He releases my hand but reaches forward to frame my hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. “Stay.”

My voice comes out a little shaky when I try to deflect. “I snore. It’s bad.”

A wry smile twists his lips. “Fine.” Then he gives me the real smile again, the one that makes his expression the warmest, sweetest one I think I’ve ever seen, and drops his hands. “I’ll let you go this time,” he says quietly.

He watches as I step into my shorts, stays quiet while I pull on my shirt. I feel his attention on my fingers as I button it from the bottom to the top.

When I’m done, he wipes a hand across his mouth, asking, “Do you want to get together this weekend?”

Fuck. Slowly, slowly he’s chipping away at my shell.

“Let’s just play it by ear, okay?”

Luke closes his eyes, exhaling a tiny, frustrated breath, before pushing to stand. He’s still naked, sweaty . . . perfect. I lean in when he wraps his arms around me, and inhale the mix of sex and sweat and soap on his skin.

“Sounds good, Dallas.” He bends, reaching up to cup my face and kisses me, slow and warm. I can feel his cock stir against me again, already.

But for once, he doesn’t press. He takes a step back, bending to pull on his boxers, and then walks me to the door. He doesn’t say anything else as I walk out, down the steps, along the sidewalk to my car, but I feel his eyes on me the entire way.

“Still fun,” he shouts from behind me. I turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, practically naked. The porch light overhead throws shadows across his body, accentuating the width of his shoulders, the planes of his stomach, the definition of his hips. His boxers hang so low I can see the suggestion of hair, just above his waistband. Lucky neighbors.