I’m suddenly this wildly different woman.

I’m lust-drenched and dipped in desire, rolled in it from head to toe like a sugar coating.

As Oliver sheathes himself, I’m vibrating with desire.

I’m enrobed in lust.

I can’t entirely believe I’m doing this.

I’m about to fuck my best friend, and a part of me wonders why we waited so long to cross this line.

Here in my room, everything about us together feels . . . undeniable, like maybe all our touches, all our teasing, and all our kissing was always pointing right to this.

He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as I position myself over him. I take his cock in my hand, and I breathe out, hard. It’s a relief and a thrill all at once to touch him at last. To touch the man I’ve been crushing on for years.

And the only way—literally the only way—I can get through the sheer intensity of this moment is to act like it’s just a game, an experiment.

But it’s so much more.

It’s a deep and potent longing to know him like this when I’ve craved it for so long.

As I curl a fist around his length, I’m lit up, because this is heady, this is real, this is me touching my best friend and knowing he wants me the same way I want him.

And I want us to feel everything together. I rub the head against my wetness, my eyes squeezing shut at the first enticing feel of his cock against me.

Then I rise up, and I slide down onto Oliver Harris, the boy who took me to prom, the man who I’m taking to bed, the person I enjoy the most in this world.

“Oh God. Oh my God,” I groan as I sink down, settling onto his shaft.

He growls, a long, carnal hum of approval. “Summer. You feel fucking incredible.”

“God, so do you.” It’s all I can say, all I can feel as I adjust to his delicious length, to the feel of him pulsing inside me.

If I say anything more, I’ll say too much.

I’ll tell him I’ve wanted this for reasons that go beyond his beautiful face, his carved body. For reasons that live inside me. Because he’s the person I’ve laughed with, depended on, turned to.

And he’s this beautiful man beneath me in bed.

A friend and now, for the most unexpected of reasons, a lover.

Those roles are supposed to be separate. Opposite sides of the ring. But they’re crashing into each other and doing crazy, dangerous things to my heart.

It’s hammering. It’s expanding. It’s reaching for him.

Focus on the physical.

Yes, that’s what I need to do.

I start to move, to seek a rhythm, find a pace.

Moving my hips, I roll back and forth, up and down, taking him in, out.

I plant my palms on his chest, and he guides me with his strong hands.

“That’s right, cupcake. Use my cock. Use it to make yourself feel so fucking good.”

Sparks race across my skin. He’s a dirty talker, and I love it. Love discovering this side of him.

“More. Give me more dirty words,” I pant. His voice sends shivers across my skin, hot, decadent tingles that feel so damn good.

“Fuck me hard, cupcake. Like you know you want to,” he urges, moving me up and down on his thick, hard cock.

Sparks of pleasure ignite in my core, fireworks exploding into the night sky as I rock my hips against him. “I do. I do want it hard. I do want it good.”

I’ve never spoken like this during sex.

I’ve never wanted to. Never tried.

But it’s heady and thrilling to say out loud all the filthy things I feel.

“Then that’s how you’ll get it. You are going to get it so hard and deep you’ll be feeling me tomorrow. Now let me see those beautiful tits bounce up and down,” he says, rocking under me, fucking me from below. He pistons his hips, driving into me and consuming me with pleasure. I can’t stop moaning, because the threat of bliss is close, so deliciously close.

Oliver slides a hand across my waist, down my belly, heading straight for my clit. The second he touches me there, I cry out. I toss my head back, yelling his name.

“Oliver, God, Oliver! Yes, yes, yes.” His name is hard to say during sex. All those syllables. But I want to feel it on my tongue. I want the reminder that he’s doing this to me. My friend, my rock, my confidante. That even if this is a game, a slipup, a moment in our pretend love affair, I want it to feel as real as I’ve imagined it.

So many times.

Countless times.

And now, as I’m chasing the edge, I start to understand why.

As he pumps into me, my belly tightens, a swirl of pleasure coiling inward, gathering strength, and then, out of nowhere or out of everywhere, the pleasure in me shatters into a thousand diamonds as I detonate.

I shake as ecstasy rattles through me, expanding, crashing over me, into me, under me as I call out his name again.

The second I come down from the high, he pulls out, flips me to my back, and hikes up my legs on his shoulders.

Oh my God. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I want to be owned.

He’s fucking me so good.

Such a hard, wild fucking.

And I love it. I love watching him take me. Feeling him ride me to the edge, my legs hooked over his shoulders as he pumps hard, fast, deep.

“You’re so fucking wet. So fucking sexy. Love the way you grip my cock. Love the way you feel. It’s so fucking good.”