“Good things come to those who wait,” she murmurs.

I sit back, giving her room. “Now, take off your shirt.”

She’s on her stomach, but she twists around, removing the shirt and dropping it on the floor. With a groan, I admire her sexy back, the smooth, flawless skin, as I press a hand between her shoulders, pushing her down on the cushions.

She lets out a lingering exhale. “Don’t make me wait too long, Logan.”

I run my fingers down her spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I can’t wait to taste you.” I plant kisses along her spine as I go. She wriggles with me, arching and moaning. I reach the bunched-up skirt, move past it, and kiss her ass cheeks.

“Oh, God,” she gasps, lifting her ass higher, asking for more.

I heed that call, nibbling on the soft, sweet flesh as I move down her body between her legs, spreading them.

When she writhes, and I haven’t even touched her yet, my brain short-circuits. It lights up like a billboard at night, spelling out in ten-foot letters, You lucky son of a bitch.

Because that’s what I am right now.

How could I be anything else? This is a gift in front of me—a stunning, decadent, sensual woman who knows her mind and her body and wants me to fuck her with my tongue and my cock.

Pressing my hands on her inner thighs, I spread them wider, savoring the view of all that glistening wetness. Then my hand travels around to her stomach, and I yank up her hips, pulling her to her knees, her ass in the air. “Tits down. Hips up. I need to bury my face between your legs.”

She moans, wiggling her ass. “Preferably now.”

I laugh as I dig my fingers into her cheeks. “So much sass from someone with her ass in the air.” I hum, like I’m considering this fantastic flesh before me. “Speaking of your ass in the air . . .”

I raise my palm and bring it down on her rear, spanking her.

She gasps out, “Again, harder.”

“Patience, sweetheart. I’m pretty sure it was my face between your legs that you wanted.”

“I do. I want it. I want it now.”

“And you’ll get it,” I say with a grin, loving that she’s still as mouthy, still as bold as she’s been all night.

Even as I put her in her place.

As my dick throbs in my jeans, I spread her open, then I bring my mouth to her sweet, hot center, and I lick.

The second my tongue touches her, I groan like a starving man.

And Bryn is my breakfast, lunch, dinner, and definitely my dessert.

I lick a path along her sweet, wet heat, lapping her up, my eyes rolling back in my head.

“That’s so good, oh God, that’s so good,” she moans, rocking against my face as I go down on her like this. And I love it.

I fucking love it.

I love that she’s under me. That she’s offering herself to me. That she doesn’t want a standard order of hot vanilla sex. That maybe she wants it with a little spice.

And I want her that way, so I make sure to let her know—with my lips, and my tongue, and the way I fuck her with my mouth.

I devour her pussy, kissing her till her arousal is coating my lips, my chin, my stubble. Eating her till she’s bucking against my face, her fingers clenched in fists as she grips the couch. Consuming her till she’s bowing her back and panting her orgasm alert.

“Oh, God, yes. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

As if I could.

I don’t want to, because she tastes divine as she floods my tongue, coming with me for the first time.

And it definitely won’t be the last, because once is not enough.

I’m on fire everywhere, my body sizzling with the need to have her.

I’m wild for this kind of pleasure, this kind of mind-bending connection. And even though this is just sex, just a hookup, I’m not going to be satisfied with one evening with her.

The night has only just begun, but I know I’m going to want more with her. I rise and grab a condom from my wallet, sending a quiet thank you to the hopeful part of my brain that planned ahead. Tossing the condom on the couch, I strip off my shoes, shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs, and reach for her hand. She’s sex-drunk and slack-jawed, and her eyes spell one word only—bliss.

It’s beautiful and addictive, and I want to put that look on her face again.

“Hi,” she says, all breathy as she stares at my cock, hard and ready for her. “Your dick is better than pretty. It’s fucking hot.”

I grip my cock and slide a fist down it, shuddering both from the contact and from her dirty words. “Ask me now. Ask me how I want you.”

Her green eyes glimmer with desire. “How do you want me? How are you going to have your way with me?”

“Take that skirt off and get behind the couch.”

“Ohhh.” That’s all she says, but it sounds like a fantasy on her lips.

Thank God. Because it’s my fantasy too. It’s a simple one. It’s not like I want to bang her on a yoga ball or swing from the chandelier. I’m not aiming for a contortionist badge or a bizarre sex antics award. But I don’t want missionary either.

Her skirt falls to the floor. She wears only her white lace bra.

I stare at her, my eyes commanding. “The bra too.”

“You didn’t say to take it off.”

I point at her tits. “I want it off, Bryn. Take it off.”

Something—maybe nerves—flashes in her eyes, but then, with a determined set of her jaw, she unhooks her bra, letting it fall quietly to the floor.

A rumble works its way up my chest as my eyes feast on dusty-rose nipples I want in my mouth. Her breasts aren’t huge. They’re perky—I don’t know what cup size and I don’t care, because I just want to get my hands and lips on them.

For a flicker of a second, she looks nervous, swallowing roughly. Concern takes over, and I set desire aside as I step closer. “Are you okay, Bryn?”

“They’re fake,” she says, a little embarrassed.