There’s nothing about this moment that is gentle—it’s fierce and hot and commanding. His tongue delves between my lips, coaxing my own to meet his. I feel my hands move up to grip the front of his shirt as he presses a palm into the small of my back. A thick, hot coil of desire settles low in my belly and I force myself to pull back.

“Smith,” I manage to say when I’ve gotten enough of my own mouth and brain available to form words again.

But that’s all I say, because he leans back in and captures my bottom lip with his teeth.

“Don’t stop me,” he murmurs against my mouth, coaxing it back open, licking his way back in. “Please don’t stop me.”

Maybe it’s the please. Maybe it’s the darkness or the way his skin smells like rain. Whatever the reason, I shift in toward the apartment so that I can close the door behind us. As soon as I do, he’s got me pressed up against it, his body pinning mine in a way that leaves no doubt how much he wants me. How much he wants this. His hardness presses into my softness and we both groan at the contact.

Then, his hands are in my hair and he’s palming my scalp, directing my face up toward his as he lets his lips slide along my jaw to my neck. When his mouth reaches my ear, I know I’m lost to this man. Nothing matters now but how good this feels and how much I want it.

How much I never stopped wanting it—not for a single second, even when I should have.

“All I want,” Smith says into my ear, his breath coasting along my neck, “is to feel you. To taste you. To have you any way you’ll let me. I can’t not be here right now, Hyacinth.” Then he bites down lightly on my earlobe, and my body bows, arching out from the door and into the hard planes of his chest and torso. I reach up to stabilize myself or find some sort of balance, but instead let my hands course over his collarbone and his chest, feeling the straining, muscular flesh beneath and knowing that I need to see it again—this time without the body paint.

“Take your shirt off,” I say, hardly recognizing my own voice.

I’m already pulling at the hem, and Smith doesn’t make me wait. He reaches back behind his head with one hand and yanks the wet cotton up and over.

Holy shit.

He’s even more gorgeous than I remembered. His skin is tan and taut, his powerful frame as impressive as it was the night we met. More so even, since I’m seeing it in my own living room. Even the stormy weather can’t compete with the tempest brewing in my body and hurling itself right between my legs.

“Now you,” he says, cocking his head and caging me in with both arms.

But I’m still mesmerized by him, now reaching out to coast my fingertips along the prominent ridges of his six-pack. There’s a heat that feels like it’s emanating from within him.

Then, I realize what he’s asking me to do and I meet his gaze, feeling shy.

“I—I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

His lips lift on one side in that oh-so-sexy smile, and he leans forward and places his mouth against the crease between my shoulder and neck. I feel his tongue flicker against it and I huff out a ragged breath.

“Neither was I,” he whispers against my skin. “And, in case you haven’t noticed, your shirt’s gotten a little wet . . . it’s not exactly hiding much.”

I glance down, realizing that I’ve absorbed a lot of the water from his shirt into mine—and my white cotton tee is now practically see-through in the front. I’m basically ready to enter a Cancun wet T-shirt contest up in here, and I can feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. The view isn’t perfect, considering the dim lighting, but every flash of lightning proves to give Smith a full-frontal shot of me and all I have to offer.

I look up at Smith again, watch the embers in his eyes create the kind of fireworks show you only see on summer nights, and I whip the shirt up over my head.

“Fuck,” he mutters, not even bothering to pretend that he’s doing anything but staring at every inch of my exposed skin. I lean back against the door, unsure of what to do with my hands, so I do what comes naturally. I tuck them into the front pockets of his jeans and pull him into me.

The feeling of his skin, so hot, against mine, still cool from the wet fabric, is like some kind of miracle. I feel enlightened by it. I feel alive. He hisses when our chests meet and reaches up to cup my face and kiss me hard—kiss me stupid, as it were, just like I asked him to not so long ago.

“You are so goddamn beautiful,” he murmurs, then slips his tongue back into my mouth, past my teeth, unfurling it and pulling it back, dancing with my tongue and reminding me of what I’ve been looking for since I even knew about kissing—that I wanted to be made to feel that kissing me was as essential to someone as air. Smith makes me feel that way and more.

When his hands slide from my face to my shoulders, I move mine to the backs of his and ease them down over my breasts. Once I’ve done it, it’s like signing a permission slip and he’s off running. I guess he felt he needed that consent from me before he went there.

And then he really, really went there.

“I’ve thought of you like this,” he said, his voice husky as he palms my breasts, my nipples hardening to an almost painful degree. The slight friction isn’t nearly enough, and I want to mewl as he lets his fingers replace his palms.

He’s gentle at first, pinching ever so lightly, yet still whispering in my ear.

“I’ve pictured you like this.”

“Really?” My voice is almost a squeak and he nods.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Over and over in this very position.”

He lets his teeth graze my earlobe. “I’ve imagined you topless and wet, writhing against me. I’ve imagined coming here every night for the last month and a half.”

His lips brush at my neck, then he leans back to meet my gaze.

“Baby, I’ve pictured nothing but your face, your body, every time I’ve touched myself.”

Holy. Fuck.

I cry out when his mouth slides over the flesh of my breasts, then hovers just above a hardened peak.

“Tell me you want it,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

I know that the desire he sees in my gaze is more than enough permission, but he wants to hear me say it. And I want to say it to him.

“I want this.”

And I practically choke on a cry as he takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks hard—no pretense, no gentle ministrations. He doesn’t need to ramp me up and he knows it. I’m already there. I feel like I’ve been right there since the day I met him.

“Yes,” I hiss, digging my fingers into his scalp, loving the feel of his hair in my hands and wondering how long I can drag this out, how long we can make this go on until we realize that something has to stop us—common sense or morality or whatever it is.

“God, Hyacinth,” he murmurs, pulling back to place a kiss between both breasts, then moving on to the other nipple. “You are sugary sweet, baby—I knew you would be. I knew you’d be delicious. I feel like I could fucking OD on you.”

I don’t say anything to that, but every word he’s saying, every movement he’s making, is sinking beyond my belly button to my neediest flesh below, where I’m slick and wanting and completely irrational. Where I’ve needed him for what feels like an eternity and where I’m dying to have him now.

“Please,” I cry softly, not for the first time. Once again, I don’t know what I’m asking for. I don’t know if Smith knows, either. Or maybe we both want the same things, because all of a sudden he’s grabbed me behind my knees and is lifting me up.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he directs me, brushing my hair over my shoulder and leaning in to give me a sweet, lingering kiss. “I want to take you somewhere I can lay you down. Is that okay?”

Is that okay? Is that okay?

I want to snort or scream, but I just nod, biting my lip, and wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he carries me to the couch. I’m about to point him to my bedroom but, when he puts me down, I couldn’t care less if we were in a double bed or a Dumpster, because his hands are on my waist and he’s sliding my pajama pants down over my legs, all the while meeting my gaze with a kind of feral expression that would be scary if it weren’t so hot.