It was the deepest kiss of Abilene’s life. The hottest, and the sweetest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugged their centers together, and still she needed him closer. Needed to feel his strong, warm body on hers, to hear him, smell him. She let her hands roam as they wished, exploring his arms and chest and back.

It had been ages since she’d wanted a man this way. With abandon and ferocity instead of cautious curiosity. Even when she’d seduced James, she’d managed to be passive about it. But she trusted Casey so implicitly, the old role no longer fit. Every other lover she’d had had been like a lion or a wolf or some other skittish beast to be approached with deference, won through submission. But this man . . .

She wanted to be on top of him, just like this. To rub her body against his in whatever ways felt good, and to hell with whether it made her look aggressive or impolite. Sick of playing the helpless little girl part, she wanted to feel like a grown woman for the first time. Wanted to take, instead of be taken.

Casey drew his mouth back, smiling broadly, eyes crinkling. “You’re different tonight.”

“I feel different.”

“I like it,” he whispered.

“So do I.”

He held her face and kissed her hard.

Her hand found the headboard and she held his shoulder with the other, and began to move. He was hard, and she drew her own excitement against his in tight, needy motions, swallowing his moans as they kissed, until his head dropped back, eyes shut tight. He looked overwhelmed, and his breaths were coming in panting gasps. She’d known sexual power before—a cowardly, manipulative, roundabout sort of power. But nothing like this. She felt as if she were riding a wild animal instead of merely taming one.

“Fuck, honey.” His palms held her waist, eyes still shut, lips parted. She traced the lower one with her fingertips, kissed his chin and jaw and throat, his ear.

“Where’d you come from?” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear.

“You make me want things. Want to do things.” Not to merely let things happen to her. She didn’t know how to tell him what a revelation this was, so she let her body do the talking.

After another minute’s friction, he panted, “I’m gonna fucking catch fire. Let’s get our clothes off.”

She knelt between his legs, plucking at his shirt’s snaps. In a few clumsy seconds they got that off, and Casey shed his tee while Abilene worked his belt buckle open. He finished the job, shoving his jeans and shorts away. Abilene ditched her bottoms and shirt and bra, sitting naked before him now. She didn’t care about her belly or breasts or stretch marks or any other thing. All that mattered was the gleam in his eyes as he surveyed her bare body—pure awe and lust.

She studied him right back. She’d never stared at a man this way, so openly. It had seemed more feminine to steal shy glances. It had seemed more like her, in keeping with that persona she’d hidden behind for so long. But Casey knew better. He’d known she was pregnant by a violent criminal and maintained a crush on her through it all, so it wasn’t her more obvious charms that had attracted him. Precisely what it was, she couldn’t say, but ditching the shy-girl act was like stripping away more than her clothes. Like that tired old victim costume she’d relied on for way too long lay in tatters on the floor.

So she let her eyes feast, loving every detail of him. His skin was pale, freckles still lingering on his forearms and face, and tinted pink here and there, a blush that went far beyond his cheeks. The hair on his chest and between his legs was golden brown, and he had two moles on his left pec, one on his throat, each the color of toffee. A mauve smudge of a scar marred one thigh—a souvenir from a gunshot wound, though that was all she knew of its origin story.

His cock was hard, flushed dark, the skin of his head gleaming smooth and taut in the light of the reading lamp.

She saved his eyes for last, their blue looking dark, deep. Through all the scrutiny, he lay still, hands on his thighs. His lips were still parted, and his own curious eyes abandoned their exploration to meet hers.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“For letting me just . . . look at you.”

“Thanks for the same. You’re beautiful.”

She smiled and looked down, shy in a grateful, authentic way. “Thanks.”

“You’re perfect.”

She met his gaze. “So are you.”

His hand drifted slowly to cup the base of his cock, caressing the underside in slow, faint strokes. “I want you.”

“Anything.”

“I want you on top. I like you like this,” he added, focus dropping to her breasts, her legs, back up. “All shameless.”

She smiled again, blushing. “I like me this way, too.”

“Hang on one sec.” He moved, sitting at the bed’s edge to root through the side table drawer. He took out a box of condoms, drawing his nail along the lid to break the seal. He detached one from a strip and stowed the rest.

“You mind?” he asked, holding out the little square.

She shook her head. Casey got back to where he’d been, legs spread, back against the pillows and headboard. She rolled the rubber onto him slow and careful, the act feeling like foreplay for the first time ever, instead of some awkward, mood-killing necessity.

“I haven’t been on top in ages,” she whispered, straddling his legs.

“Are you ready? I got lube, too. Or I could use my mouth, whatever you need.”

Lube? Did people actually use lube? Abilene never had, ever in her life. Her very first lover had made it clear, if a woman wasn’t wet, it was about the worst insult you could deal to a man’s ego. James had always done the job with his spit, and she’d found that scandalous—felt ashamed that she’d needed it, but also relieved that he’d bothered to care.

“What?” Casey asked, smiling at whatever upended expression she was wearing.

“That’s not . . . Do people do that? Just use that stuff?”

He laughed. “Lube? Yeah, of course. How else do you have sex in a big messy rush?”

She wasn’t sure. Sometimes it was just uncomfortable, she’d figured. She’d always blamed herself for those times.

“Have you seriously never used lube?”

“No. Doesn’t it . . . I dunno. Hurt your feelings?”

He snorted. “What kind of an asshole has the nerve to get his feelings hurt when he’s about to get laid?”

Most of my exes, probably. She supposed it stood to reason, when you played the apologetic, deferring vessel, you attracted men who were content to treat you that way.

“The bottle’s in the drawer,” Casey said, nodding to the table.

She found it, messed around with the safety seal, recapped it. “How much do you . . .”

Casey took it, squirted a small shining blob on his fingers. She watched with fascination and excitement as he slicked his cock. Crazy. All this time, she’d assumed this was the woman’s responsibility.

“Here.” He wetted his fingers again and reached down between her legs, gently stroking the cool gel along her lips. Her breath drew short, from both the sensation and the brazenness of it.

Casey laughed softly, capped the bottle and tossed it aside. “Hope you don’t think we’re cheating somehow,” he teased.

Maybe a little, but really, that was her first lover’s voice, echoing from the back of her mind. She’d much prefer to listen to Casey’s, which seemed to be telling her this was completely normal.

“Lay down a sec,” he whispered. She did, and he moved to kneeling, straddling her leg, fingers returning to her sex to trace her now-slick seam with slow, light motions. “Feel all right?”

She nodded, all at once flushed and breathless. She’d never been touched like this, with such patience and reverence and curiosity. Her pleasure wasn’t lost on him. He lowered, coming closer, bracing himself on one arm and casting her in a thrilling shadow. She could feel the heat coming off him in waves and memorized the flex of his arm as he touched her, the expression on his face, the promise of his ready cock.