I jolted awake and found him lying there beside me, watching me, his green gaze glittering in the barely there light cast from between the curtains. He was gorgeous and damp and shirtless, his muscular chest gleaming, the dips and planes of his beautiful body making my mouth water. I said his name to ground me, to make sure he was really there with me and not some dream apparition put before me because I know my mind would probably play tricks on me. I felt so needy, so restless after the dream, I wanted to make sure he was real. When he answered, I knew I had to do this.

I had to be bold. I wanted to.

Then he went and apologized, telling me I mean something to him. How could I respond to that? My first instinct was to run, but I had nowhere to hide. And I’m tired of running, of hiding from men and what they could do to me. I can’t live like this.

I want more. I want Owen.

Confessing I had nothing on beneath the robe sent a charge of awareness into the room that turned into this living, palpable thing, the tension nearly unbearable. We both stare at each other as I stand by the side of the bed, my confidence wavering, my body shaking with nerves. Maybe I can’t say in words what I want and neither can he, but I can certainly show him.

Show him that I want to give him my body—and my heart—freely.

With shaking fingers I untie the belt and push the robe open ever so slightly, revealing a shadow of myself. My breathing’s erratic, my heart is racing, and Owen scrambles up so he’s sitting, his back against the headboard, his hot gaze locked on me, encouraging me to continue without saying a word.

So I do. I thrust my shoulders back, stand up straighter, and push the robe off, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap at my feet. Until I’m standing there next to the bed, completely naked and on display in front of a guy for the very first time in my life.

“Fuck, Chelsea.” He sounds pained and he shifts, his hand going between his legs as if he has to readjust himself and I swear, I break out in a blush all over my body. My skin is hot, between my legs I’m throbbing, and I …

Don’t know what to do.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low, the sound sending a fresh wave of tingles along my skin. He reaches out his hand and I take it, our fingers entwining as I get on the bed, which squeaks when he pulls me in closer so I have no choice but to climb on top of him.

Much like we sat together in the backseat of his car that first night we kissed, I’m straddling him, though this time I’m completely naked and there’s only a sheet and a blanket between us since he’s beneath the covers. His arms band around me, his hands spanning across my back, and I feel so exposed, unsure. Exhilarated.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs just before he devours me in the most consuming kiss of my life. He tastes like toothpaste. His hands are branding my back as he presses me close and my breasts are pushed firmly against his chest. The skin-on-skin contact feels so good I almost want to weep.

“So are you,” I whisper when we break apart, his mouth at my neck, my hands skimming over his bared chest. I feel nothing but muscle and heat as I scratch my nails over his skin. His pecs are hard, as are his nipples, and when I rake my nails over them, he hisses in a sharp breath, then kisses me so fiercely, so deep, I swear I see stars.

His lips are firm, delicious, and precise. He kisses me as if he knows exactly what I like, knows exactly what I want. His tongue slides into my open mouth and dances delicately with mine, sending a flurry of shivers throughout my naked body. I clutch him close, devouring him right back, and I hope he knows how much this moment, this kiss, in a dark hotel room with minimal barriers between us, means to me.

I grow slick between my legs with every thrust of his tongue, my nipples hard little points as they brush against his chest. I rope my arms around his neck and bury my hands in his damp hair, holding his mouth to mine, deepening our kiss even further if that’s possible, as I tighten my bent legs at his hips.

“Chelsea.” He whispers my name against my neck after he breaks apart from our kiss, his lips sliding down the length of my neck, his hands resting lightly at my waist. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Please. Touch me,” I encourage, shocked at my demand. But here in the dark, in a strange, unknown place, doing wonderful, unknown things, I feel strong. Bold. Different.

I like it.

His hands skim down over my hips, down farther until he’s cupping my backside. A gasp escapes me as he strokes me, slow and sure, and his mouth is at my ear, panting, sounding so desperate a shiver moves through me. “Your ass has driven me crazy since the first time I met you,” he admits, his voice rough.

I smile and lean into his palms, his fingers so close to the achy spot between my legs I will die if he doesn’t touch me there soon. “Really?”

“It’s fucking perfection, Chels.” He skims his fingers along sensitive skin that no one else has ever touched before and a whimper forms in my throat. “Absolute perfection.”

I love it when he calls me Chels. I love it more when he says such sweet, delicious things. No one has ever called me perfect before. And the way Owen touches me, so reverently, so sweetly, I know he means it.

His mouth burns a trail of kisses down my neck, along my collarbone, and I lean into him, my hands slipping to his shoulders so I can hold onto him tight. His lips and tongue are like magic, making my skin spark and heat wherever they touch. He grips my butt tighter, lifting so I have no choice but to lift as well.

And then he’s pressing his lips to the valley between my breasts, skimming, tasting, licking. I tilt my head down, my hair falling around my face as I watch him, fascinated with what he’s doing to me. How my body is reacting to his every touch.

His mouth travels to my left breast and he pulls away the slightest bit, staring at me. My nipple tightens when he breathes over it and then he’s wrapping his lips around the hard bit of flesh, sucking, licking, driving me wild.

Oh God. I want to say it out loud but I press my lips together and lean into him, my arms winding back around his neck and squeezing him tight. The sheet is bunched between us, pooling in Owen’s lap, and I grind down on him, feeling the unmistakable thrust of his erection against me.

“Jesus,” he mutters, lifting me away from him with one arm bulging with muscle so he can push the sheet out of the way. Now there’s nothing between us but his boxer briefs and I fall against him, wrapping my legs around his hips, slick and hot against his cotton-covered erection. I want more. I want it all, but he’s holding me back. I can feel him pushing me away, his breaths harsh, his mouth against my forehead as he holds me loosely in his arms.

“I don’t want to go too fast,” he whispers. “You gotta tell me, Chelsea.”

“Tell you.” I swallow hard when I feel his mouth move along my jaw, his teeth nipping my flesh. “Tell you what?”

He cups my chin, forcing me to look at him. I blink, my vision refocusing so I meet his smoldering gaze. His mouth is swollen, his eyes slumberous, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Owen look so sexy, so achingly beautiful. I want to touch his face, trace his every feature, but then his words penetrate my lust-filled brain and I’m left gaping at him.

“Are you a virgin?”

Owen

I wait for her answer, all the words I could ever say to ease her worries clogged in my throat. She stares at me, my bold, beautiful princess gone in an instant, replaced with my wide-eyed, lip-chewing, nervous Chelsea.

I’m familiar with this version but I much preferred the girl with no boundaries, the one who begged me. That had been hot. And I know she’s still there, buried beneath the nerves and the expectations. I just need to coax her back out.