His hands are all over me, moving from my neck to my shoulders down to my wrists, and every place he touches me sets off a fresh wave of goosebumps. By the time he reaches my hipbones I’m aflame with heat and need.

“Come here,” he says, pulling me up from the couch.

“Gladly,” I say, and I figure we’ll head towards my bedroom, but he stops at the bathroom and pulls me in. He tugs off his T-shirt, and starts to unzip his jeans. “There’s something we can do that I’ve never done with anyone before.”

I narrow my eyes. I might not have done much, but I know about everything. “Um . . .” I say, because I’m not into weird stuff.

“Harley,” he says as he turns on the water. “Just the shower.”

“Good,” I say, and we strip and step under the hot stream. “But you’re really saying you’ve never showered with someone before?”

He sighs heavily. “I don’t want to dissect everything I’ve done, but I’ve never done this,” he says, as he gently cups my neck and leans my head under the stream of water, letting it wet my long hair so it’s a sleek blanket along my spine. He reaches for my shampoo, squirts some into his hands, and then washes my hair, his strong fingers kneading my scalp as he works the shampoo through my strands. It feels so good that I close my eyes, and let the sensations flood me. The gentle way he washes my hair, his fingertips rubbing against my scalp, sends a new kind of pleasure through my body. Not sexual, not desire, but peace and calm and warmth from him taking care of me as his fingers reach through the ends of my hair. He leans my head back, washing out the mango scent of my shampoo. I feel cared for, as if the way he’s touching me is a promise of what he’ll do for me. For us, in the future.

“That,” he whispers softly in my ear, his words in harmony with the beat of the shower against the tile, “That’s for you only. Always.”

He soaps up his hands, runs them gently over my shoulders, my arms, my belly and then higher. I bite my lip as he palms my breasts with his lathery hands. He rolls his thumbs under my breasts, and then he groans as he strokes my nipples until they turn to hard peaks.

He wraps his hands around my ass, cupping my cheeks and tugging me against his wet body, his hard cock rigid against my thigh. I reach for the soap, lathering up my hands.

“And is this for me, too?” I ask, grasping him.

“Hell yeah,” he says in a husky voice. I grip him harder and he rocks into my fist. “Always for you.”

I watch as he closes his eyes, and his breathing intensifies as I stroke him in the shower, hot water raining down on both of us, his hard length in my hand. He reaches for the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “This is what you do to me, Harley,” he says, his voice rasping. “You. No one else.”

“Good,” I say, as I touch him the way he likes, hard and tight, with quick strokes. “Because you better be thinking of me.”

“I am thinking of you,” he says, his mouth grazing my wet neck. Then he reaches between our soapy bodies, grasps my hand, and stills my movements. “But I’m also thinking that if you don’t stop touching me I’m going to come in your hand, and it’s not a make-up hand job that we’re supposed to have. It’s make-up sex that I want.”

“Make-up sex…I don’t think we’ve ever had that before. Because we’ve never had a fight like this before. Will it be epic?”

“So fucking epic,” he says, in such a sexy voice that heat rushes through my body, pools between my legs.

With his hand tight around mine I give one more quick stroke, then let go of him. I smack him lightly on the ass.

He opens his eyes, and laughs. “What was that for?”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Because it was fun.”

He pinches my butt in return, and I giggle.

“Rinse off, and let’s get out.”

Within minutes, we’re both in my bed, naked, dried off, wet hair dampening the pillows, music playing softly from my iPod, a mix I made of sexy songs. The Perishers bat first with a slow number that always makes me think of Trey: 8 a.m. Departure.

He clears his throat. “So, you wanted something just for you?”

“Yeah?” I ask curiously because I don’t know how he could fulfill that request. But I’m not sure it matters because he’s running his hand over my shoulder, kissing my tattoo, then trailing his fingertips down to my wrists, lacing his fingers through mine so excruciatingly slowly, sliding into the space between them like he’s making love to my hand. I can’t help myself—I sigh loudly, like a lust-struck idiot. Because we’re naked in bed, holding hands, and it’s become this erotic act, as he strokes the top of my hand with his fingertips. I close my eyes momentarily, letting the sensations wash over me. A spark of heat ignites in my chest, then jumps to my shoulders, to my fingers, down through my belly, finally making its home between my legs, as heat pours into every cell in my body.

“I like that,” I tell him when I open my eyes, and if that’s what he had in mind, I’ll take it. Because I know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s never held hands with anyone else, and certainly not the way he did with me just now, like it’s foreplay.

“I can tell,” he says playfully, and brings his other hand to my thigh, stroking the outside of my leg. I arch my hips, wanting more.

“Spread your legs,” he tells me, his green eyes dark and intense as he looks at me, only at me, and I let my knees fall open. He’s still holding one hand tight, while he maps my skin, moving slowly, at a tantalizing pace, from my thigh to inside, then there, right there, where I am slick and wet for him. He rubs one finger against me, and I moan loudly. “I love how turned on you get,” he tells me.

“I love how you touch me.”

“God, I fucking love touching you, Harley. I love everything about you and your body, and how hot you are. I love how you want me,” he says, his finger gliding across me, making me hotter and hungrier for him. I raise my hips for him, inviting him to thrust a finger inside me. But he shakes his head, and captures my lips with his, consuming me in a devastating kiss, plundering my mouth with his tongue, rubbing his finger between my legs, depleting my brain of everything and anything but this moment in time, our bodies reconnecting, as he shows me he’s mine and I’m his, and we’re ours.

He pulls apart, and his eyes are glassy. He’s just as drunk on me as I am on him. “Wow,” he says. “How is it that kissing you only gets better?”

I shrug. “Because you like me?”

“Wrong answer. I fucking love you like crazy,” he says. “And I want to be inside you so badly.”

He removes his hand from between my legs and slides his erection against me, and I scoot up on the bed because I love the missionary position and I don’t care if that makes me boring. I love when he’s on top, and I can feel the weight of him on me, his hard body against mine, filling me, his arms pinning me.

“No.” He shakes his head, grips my hipbone between his thumb and fingertip that’s still slick with me. “I told you I had something just for you. Something I’ve never done before.”

I raise an eyebrow as he shifts me to my side, so I’m lying on the bed facing him. He says, “We’ll do it like this, okay?”

Heat flares through me like a comet, its tail burning bright and hot through all my organs. “Yes, it’s more than okay.”

He hitches up my thigh, rests it on his hip, then moves closer to me, rubs his hard cock against my center. I shift so my knee is draped further over his leg, and I’m even more open for him. Then he slides into me, slowly at first, inch by inch until he’s all the way in. He groans loudly, and I draw a deep breath, savoring the intensity of him filling me.

He grips my hip tightly, and starts to move inside me. It’s a strange position, side by side, face to face. There’s not a lot of room to spread out, or move around. But that’s the point, I’m learning. You need to stay close to stay connected. It’s terribly intimate, and he’s so deep inside, but he’s taking his time, each stroke, each move he treats like it’s a luxury, like he wants to feel the very atoms of every single second, and make them last.