“Astrid,” he said on a long exhale against her hair. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long, long time. Would you like to know what else I’ve wanted to do?”

At that point, she lost her mind a little.

She wasn’t sure whose mouth found whose first. All she knew was they were kissing, and it wasn’t the same as the first time. It was rough and desperate, and she wasn’t nervous. She was ravenous. Aching. Feral. She couldn’t get enough of him.

His tongue pushed between her lips, thick and wide, and it rolled against hers, testing. Asking. She answered the call and deepened the kiss as his hands roughly cupped the back of her head and held her in place. No one had ever kissed her like that. No one. She wasn’t young and fragile. Not made of glass. Not weak. Not in need of protection. She was strong, and he wasn’t afraid to push back against that strength.

That felt glorious. Dizzyingly so.

“Bo,” she said, almost a moan, when he pulled back.

“Come here,” he whispered. “I need you here.”

He needed her. Stars, that was exciting. Before she understood what he was asking, he’d wrapped an arm around her back and was pulling her onto his lap. Her brain wasn’t working. Did he want her to sit? No, he didn’t. She felt his hand on the inside of her knee as he rearranged her, pulling one leg over his lap until she straddled him.

“Your stitches . . .” she whispered.

“Damn the stitches.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You make the pain disappear.” He ran both hands down her back and urged her closer. So close, her skirt hiked up above her knees. Her legs made a vee around his hips—around the tented fly of his pants that made her heart pound wildly. He was looking, too. He didn’t seem to care that she was staring, but then, it was a sight he got to see all the time. For her, it was novel: he wanted her, and he didn’t care that she knew.

But he wasn’t the only one not caring. Her legs were wantonly exposed to his heavy gaze, and she didn’t bother to pull down her skirt. His hands left her back to smooth up her thighs, fingers splayed. Slowly. Touching the silk like he was savoring the feel of it on his palms. Like he was the one receiving pleasure instead of giving it.

“Make me stop,” he murmured.

“Not on your life.” Did he really think she would? Why was he going so slow? He was killing her. Tormenting her on purpose.

God help her, but she loved it.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. It was a dream, and yet it was real.

He got to the rolled band of her stockings and stopped before he touched bare flesh. A muscle jumped in her leg. He hooked his thumbs beneath her garters. Tugged them. Wound them around his thumbs until they tightened sharply. As if he were imprisoning himself. Or her. Both of them.

If he wanted to punish himself, she would help. His hands were bound, but hers weren’t. She kissed him again, holding his face in her hands. Small kisses on the ever-merry indented corners of his mouth that often curled up when he was being playful. A lick across his bottom lip, which was full and swollen from kissing hers. He trapped her tongue and briefly sucked it into his mouth. As he did, her hand dropped away from his face.

She followed his shirt buttons, one by one, fingers lightly grazing over the bump of his bandage. She didn’t want to hurt him. She just wanted to find skin. There. Where his shirttails split. His stomach was warm and smooth. She traced the furrows between his muscles, the dip of his belly button. The trail of dark hair that arrowed down into his pants. And then she ran her open hand over his fly.

Beneath her fingers, he was hot, thick, and exceptionally hard. She stroked him through the fabric and was amazed. He moaned into her mouth, which made her feel powerful, so she kissed him harder and gave him another long up-and-down pet, and then pulled her hand away.

His breath came out slow and shaky against her lips.

Her stockings tightened, biting into her thighs. Then with a snap, he released them. He slung strong arms around her waist and roughly pulled her closer, until the damp center of her silk tap pants pushed against his fly. His hips thrust up; his arms pulled her down. He dragged her over the length of him—so hard, she could feel every button in his fly pop! pop! pop! against her most sensitive flesh.

“Astrid,” he murmured. “My little huli jing.”

She had no idea what he’d said. Something in Cantonese, and it sounded positively bawdy, so she’d have to ask him later. But not now, because she was reeling from the sudden toppling of all the power she’d wielded over him. She wanted it back.

Without thinking, she let her head drop to the space between his damp collar and his neck, opened her mouth, and bit him. Not hard, but hard enough. His hips jerked upward, pushing his erection against her. Making her shudder. Making her feel powerful again. And at the same time maddeningly desperate.

“Mghm,” he murmured, inhaling sharply as his muscles seized.

She drew back. “Oh God.”

“It’s . . . all right,” he said, wincing. “Just got a little carried away, perhaps.”

Perhaps? She lifted up his shirt to check his bandage. A tiny of circle of blood showed through. The sight sobered her enough to shift off his lap into the driver’s seat.

Their surroundings zipped back into focus. The windows were completely fogged up, and they were parked in Chinatown in the middle of the night. A few seconds more and she’d have been tearing off her own lingerie. He’d just had seven stitches and was high as a kite on pain pills. What was the matter with her?