I put his hat on the bed beside him, running my fingers through his hair comfortingly. His voice is soft, barely audible—lost in the fabric of my nightgown—and my nipples go taut when he adds, “I’m just so fucking glad you’re here, Sofia.”

One of the perks of being close with a bunch of guys is knowing how they think, understanding the underlying meaning of the words they say.

I roll my eyes. “Of course you’re glad I’m here. You’ve been figuratively kicked in the balls. You’re ego’s bruised.”

And after a man’s crashed and burned, nothing soothes that wounded ego faster than climbing into a new, warm welcoming cockpit.

He lifts his head from my chest and gazes up at me looking adorably bleary eyed, yet sincere. “It’s not just that. I’m not only glad someone is here—I’m glad it’s you.”

Slowly, Stanton’s hands slide lower, cupping my ass, squeezing a muffled moan from my lungs. “Of course, if you want to kiss my bruised . . . ego . . . and make it better—I’m on board with that, too.”

He wiggles his eyebrows and I laugh. His thick hair is soft against my palms as I continue to push my fingers through it, thinking. Weighing my options.

I want him. I always want him. Why shouldn’t I have him? I thought keeping things platonic while I was here would help keep things straightforward. Compartmentalized.

But now, gazing down at that handsome face, those full, grinning lips . . . why shouldn’t I enjoy him while I have him? It’s not like I’m the other woman—Jenny turned him down.

His hands skim and knead, fingers searching, knowing my body so well. The rhythm I like, the secret touches that make me clench and gasp and want.

Why shouldn’t I reap the benefits of what she so stupidly threw away?

It’s only sex. Amazing, hot, physical release. I try to think of a reason I should say no.

And can’t come up with a single one.

I pick his hat up from the bed, placing it on my own head.

Ride ’em cowgirl.

He smirks. And my knees go weak.

“My hat looks good on you,” he drawls.

I stare at his mouth, then smile devilishly. “You know what else looks good on me?”

“What?”

I lean in, close enough to taste him. “You.”

He starts to chuckle, but the chuckle turns into a groan when I kiss him. A tongue-probing, lip-sucking kiss that says I mean business. Stanton’s hands rise, burying in my hair, caressing my face, fingertips brushing my neck. He pulls me closer, moving his mouth across and over mine. He means business, too.

A tender electricity surges between us, and a new, rough affection presses us together. It’s warm and familiar, wild and exciting at the same time and I want to drown in it. I can’t get close enough; I need the contact of his skin more than my lungs need the air they’re screaming for. I tear my mouth away and lift his shirt. As soon as it’s off, he’s pulling at the strap of my nightgown, teeth scraping my shoulder, suctioning the flesh of my collarbone, my neck, hard enough to mar.

I pepper kisses across his bronze chest, running my hands over every sculpted crest, loving how his stomach tightens under my touch as I move lower. My tongue pays homage to the hard nub of his nipple along the way—swirling and flicking—making Stanton hiss. I get on my knees and look up into his eyes as I unbuckle his pants.

He watches me with heavy, hooded lids, knocking the hat from my head, petting my hair, smiling like he has a secret.

There’s a naughty joy—a dirty fucking thrill from being on my knees in front of him, when he yanks at my hair, when he utters the filthiest words. Because Stanton knows exactly what he’s doing—knows what I need. I give him my body, my supplication, and he gives me breath-stealing pleasure in return. He doesn’t rely on my direction. I don’t have to worry about instruction—he’ll get me there gloriously and all on his own.

But I’m not powerless, even on my knees. I give, he takes—but he needs me to give. He’s desperate for me to give—it’s there in the pleading of his eyes, the assertive push of his hand, and the whispered command to fuckin’ hurry. We’re the perfect balance of passion—a heady, equalized mix of desire and fulfillment.

I peel his pants off and push them to the side. Stanton’s cock juts up, thick and ready, exacting all of my attention, waiting to be handled. His dick is a sight to behold—impressive girth, masculine veins, potent length—it deserves to be emulated, sculpted, and revered like a precious piece of art.

I take him in my hand, gripping firmly, stroking slowly from base to tip.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he moans.

For a horrifying moment, I wonder if he’s imagining it’s her fist around him, her blond head bowed at his feet. But then I lick him, up and down, slathering moist desire along the length . . . and it’s my name groaning from his lips.

“Sofia . . .”

Liquid heat suffuses my body at the sound of his voice, wetness gathers between my legs, spurring me on. Driving me to give him this pleasure, to make him writhe, to swallow his moans—to swallow him.

To make him forget why we came—leaving him fixated only on who’s about to make him come.

“I love how hard you are,” I breathe against him, making him twitch in my hand. “I love how you taste.” I place my lips around the head, bulbous and hot. I suck at it, circling my tongue. Then I descend, taking him all the way down, the way I know he loves. I relax my throat, letting him in, breathing through the gag impulse, and swallow—knowing the reflexive muscles will contract tight around him.