With the number of girls who throw themselves at him, I could see where my not tearing my clothes off the second he looked at me is unusual. Which is kind of sad. My stomach twists at the thought of all of the women he’s been with. I wonder if any of them meant anything, or if they were all just sex. I hope again that I’m not some kind of conquest for him, something to play with and discard. My heart might not be able to take that, because it already feels too involved with this man.

He must read something in my expression, because he skims my cheek with light fingers. “I mean it when I say this is different.”

“Different how?”

He picks up my hand, bringing my knuckles to his lips. “You’re all the good things I didn’t know I was missing.” He presses my palm against his cheek. “And like I told you, I don’t let anyone put their hands on me. Not ever.”

I don’t really understand how that works—how you can have sex with someone and not let them touch you. “Why not?”

“I don’t usually like how it feels.”

It’s a vague answer. And though I wait for a moment, he doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

“But I like how this feels a lot.” He moves my hand down his chest, but stops there, rather than guiding me to touch him where I’m sure it would feel the best.

“That’s good, because I really like the way you feel.” I trail my fingertips lower, and his abs contract when I pass his navel. I skim the shaft, then wrap my hand around him, squeezing lightly before I give him a slow stroke.

“Fuck.” His eyes close as his mouth drops. When he opens them again, they’re heavy. He cups my face and sucks my bottom lip between his teeth as I continue to stroke him.

“I want in you again.” His tongue sweeps my mouth. He tastes like artificial strawberries and lime.

When I moan my agreement, he pulls back.

“Here is okay?”

My gaze flickers to the darkness on the other side of the window. “Yes.”

“Want or let?” he asks.

It’s my new favorite question. “Both.” I’ve never been much for adventurous sex, usually sticking to beds and sometimes a couch, but I’ve never been wanted like this before.

Lance drops his hands to the still-fastened buttons on my/his shirt, popping them open. He pushes the sides apart again, revealing my nipples. Light fingers circle them before he bends to kiss and suck. Straightening, he follows the contour of my waist and grips my hips, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter.

He covers my hand stroking his erection with his own. The deep, almost pained groan that leaves him when he tightens his grip makes heat flare low in my belly. His eyes drop from my face to where we’re holding him. He shifts his hips forward.

I suck in a gasp that comes out a moan when he rubs the head of his erection over my clit.

“Does that feel good?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper-sigh.

He hums. “It feels fucking amazing for me.”

He keeps rubbing the head over my clit in slow, easy circles, occasionally sliding down so the head probes low and then moving back up. I squirm and edge forward a little more, wanting what he keeps saying he can’t wait for.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “All the condoms are upstairs.”

For a split second I consider going without, but it’s a bad idea. I don’t even know what this is between us yet. “I guess we should move this upstairs then.”

Lance grunts his agreement. Peeling our hands off his erection, he drapes my arms over his shoulders. “Hold on.”

He lifts me off the counter. I shriek and wrap my arms and legs around him. I can feel him, hard against me. He slides one arm under my butt and nabs the gummies, then carries me out of the kitchen and back up the stairs, to my bed.

CHAPTER 19

ADDICT

LANCE

Addictions run in my family. My mom is addicted to alcohol and violence, at least when she stops taking her medication. My dad is addicted to work and avoidance.

I have a variety of vices I try to keep from becoming addictions. It’s not easy because I don’t moderate well. I go from zero to a hundred in the blink of an eye, and bringing me back down or reeling me in is nearly impossible. It’s the worst when I’m drinking.

My new obsession—possibly addiction—is the feel of Poppy. So I’m lying here with her sprawled over my chest—because I’ve rearranged her every time she’s moved away from me and put her back where she belongs—staring at the clock, wondering how long it’s going to be before she wakes up. And whether or not I can reasonably ask for more sex.

It’s nine thirty. I have no idea when her alarm is supposed to go off, or what time her first appointment is. She just said afternoon. Anxiety twists my stomach when I consider the possibility that this isn’t going to happen again with her, that this night is an isolated event, like most of my sexual exploits. Unlike most of my sexual exploits, this time I want it to keep happening. I want desperately to keep her in this bed. I want her hands on me. I want to be inside her. This is a familiar kind of want—but usually I associate it with things that are bad for me.

Poppy doesn’t feel bad for me. She feels good. Which is why I’m almost positive I’m not going to get to hang on to any of this.

I wrap my arm around her and pull her closer. I don’t know why I can handle her touching me when I’ve never been able to handle anyone before. It’s like she connects to some part of me I didn’t know was there. Her lips are parted, her breathing slow and even. Freckles dot the bridge of her nose. Her hair is damp and curling where her face is pressed against my skin. Poppy’s hair is so screwed—a total tangled mess.