Dying a thousand deaths sounds more appealing right now than finishing this conversation.

  “Nope. Don’t stop now.” He must see me waffling. “The Camilla Moretti I know goes after what she wants. Whether it’s a kiss in a bar. A driver she wants to go viral. And this. Whatever this is.”

  “There are some things that . . . I want to have sex. Sex with you.” Fucking hell. “Is that better?”

  He makes me wait for a response. He takes a painstakingly slow time to do so. “So we went from me helping you find your sexuality to you wanting to have sex. I mean . . . that escalated quickly.”

  “They go hand in hand.”

  “Um. Okay. Sure. I can see the correlation, but . . .” He hangs his head and chuckles. Normally I’d be offended but, for some reason, Riggs’s reaction doesn’t make me feel that way. “Care to expand?”

  “It’s . . .” I sputter. Then groan. Then scrunch my nose up. “There was this thing, which caused this other thing that made me . . . never mind.”

  “Sounds like there are a lot of things.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He takes a step closer, his smirk curling up one side of his mouth. “What is? Sex? Sexuality? Owning it? Wanting it?” He shrugs. “Not really.”

  “I’ll pay you.” Fucking hell. Did I just really say that? Desperation makes people say the stupidest things. Case in point, right here.

  “Oh. So you want me as a driver and as a prostitute.” He’s fighting his smile.

  I’m making a disaster of this.

  “No. Not like that. I’d pay you for your time. I mean—”

  “So an escort, a prostitute, and a driver. Got it.”

  “Do you know the courage it took to come down here? How hard it is to ask someone this?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Stop making this harder than it is.”

  “Hard is what you’re asking for, right?”

  “Oh my God.” He’s enjoying this, isn’t he? And he’s going to put me through the paces.

  His Adam’s apple bobs and he coughs out a laugh. “Why?”

  “Why, what?”

  “Why me? Why now? Why—” He motions to his flat as if it’s the third person in this conversation. “This?”

  “Why are you asking so many questions? What guy wouldn’t say yes to sex without strings? To not having to deal with emotions or feelings?” The dare card creeps into my head, but then I push it away. He may have said I wasn’t his type that first night, but every day since then he’s shown me otherwise. And yet, doubt creeps in. Insecurity. I buckle. “You know what? Never mind. Just let me go crawl in a hole and die.”

  But as I try to walk past Riggs, he shifts to block my path and the door. His hands move to my biceps and his voice quiets until I finally look up and meet his eyes.

  “Just let me go. Please.”

  He nods slowly, but his eyes never leave mine. “I know most guys’ dreams are to deflower a virgin, but not me. That’s not what I want to be remembered for. That kind of thing should have strings. Lots of them.”

  It takes a second for what he’s implying to sink in. “No. God. What? I’m not a virgin.”

  The irony in that entire statement. Sex—that I didn’t consent to—is why I’m in this position in the first place. I’ve got past what was done to me but am still trying to understand how the body I was left with feels about being touched.

  “Then what is it?” He looks at me with an intensity that almost makes me want to tell him.

  “It’s . . . does it matter why?”

  He chuckles, and I swear to God it’s the sound of a feather tickling over my skin.

  His nearness.

  His fresh-from-the-shower scent.

  The feel of his hands on my arms.

  The warmth of his breath on my lips.

  “If you’re planning on using me as your fuckboy, then yes, Camilla, it does matter.”

  Nerves own my every move. My every thought. My every reaction.

  “I don’t even know what to say to that,” I whisper.

  “I do.”

  “What?” Tears burn in the backs of my eyes. Why did I do this? Why didn’t I lose my nerve and walk into my flat and lock myself in? This was a grave mistake. One I fear I won’t live down.

  It’s such a weird dichotomy. Wanting him to touch me and knowing he’s probably laughing at me in his head right now. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull a dare card out to put me in my place and scare me off again.”

  “No. I’m going to tell you that you made a slight miscalculation.”

  “About?”

  “There are two things I want, Cami. The one you mentioned—keeping a ride in F1—but I can do that myself.”

  “The other?”

  My nerves skitter through every part of me. I need to leave. I can’t—

  “Camilla. Look at me.” He waits for my eyes to flutter up to his, and the serious expression in his eyes shocks me. “You. You’re the other thing I want.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Camilla

  Me?

  And before I can properly process the thought, Riggs’s lips are on mine. One hand skates up my spine and fists in my hair while the other moves to the small of my back and tugs me against him.

  You. You’re the other thing I want.

  The sensations make their appearances. The ache. The sweet burn. The tightened nipples. The wetness pooling between my thighs.

  “There are rules,” I blurt out, nerves getting the better of me as I push my hands against his chest.

  What if I don’t feel anything?

  What if this doesn’t work?

  He tugs my head back by my hair so I’m forced to stop thinking, and I have to look up into his darkened eyes and arrogant smirk. “Are you going to break out a PowerPoint for me?”

  “When you’re with me, there’s no one else.”

  “Stop talking, Camilla. I’m about to fuck you. I want to think about how good your pussy is going to feel when I push into you for the first time. I want to think about what sounds you make when you come. Not rules. Now is for fucking. For screaming my name. After is for whatever crash course in Camilla Rules there are. Got it?”

  “Yes.” It’s a breathless syllable of consent and thank God because, what was I thinking talking when all I want to do is get lost in the already overwhelming sensations and we haven’t even started yet?

  Your turn, Camilla.

  Take what you asked for.

  I lean into Riggs and meet his lips. The kiss starts off slow, steady, but there’s an underlying hunger in it. A telltale vibration hinting at how hard he’s holding tight to his control.

  It’s a heady feeling.

  Empowering.

  And I want more of everything.

  His hands cuff my wrists against his chest so that our sole focus is our kiss. The meeting of our lips. Our tongues. Our smothered moans and swallowed groans.

  His lips coax me, brand me, tempt me, with the promise of what is to come. And with the knowledge if this is what just his mouth can make my body feel—then I might combust when we’re skin to skin.

  Each kiss grows more urgent than the next.

  Each tug of my lip or touch of our tongues creates more desperation.

  He releases my hands and the pent-up need to touch, to be touched, explodes in an all-out war to see who can touch each other’s skin the fastest.

  It’s calloused fingertips up my rib cage as I pull my shirt over my head.

  It’s stuttered breaths as I scrape my fingernails over that perfect V of his and then shove his sweats down so his cock can spring free.

  It’s even more gorgeous than I remember.

  It’s his hiss when he sees me shirtless. “Christ, woman. You’re gorgeous.”

  We stand like this—inches apart—for a few seconds as anticipation races through my veins.

  And then from one beat to the next, we launch ourselves at each other, meeting somewhere in the middle. We’re a mass of hands and tongues and commands and haste.

  Clothes prevent what we want the most. To touch. To taste. To see. And so we’re discarding them as fast as we can, all the while trying to kiss our way through the delayed gratification.

  His sweats get kicked off. And his fingers find their way beneath my panties as he pushes my pants down.

  “Yes.” It’s a strangled cry as his fingers part me, play with me, enter me.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he mutters before his mouth slants over mine again. “Stunning.” A slide of his tongue down the curve of my neck. “About to get fucked.” His chuckle rumbles against the pulse on my throat and reverberates through me.

  But I don’t need words.

  I don’t need seduction.

  There’s just him doing exactly what I asked him to do—make me feel. Overwhelm me with sensations that I never imagined existed before. I’m like a blind woman seeing color for the first time, and now I want to see the whole damn color chart at once.

  And I’m pretty sure Riggs understands my mewls and moans because he doesn’t relent. He doesn’t give up.

  He’s everywhere at once, hands and teeth and lips and skin, and it’s nowhere near enough to my awakened senses.

  We shift backward somehow, our feet moving as our hearts race, until I bump into a wall. A nervous giggle falls from my lips but quickly shifts to a groan as he dips and takes my nipple in his mouth.

  When he closes his lips around it and sucks, it’s like a mainline to every erogenous zone in my body. At the same time he positions his other hand so his thumb can add friction to my clit.

  It’s a one-two punch that has me bucking into his hand and begging for more.

  The sensations are so much and not enough at the same time.

  I’m greedy. Needy. Desperate for more.

  We stumble backward into the bedroom, our laughs floating through the air. He pushes me back playfully onto the bed as he gets a condom to protect us.

  And as soon as that’s on, he’s stroking his cock and crawling between my thighs. But he stops short of touching me and I suddenly panic.

  “What—”

  “You are . . . Jesus, you’re hot.”

  And just as soon as I settle into his words, I gasp as he slides his cock up and down the length of my slit.

  “Good God, woman.” He groans—the sound an aural aphrodisiac—and uses the head of his cock to spread my arousal all around.

  And then he pushes his way into me, inch by beautiful inch, until he’s sheathed root to tip. Our mutual groan is the only sound in the room, as he lets me adjust and enjoy the feel of him filling me.

  It’s the sweetest of burns and the most pleasurable of aches. Nerve endings spark to life. I’m so overwhelmed with the onslaught of sensations, but it’s the trembling of his hand on my hip that brings me back.

  Riggs’s rein on his constraint is slipping.

  I writhe beneath his touch. Onto his cock. Needing him to move. Trying to cut those reins.

  He hisses “fuck” out into the room seconds before he begins to move. And the minute he does, I sink into the pleasure his cock creates and soar in its haze.

  Every thrust in and pull back out causes a chain reaction of indescribable sensations I’ve never felt and know I’ll only want to feel from here on out.

  “Faster,” I moan as my body begs for more. As my pussy tightens around him.

  “Yes. The answer is always yes,” he groans, his eyes meeting mine, his eyelids heavy with desire. “You’re a fucking goddess. All wet for me. So ready for my cock.”

  He sets a punishing pace, and I can imagine there will be bruising from the way he’s grabbing my hips.

  This. Feels. Insanely. Amazing.

  I close my eyes momentarily and try to let go. To not think. To focus on the action. On the sensations. On the man giving them to me.

  Come on, Cam. It’s never been like this. Felt like this.

  He looks so damn sexy as he rams me higher up the bed. His biceps that flex as he holds my hips. His neck, taut, angry almost. The slap of our skin. The labored breaths.

  “C’mon, Cam. Come for me. Come all over my cock.”

  I want this. I want this so hard.

  My breath grows shallow as my body surges with the unexpected current reverberating through me. It’s like I’ve been shocked but there’s no release point. No way to ease the pressure that’s building like water behind a dam.

  Sweat beads on his forehead, and his body is so fucking tense and his cock swells so big from trying to get me there. From trying to make me come.

  I cry out when the sensations become too much. When I’m overwhelmed and frustrated and everything in between.

  “That’s it, just like that,” he coos, thinking that I’ve climaxed seconds before his strangled, ragged cry fills the room. His body jerks and hands tense as he empties himself. As he claims his hard-fought reward.

  And as I acknowledge I can definitely feel more now, sadly, I’m still broken.

  He leans forward, breathless.

  I did that. I did that to him.

  The look of awe in his eyes staggers me. “Camilla . . .” My name is said with reverence. “We’re doing that again. And again. Damn, you turn me on.” He slides his free hand up my rib cage to rest just beneath my breast. “And those fuck-hot heels you were wearing?”

  “I was wearing them for me.”

  “Fuck that. You’ll be wearing those and nothing else next time when I take you against a wall.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Riggs

  My chest heaves and my heart races as I lie on my back, stare at my ceiling, and will my brain to string together coherent thoughts.

  Jesus Christ.

  I’m not used to wanting and waiting.

  I’m used to wanting and taking.

  This whole time, existence, whatever this has been with Camilla, has been like one drawn-out foreplay. And while I never put much stock in the act, I’m beginning to look at it in a whole new light.

  The woman is . . . fucking incredible.

  That’s not a thought to string together at all.

  She laughs breathlessly and it’s the sexiest fucking sound ever. “Well, I guess I can check off the box for just ask when I have a precarious question.”

  “Ask. Always ask,” I say as I turn on my side, my head on my hand, staring at her profile.

  “Noted.” She smiles but keeps looking at the ceiling. Her bare chest draws my eyes. Dusty pink nipples. Soft-as-sin skin.

  I already want her again.

  “Speaking of always asking. Sounds like you got what you were looking for.” I chuckle. Never had any complaints yet.

  There is a stutter in her breathing. A quick tensing of her muscles. If I weren’t staring right at her, I never would have noticed, but all of a sudden, my ego is in serious jeopardy. “You did come, right?”

  I replay every single thing I can remember about the last thirty minutes, everything up until I virtually blacked out as I came. But it’s the scrunching of her nose and covering of her face with her hands that knock me on my arse.

  She doesn’t have to say a word.

  “Wow. Okay.” Disbelief mars my words as my ego deflates rapidly. I’m becoming defensive about my sex skills. No one has ever complained before. Or did they fake it like Camilla just did? “Um . . .” I exhale audibly, at a loss of what to say for the first time in a long fucking time.

  Camilla must sense my shock because she shifts onto her side and grabs my face in her hands. “It’s not you,” she says, eyes concerned but cheeks still flushed from the sex I thought she was enjoying. Thought being the operative fucking word there. “I promise, Riggs. It’s not you.”

  “It takes two. I assure you, it takes two.”

  “No. Listen to me. Please,” she pleads, suddenly flustered and sounding desperate for me to understand. “It’s me. I’m broken. That’s why . . . that’s why I asked you tonight. For this. For sex.”

  “Broken? I don’t . . . talk to me. Why would you say that? Everything . . .” Worked just fine. Or at least I thought it did.

  Instead of answering, she shakes her head rapidly and starts to get out of bed.

  “No.” I grab her hand and tug her back down, immediately shifting to straddle her. I lace kisses up her bare torso until she wiggles from the sensations. Until she is caught up in them so much so that her eyes shock up to meet mine when I stop.

  Now I’ve got her attention.

  “Lay it on me Moretti. Time for the truth. Did you have an orgasm?”

  Even in the darkened room I can see the emotions war across both her face and her eyes. I think she’s going to stonewall me, but she shakes her head again softly. “Riggs.” Her voice is barely audible as she averts her eyes before fluttering back to mine. “You made me feel things I’ve never felt before. Sensations. Aches. Pleasure. Things I’d resigned myself to believing I’d never enjoy and to me, that’s more than enough.”

  I swear to God, tears well in her eyes. I’m so glad when she blinks them away because I’m a man—I don’t do well with tears.

  “Fuck.” The word is a sigh as I scrub a hand through my hair and try to process what she’s telling me.

  “Sex isn’t like riding a bike. You just don’t get back on it and everything works.”

  “It does if you speak up and tell your partner what you want. How to pleasure you. How to—”

  She snorts. “I could barely ask you for sex, Riggs. Did you expect suggestions when I don’t even know?”

  “No, but I thought . . . never mind what I thought.” When I don’t even know? Her words hit my ears and finally process. “Wait. What did you mean by that?”

  “Nothing.” Her smile is fake, placating. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Camilla. You’re naked beneath me. My cock was just in you. It’s resting on your stomach and already wanting to have you again. Are you telling me that a guy has never made you come?”

  Her cheeks flush and she suddenly grows shy, but in a way that gives me pause. She has a rocking-hot body but wears baggy clothes. Why?

  Why does she seem inexperienced, yet—