“Oh, that?” I winked, then kissed her sensuously across the mouth, still tasting her, not wanting the taste to go away, afraid that after tonight it would. “That was round one.”

“How many rounds are there?” Her eyes were hopeful.

“For you?” I pulled back. “As many as you can handle. And then . . . more.”

“Ian?”

“What?”

“I want to make you feel that way.”

“You do.” And that was the truth. I was nursing an erection, a.k.a. blue balls of steel, and she did make me feel that way, just by allowing me to pleasure her, to bring her to the brink of madness.

Blake leaned up on her elbows, then reached for me. “I want you to feel that way . . . right now.”

“Blake . . .” I wanted sex. I always wanted sex. From her? I wanted endless hours of sex. But . . . somewhere along the way, I’d completely fallen for more than just the promise of filling her tight body. I wanted more. I craved something beyond the physical, and it was scaring the shit out of me.

Because she should say no to me. I didn’t deserve her. Maybe that was it—I knew I didn’t deserve her.

“Now.” She tugged me against her, and my body bucked in response. I nearly impaled her by accident, something that had never happened to me before.

I settled between her thighs, every part of me throbbing, aching.

“Blake . . .”

She was grabbing for me, touching me everywhere, driving me insane as she kissed along my neck.

I hovered over her, positioning myself, alternating between wanting to fill her to the hilt, and wanting to back off and lock her in the bathroom. “You have to be sure.”

“Please.” She bit down on my lip. “It’s you, I want you.” Her hands tugged my hair as she pulled my head down, capturing my lips between hers. Damn, she was a fast learner, considering she hadn’t been able to kiss a few weeks ago. “Ian . . .”

“I hate David,” I admitted. Why the hell was I saying his name in bed?

“Okay.” She kissed me again and again and again.

I lost myself in her kisses.

I allowed it.

Our mouths fused together as I bruised her lips over and over. The sensation of her nails running up and down my back was the purest ecstasy. I reached between our bodies, pressing my palm against her core.

Blake let out a little moan.

I jerked back and looked into her eyes. “Rule number nine.”

Hazily, she stared back at me. “I thought you said rules in bed prevented orgasms?”

“Rules,” I said, my voice husky as I racked my brain for a way to ask her about condoms. I’d never been in a situation like this before, and it’s not like I was still in high school and had my very first condom purchase just hanging out in my wallet.

Blake was so wet, ready for me.

“Blake, I need . . .” Swallowing my absolute need to be already inside her, I cleared my throat and tried again. “Condom?”

With a lazy smile, she pointed to the nightstand. “I didn’t presume, I mean, ever, but this used to be Gabs’s room, and—”

“Stop”—I jerked open the drawer—“right there.”

She giggled as I ripped open the wrapper and covered my length. Eyes wide, she reached for me, but I batted her hand away.

“If it’s your first time,” I whispered, ignoring her confused look and slowly inching myself into her, “make it count. And focus on me, only me.”

With clenched teeth, I pushed forward.

She let out a little gasp and nearly fell off the bed. Her eyes fluttered closed and then opened again. “If protection’s rule nine, what’s rule number ten?”

Slowly, I started to move. “Never forget it’s me who makes you feel this way.”

“That’s a rule?”

“My new rule.” I arched back and then slammed forward again. “You’re mine, Blake, you hear me? Mine.”

“Yes.” She gasped, pulling my head down, her lips meeting mine with desperation. “Yes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I wish I could say that I was a gentleman, that I let her sleep it off and then very tenderly drew her bath and asked, “Where does it hurt?”

Instead, I’d officially lost my damn mind.

And made love to her three more times before finally collapsing halfway on top of her.

I was in such a deep state of exhaustion that I’m sure if the world had somehow ended between five and six a.m. and the only way to save it was to join forces against the zombies with Channing Tatum, I would have said, “Pass,” yawned, and turned on my side to get a few more minutes of sleep.

Hours later, the sun was starting to seep into the room. I stretched across the bed and felt an empty cold spot beside me.

Another first.

I jerked up and came face-to-face with a very pissed-off best friend, who was holding a pillow above her head as a look of pure hate crossed her features.

“Gabs.” I held up my hands. “Were you going to suffocate me?”

“Thought about it,” she said through clenched teeth. “For at least ten minutes.”

“Shit.” I rubbed my eyes, my voice hoarse from sleep. “Are you telling me you hovered over me with a killer pillow and contemplated murdering me for a whole ten-minute period?”

“Yes.” She didn’t look apologetic. Her eyes were wild; her auburn hair was pulled back into a baseball cap. She looked like she’d just returned from her morning run.