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I nod. I want him—all of him—but a sudden bout of fear locks my muscles in place.

Time stands still as he climbs out of the Jeep and opens my door. He slips his hand in mine, and we walk hand in hand to the front entrance. My heart stutters as he unlocks the dead bolt and ushers me inside.

“Is anyone home?” I ask, taking in the quiet luxury of the unadorned foyer.

With its herringbone oak floors and soaring windows, the house is clearly expensive, but the furnishings are modest, as if they haven’t lived here long enough to fully decorate.

“Manny had another client after us, and my aunt should be at the coffee shop all day, so no.”

Another spike of nervousness threatens to take my legs out from under me as Jordan wordlessly guides me through the foyer and past the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of the east side of the house.

“My room . . .” Jordan’s voice trails off as he pushes open the door at the end of the hall.

Sunlight streams through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the stark space. Like the foyer, the room isn’t decorated—no art on the dark-navy walls, no rugs covering the pristine white oak floor. Nothing but a king-size mattress and box spring tucked against the wall on one side of the room and a tall dresser and wooden desk with a swivel chair on the other. And in the dead center of the room, like a lone soldier standing guard, he has a freestanding red leather punching bag with a clean white towel slung across the top.

Several vintage band shirts lay scattered across the unmade bed as if he had a hard time deciding what to wear this morning. My favorite red leather pants lay across the back of the chair. But none of that matters as he guides me into the room and shuts the door behind us.

He scoops up the T-shirts from the mattress and tosses them into a drawer, then clears his throat. “Home sweet home.”

Butterflies attack my insides as my gaze bounces from a stack of vintage vinyl albums piled on top of his dresser to the open laptop on his desk to the rumpled sheets on his bed. My heart skips as I imagine the feel of cool linen on my bare skin.

“Kennedy?”

Jordan’s strained voice pulls me from my fantasy, and my gaze settles on his parted lips. “No PlayStation?”

He laughs. “No Xbox, either.”

“Whatever shall we do?” The question hangs in the charged air between us like a challenge.

He cradles my face in his trembling hands. “I’ll do as much or as little as you’re comfortable with. You’re calling the shots here.”

I rise up on my toes and bring my lips to his, tangling my fingers in his dark silky hair.

Unlike in the Jeep, the kiss is sweet, tentative at first, but quickly deepens into something urgent . . . something frantic.

The world outside ceases to exist. There is no list. No competition. No line of guys vying for my attention or best friends keeping score. It’s just the two of us—nervous, eager, and lost in each other.

Nerves forgotten, we stumble backward, our limbs entwined as we collapse onto the bed, still attached at the mouth. Jordan’s room fades away, leaving nothing but the taste of his lips and the warmth of his body pressing mine into the mattress.

His kisses slow to an almost torturous pace as he skates a hand down my hip and across my stomach, exploring my soft curves with languorous strokes. “Is this okay?”

“Yesss,” I groan, wanting more but unsure of how to ask for what I want.

His roving hand slips under the hem of my shirt, pushing up the material as his fingers glide over my ribs, then higher to my bra. He drags my shirt the rest of the way off and replaces his fingers with his mouth, skimming his lips across the thin silk covering my breasts.

I plunge my fingers into his dark hair, my heart hammering while he continues his thorough exploration, flicking his tongue over each hardened peak through the slippery fabric. Right when I think my soul might actually leave my body, his mouth finds mine again, kissing me until I can’t remember my own name.

“Jordan . . .”

His name tumbles from my lips as he climbs over me, straddling my knees as he fumbles with the button on my jeans, slipping it through the hole before skating the zipper down. Then he pauses with his fingers hooked on either side of the open waistband.

“May I?” he asks, and his heated gaze creates a flutter low in my belly.

I nod, but he doesn’t move a muscle—arching an eyebrow as if waiting for verbal confirmation of my consent.

I moan out a whispered “Yes,” afraid I might orgasm from the intensity of his gaze alone.

His hands tremble as he removes my jeans and tosses them aside.