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“Aye. Sounds good.”

“What do you fancy?”

“You pick.”

She settles on a romantic comedy, and I make a genuine effort to watch it. There’s a lassie on the screen having a terrible day and a guy who’s obviously going to make it worse before they get together. Problem is, I’m far more interested in Briony than anything happening on the TV.

It doesn’t help matters when she shifts a little closer to me and casually rests her hand on my thigh. Then her thumb starts moving, back and forth, just above my knee.

Jesus. Maybe she’s flirting. Maybe she’s just being Briony. She’s naturally affectionate—the kind of person who talks to bees and plants without thinking twice. One thing I know for sure: it’s pretty fucking distracting, especially since I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her lately.

Then her whole hand starts moving. Slow strokes up my thigh and back down again. Every time it goes up, it goes a wee bit higher.

I try really hard to focus on the film. Then I mentally start going through the different NMFC divisions, naming the fighters in order. But none of it does any good. My cock won’t listen to me, and soon it’s rock hard and trapped at a bad angle.

I try shifting my hips, but it only makes it worse. In the end I give up on dignity and reach down to adjust myself.

Briony’s hand goes still. She glances at my lap, then up at me. “Everything all right? Did the sausage need more space?”

“You’re killing me, flower girl,” I grit out. “Keep doing that and I’m no gonnae be able to keep my hands to myself much longer.”

“Who says I want you to keep your hands to yourself?”

For a moment I just look at her. Then I lean in and kiss her hard.

She meets me without hesitation, one hand curling into my T-shirt. She tastes of wine and honey, and she kisses me back like she’s been waiting all night to do it. Maybe she has. I get a hand in her curls and tilt her head, and she opens for me with a wee sound that goes straight to my dick.

Her other hand slides up my thigh to the top of my jeans. Then she palms me through the denim.

“Fuck,” I breathe into her mouth.

I don’t stop kissing her. Couldn’t if I tried. She squeezes, rubs, and my hips push up into her hand on their own.

Then her fingers find my belt buckle.

I break the kiss, but before I can say anything, she gets in first.

“I’ve had two glasses of wine, Ryan. That’s my third and I’ve barely touched it. Plus, I’ve had a lot of food. I know exactly what I’m doing. The wine’s just given me the nerve to do it.”

“You’re sure this is what you want?”

She pops my button open. “Could I be any clearer?”

“It’s just, we agreed⁠—”

Down goes my zip.

“No sex. Yes, Ryan, I remember. I didn’t want it to just be sex.” She grabs hold of my jeans, and my traitor hips lift off the sofa to help her. She tugs them down.

“We’ve been on dates. We’re getting to know each other. We’ve agreed we’re not seeing anyone else. So now I get to do this.”

She hooks a thumb into the waistband of my boxers and eases them lower a little at a time, her eyes following every inch she uncovers, a wee smile playing at her mouth. Once they’re down past my balls, she yanks them the rest of the way to my ankles.

Christ. Here’s me trying to do the decent thing, and she’s just got my dick out in her living room.

Looking far too pleased with herself, she reaches out and cups my nuts. Wow, no encouragement needed this time.

Gently toying with them, she says, “Let’s have sex, Ryan. I want it, and I’m pretty sure you do too.” She nods at my cock—which couldn’t be any harder—like it’s a piece of evidence. “Provided you’re not planning to hit it and quit it, obviously.”