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He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard.

“Tell me if I'm going too fast.”

She shook her head, her fingers threading through his hair. “You're not.”

Her voice was low and husky, sending another pulse of heat through him. He kissed her throat, the dip beneath her ear, and the slope of her shoulder. She shivered when he lingered at the sensitive place where her neck met her collarbone.

Her hands found the button of his jeans, and he helped her, working the zipper, kicking the denim aside. Then her fingers were at her own waist, and he watched her shed the rest of her clothes with a mixture of reverence and raw need that left him almost dizzy.

When she lay back, he reached for the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. A fresh box of condoms sat on top, the pharmacy receipt still tucked beneath it.

He held up the box and gave her a wry look. “Before you say anything, I wasn't being presumptuous. Just hopeful.”

Amanda chuckled. “Wishful thinking, Sheriff?”

“Something like that. Figured it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.”

“I'm certainly not complaining.”

He slipped a finger under the cardboard flap, but the glued seal wouldn’t budge. Frowning, he tried the other end with no better results.

For crying out loud. He'd handled armed suspects, high-speed pursuits, and more emergencies than he could count, yet a damn cardboard box was apparently beyond his abilities tonight.

A soft laugh escaped Amanda. “Having a little trouble there?”

“Whoever designed this thing ought to be arrested.”

That only amused her more. He yanked the flap again, finally tearing it open along with a good portion of the cardboard. So much for making a smooth impression.

“See?” He held up the mangled box. “Piece of cake.”

Amanda reached for him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Come here.”

He pulled a condom from the box, then tossed the rest onto the nightstand and leaned down to kiss her. If he'd been nervous about tonight before, watching her enjoy his ridiculous struggle had done wonders for that.

He rolled it on his throbbing cock, as his balls hung heavy below.

As he prepared to join her, a fresh wave of nerves caught him off guard. Good Lord, he was fifty-four years old, not some teenager about to have sex for the first time. Yet he felt exactly like that. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman, and suddenly he wondered whether his body would cooperate or he'd make a complete fool of himself. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint her, especially after everything that had brought them to this moment.

He gave himself a mental kick. Amanda hadn't given him any reason to doubt himself, and he'd be damned if he let his own insecurities spoil something they'd both been anticipating.

When she lay back, bare and unguarded, he stretched out over her, skin to skin for the first time.

The contact shocked him—not just the pleasure, but the intimacy, the rightness, and the sense that some part of him had been waiting for this without knowing it.

He kissed his way down her throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast, and when he closed his mouth around her nipple, she gasped, arching into him. He licked and sucked, teasing her with his tongue until she was breathless and her hands fisted in the sheets.

He moved lower, tracing the curve of her hip, her thigh, and when he slipped his fingers between her legs, he found her slick and ready. He stroked her, slow and deliberate, circling her clit until she moaned, until her hips chased his hand and she begged, “Please.”

He crawled back up her body, and she wrapped her arms around him, her legs tangling with his. After lining his cock up with her entrance, he sank into her slowly, giving her time to adjust, while watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting on a soft exhale, and when he was fully sheathed inside her, she opened them again and looked at him with something that felt too vast to name.

He began to move, setting a rhythm that matched the unhurried pace they’d established all evening. Every stroke drew a response from her—a shift of her hips, her fingers gripping his hair, or a breathless sound against his ear. He responded to each one, learning her and giving back what she gave him.

The room seemed to narrow around them, the soft lamp light and distant music fading until only she remained. Only this. Only the mounting pressure building low in his spine.

He shifted his angle, and she gasped, her head falling back against the pillow. He did it again, and again, until she was trembling beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders, and when she finally broke, crying out his name, he followed her over the edge, burying his face in the curve of her neck and letting go of everything he'd been holding back.