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My fingers aren't steady on the buckle. It takes me two tries. He doesn't help, doesn't rush me, only stands between my knees breathing hard while I work the leather loose and pop the button on his jeans. I push the flannel off his shoulders, and he pulls his undershirt over his head and drops it on the floor with my clothes.

The lamplight catches the silver chain against the dark hair on his chest. He's all hard muscle, broad and solid, a man built from years of hauling crates out of the stockroom.

I lower the zipper. He shoves his jeans and boxers down, and his cock springs free, thick and flushed and much bigger than I'm ready for.

"Oh," I say.

His mouth twitches. "Oh?"

"That's a lot of…that's a lot."

"We go slow." He takes my face in both hands. "Slow as you need. You tell me."

I nod. Then I wrap my hand around him, because I want to know. He's hot and silky over steel, and he hisses through his teeth and drops his forehead against mine.

"Noelle." It comes out strangled.

He takes my wrist, gently, and moves my hand to his shoulder. Then he reaches past me and puts his fingers on the carousel's key again.

"Again?" I whisper.

"Again," he says, and winds it.

The waltz starts. The horses rise.

He pulls me to the edge of the counter and fits himself against me, hot and blunt where I'm still soaked and sensitive, and he looks me straight in the eyes.

"Look at me," he says. "Don't look anywhere else."

I don't.

I don't think about Tuesday at all.

6

ARCH

Ifit myself against her, the head of my cock sliding through the slick heat of her, and every muscle in my body locks down hard.

She's looking at me, just as I told her to, her eyes wide and her mouth soft and open. The carousel is turning again at her elbow, the same bright waltz filling the dark shop, horses rising and falling in the lamplight. Snowflake paper rocks gently on its dowel above her head.

Her cardigan and T-shirt are somewhere behind her on the counter, the plain white bra with them. Her jeans and boots are on the floor with my undershirt. My own jeans are shoved down around my thighs, boots still on. She's completely bare for me, thighs spread around my hips, and I can feel how wet she still is from my mouth.

"Look at me," I say again, voice rough. "Don't look anywhere else."

She doesn't.

I push in slow.

The first inch is tight—God, so tight—and she makes a small sound that goes straight to the base of my spine. I stop, breathing hard. Waiting.

"Okay?" It comes out strained.

She nods, fingers digging into my shoulders. "Keep going."

I give her more. Another slow inch. Then another. Her body opens for me in tiny increments, hot and clenching, and I have to grit my teeth against the urge to drive in all at once.

She's smaller than I am, soft where I'm hard, and the feel of her stretching around me is almost too much. I watch her face the whole time. Her lips part on a shaky breath, but her eyes stay locked on mine even when it gets intense.