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Instead, I simply admire her.

The soft curve of her hips.

The fullness of her breasts.

The smooth expanse of her skin.

The way her chest rises and falls with every ragged breath.

The way she gazes at me with so much desire it nearly brings me to my knees.

I want to remember it all. Want to burn this moment into my mind so deeply that no matter what happens tomorrow, I’ll never forget what it was like to spend the night with Wynter Hayes.

I reach behind my neck and drag my shirt over my head, tossing it onto the floor. She instantly drops her gaze to my chest and down my stomach. When my fingers find the button on my jeans, her pupils widen, her breathing quickening as she watches me with an unwavering intensity.

I slowly undo the button, then drag the zipper down.

Everything about this is fucking torture, especially when she wets her lips. Every instinct I possess screams at me to get on with it already so I can finally feel her.

But I refuse to rush this. Not tonight. I want to savor every second. Every hitch in her breath. Every flicker of anticipation in her eyes. Every soft sound that escapes her throat.

With my stare fixed on her, I toe off my shoes and socks, then push my jeans and boxer briefs down my legs. As I kick them to the side, her gaze drops to my erection, her lips parting.

The heat in her expression nearly snaps my last thread of restraint, but I manage to hold on, although I’m not sure for how much longer.

“Still think of me as the boy next door?” I wrap my hand around my cock and give it a few slow tugs.

“Not even a little.” She gives me a knowing smile as she slides back toward the headboard and lets her knees fall open. “Now come here and prove it.”

That’s all the invitation I need.

I climb onto the bed and crawl between her legs. The instant I feel her body against mine, a groan rips from my throat. She’s so warm. So soft. So goddamn perfect.

Wyatt’s a fucking idiot.

If Wynter were mine, no way in hell would I cheat on her. I’d want to be with her every second of every day. I doubt I’d ever get my fill. Not of her. Not of this.

She slides her hands along my shoulders and down my back, pulling me closer until my lips meet hers. I kiss her deeply as my fingers skim her hip, her waist, the underside of her breast.

“Please, Joshua,” Wynter moans as I circle my hips against her. “I need you inside me. Need to feel you.”

“And you will. But first…”

I kiss my way down her body, trailing my mouth along her neck and collarbone, then stopping at her breasts. I cup one in my hand, and her breath catches.

As I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, a moan falls from her throat, followed by a soft cry when I pinch harder. But it’s not filled with pain. If anything, it’s filled with pleasure.

“First,” I repeat, lowering my mouth toward the tight peak.

But I don’t wrap my lips around it. Don’t flick my tongue across it. Don’t take it between my teeth. Just tease her with my breath as she writhes beneath me.

“First, I want to taste you. Can I do that, Wynter? Can I taste you? Lick every inch of your body? Make you come all over my tongue?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I rasp as I cover her nipple with my mouth, both of us moaning in unison. As if this one touch has released years of pent-up need.

Maybe it has.