His mouth sought mine, the contact rough, raw, and he drank me in as though my kiss were the only thing keeping him alive. An exquisite pressure trembled throughout me as he buried himself over and over, urging me closer to the edge with each thrust, with each powerful stroke. The air disappeared from the room as his erection milked the tide swelling inside me, summoned the wave of lava, drew it closer and closer until it burst through and crashed against my bones, surging like a boiling sea throughout me.

He groaned in agony as he met his own cl**ax with a shiver of ecstasy; then he lay on top of me, breathless and spent. When he went to push off me, I wrapped every available limb I had around him and kept him locked to me. He relaxed at last and I felt everything negative, every doubt, every grain of insecurity, every fragment of anxiety drain out of him. I kissed his brow and ran my fingertips over his back and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was happy. A ray of hope broke through. Maybe, just maybe, the lion could be tamed. Then again, did I want to tame such a wildly passionate beast? Such a stunningly feral being? I’d have to think on that one.

We eventually found a bed with a mattress that felt like clouds. I lay there curled in Reyes’s arms. His warmth and steady breathing lulled me into a state of utter relaxation, but I couldn’t quite sleep. Not because I wasn’t at peace. Just the opposite. I’d never felt so at peace. So at ease. So at home. His presence was like a salve that soothed my frenzied thoughts, that calmed the roiling seas within me, and I didn’t want to miss that feeling for a second, so I lay there and drank it in.

His room didn’t have much yet. It didn’t even have a clock, but it did have a bed, a couple of nightstands with lamps, a chest of drawers, and a chair in one corner with a copy of a Jack Williamson novel in it. Scattered on the floor was everything from George R. R. Martin and Tolkien to Ursula Le Guin and Asimov. He was a reader. And he liked fantasy and science fiction. It was like he was created for me and me alone. His taste, his temperament, his utter perfection. Admittedly lots of other women liked those things as well, but I chose to believe he really was created just for me. The only thing missing from his collection was Sweet Savage Love. I’d have to lend him a copy.

On the other side of his bedroom was mine. Our headboards butted against the same wall. Or they would butt against the same wall if I had a headboard. The one that came with my bed had an unfortunate incident one night when I’d mixed tequila and champagne with a rock band from Minnesota. In all honesty, I don’t think I was even in the room when my headboard bit the dirt. Possibly not even in the apartment. I woke up in the stairwell with a new Blue Öyster Cult T-shirt and a slight case of internal bleeding. But I recovered quickly after crawling back to my apartment and kicking out the wayward souls who’d taken over my digs, including a guinea pig and an iguana named Sam.

Honestly, who brings an iguana to a party?

I lay there a long while, basking in the warmth of my man before easing out from under his arm and searching out a bathroom. I was just going to pee, then run back for round two of snuggle-palooza. Then I saw his shower. And I knew the true meaning of happiness. Two minutes later, I was thoroughly enjoying a massage beneath a waterfall made of stone and marble. Jets of water pulsated over my skin and kneaded my muscles. I named this ingenious invention George and decided to leave my own shower, Hector, for him. Some loves were just meant to be.

I turned to see Reyes standing at the shower entrance.

“It looks good on you,” he said, his full mouth forming an appreciative grin. “The shower.” His arms were crossed, his gaze sultry, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. He stood in all his na**d glory. Long limbs and sinuous muscle molded into absolute perfection. Like he’d been sculpted onto this plane then airbrushed, the artist clearly fond of fluid lines and deep shadows.

“I thought it might be a bit much,” he continued, “but I’ve changed my mind.”

“This?” I asked, astounded that he would question George’s worth. “This… this masterpiece?” I threw myself against his stone exterior. George’s. Not Reyes’s. “How could you ever doubt him?”

“Him?”

“George.”

“His name is George?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I just named him.” I tried to snap my fingers, but they were wet so I came away with more of a squishy thud than a snap. I’d take it. “Keep up, mister, or before you know it, life will pass —” I squeaked when he stepped inside and drew me against his chest – the airbrushed one – then bent down to nibble on my neck. An electric current shot down my spine before I came to my senses. “Hey, wait,” I said, pulling back, “you are the son of Satan. Maybe we need a safe word.”

His grin morphed into something wickedly charming. “Okay, how about, ‘Oh, my god, it’s so big.’ ”

Laughter burst out of me before I could stop it. Not that it wasn’t. “That would be a safe phrase, but okay.” I thought about it, then said, “How about ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ ”

He nuzzled my neck again, causing a surge of pleasure to cascade over my skin. “That sounds more like a challenge.”

“Good point. But it does get the adrenaline pumping.”

He pushed between my legs. “Among other things.”

An hour later, we were sprawled on a rug on his bathroom floor using towels as pillows. I lay staring at the ceiling, stewing in astonishment for several reasons. First, I had no idea a showerhead had so many creative uses. Second, Reyes’s stamina was a thing of beauty. Third, I was beginning to feel him on a deeper level. In the same way I could glean emotion off him, off anyone, I was beginning to feel all the little intricacies of his physical reaction to stimuli. The same pleasures that raced across his skin, that bucked inside him, that burst as he reached orgasm, rushed through me with a supernatural intensity. I had never experienced anything like it.