He groans, coming to lie alongside me, one arm slipping under my neck so that my face is nestled against his shoulder as his other hand nudges my legs farther apart, leaving room for his questing fingers.

And questing they are, dipping down slightly to my moisture before slicking back up again to rub at my clit.

I moan, spreading my legs farther, as the hand that was behind my neck comes around to cup my face, holding my head immobile as his fingers dip and explore.

“That’s it,” he whispers as I start to move against his hand. “Use me. Use my fingers to make you feel good.”

I bite my lip, wondering if he means what I think he means. I decide to go for it anyway, sliding my hand down to where his strokes me. Resting my hand on the back of his, I show him what I want. When I want him to sink a finger into me, when I want him to tease lightly, when I want him to circle.

“Jesus, Jenny,” he says as I grind myself against the heel of his hand. “How’d you get so hot?”

My only response is to grip his hand harder, pushing it into me as I arch my hips up, moving harder, faster until I explode with a sharp cry against his hand, spilling onto his fingers.

I’m not sure how long I flit there in that space in between orgasmic ecstasy and post-orgasmic bliss, but when I finally open my eyes again, he’s watching me. Quietly. Patiently.

I start to turn toward him, my hand sliding down his body, but he stops me, catching my hand with his, bringing it back up and trapping it between our chests.

“You didn’t sleep with that pop douchebag, did you? You couldn’t have. One night you told me you hadn’t slept with anyone in over a year.”

Wordlessly I shake my head.

“And none of the other guys that claim to have slept with you either.”

Another shake of my head.

“How many?” he asks softly.

I look away, but he uses his knuckle to nudge my chin back to him. “How many, princess?”

I lick my lips nervously. “Two.”

His eyes glitter with something fierce. “Who? When?”

“This is embarrassing,” I whisper.

He merely stares at me.

I sigh. “My high school boyfriend. Senior year. We broke up when he went to college and I pursued the music thing.”

“And the other?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I was nineteen. Maybe twenty. Went out with my friend to a club. First time, fake IDs, the whole clichéd bit, right down to too many tequila shots. Woke up in a guy’s bed, and…” I shrug. “That was number two.”

“Do you remember it?”

“There was a lot of tequila,” I admit, not feeling particularly proud of that night, but refusing to be completely ashamed of it either.

“So you’ve slept with one guy that you remember.”

I nod.

“And how was that?”

I laugh into his chest. “Oh my God, could you be nosier? I’m not asking you about how many women there’ve been.”

“Was he good?” Noah asks, his tone both curious and possessive.

“Not really,” I whisper. “It was at his parents’ house when they were at a dinner party. Neither of us really knew what we were doing. He was sweet, but it was…unremarkable.”

His fingers drift over my arm, his eyes trailing the motion. “No wonder you’re so fucking tight.”

“From curious to crude in two seconds straight,” I say. “Impressive.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says softly, looking as tender as I’ve ever seen him. “I meant that you feel good. Right. Mine.”

He looks as stunned by the last word as I feel, and he glances away before I can read any more into it.

“I don’t care if you’ve slept with a hundred men,” he says gruffly. “You know that, right?”

I smile, trying to disguise how much his words mean to me. How much I needed to hear them. “If you say so. Is the inquisition over?” I ask.

“It is,” he says. “I have all the information I need to make my decision.”

“What is it that you’re deciding?”

“Whether or not to do this.” He pulls back, sliding down my body, slowly, kissing every part of me that he passes in his downward descent.

I’m no dummy. I know where he’s going, and my brain orders me to stop him, yet the words don’t come out.

But then he passes my throbbing center, lips skimming over my thighs, brushing the inside of my knees before moving back up again.

He looks up at me, his eyes so full of promise, so full of need, that my intention to tell him to stop dies on my lips.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to, Jenny,” he says. “I won’t move even an inch closer if you don’t say the words.”

My breathing quickens as I realize both the gift and the tremendous torture he’s handing me. It’s my choice. I can cross this line with Noah, a guy I’ve known only a few weeks, a guy I might never see again after I resume my normal life.

Or I can wait for…

For who?

For what?

Somewhere in my heart, I know that it doesn’t get better than what I’m feeling right now. Not just the physical pleasure, although that’s certainly there, in a major way. But the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, the thoroughness with which he takes care of me and Dolly, the quiet goodness of him…

I want this. I want it all with him, no matter how short our time together.