He didn’t disappoint, and soon his hand landed on my rear with a hard smack. As before, I felt the sting, and gasped in surprise and pain. But then his hand smoothed out the rough edges and those sweet sparks buzzed through me. And then he did it again and again, alternating his blows to get both of my ass cheeks, finding a rhythm that soon had me almost floating and gasping—and my sex throbbing in demanding, unfulfilled longing.

“Now,” Cole said, when the sparks had so consumed me that I felt like I was made of nothing more than electricity. He took my hips and tugged me toward him so that he was standing at the foot of the bed, the tip of his cock pressed against me. “I’m clean,” he said. “I’ve been tested. But do you want me to use a condom?”

“No. No, I want to feel you.” I was on the pill, so I wasn’t worried about pregnancy, and I knew I was clean, too. But I appreciated his control, especially considering I hadn’t even thought about protection, I’d been so caught up in the haze of desire.

“Good,” he said. “You’re so wet, baby.” And then, as if to prove it, he thrust inside me. Slowly at first, and then, when he was buried to the hilt, he drew out and then slammed hard into me, just the way I’d asked.

I gasped, losing myself to the sensation of him filling me. Of his hands on my hips guiding me. Of the way his body exploded against mine, making my undoubtedly red ass fire even more with each thrust.

“Touch yourself,” he said, his voice tight with the effort of holding back what was surely a rising storm. “Touch yourself and come with me.”

I shifted my weight to one elbow so I could comply, then slipped my hand between my legs and teased myself with small circles, letting the sensation build, knowing that he was claiming me totally and completely—and losing myself to the pleasure of that sweet and decadent reality.

He exploded then, his fingers digging hard enough into my hips to bruise—and that was just enough to send me over, too. He waited for the shudders to die down, both his and mine, then pulled out and slid onto the bed, pulling me into his arms as we both lay there and looked into each other’s eyes, our sated bodies touching and his fingers stroking idly over my naked and sensitive flesh.

“You’re amazing,” he said.

“You make me feel amazing.”

His lips brushed my forehead, and before my sleep-heavy eyes finally closed, I saw satisfaction in his warm, dark eyes.

I laid on my back on the warm sand, feeling the surf rush up to my toes, then recede, cooling my overheated flesh.

My eyes were closed, and Cole was beside me, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my skin, teasing my breasts, sliding down to my sex.

One finger slipped inside me, and I drew in air as heat from the sun and this man consumed me.

A shadow fell over me as he shifted, momentarily blocking the sun. Then he gently spread my legs apart, his palms stroking upward, the movement slow and teasing.

And then I felt the smallest flick of his tongue over my sex, but enough to make me arch up, wanting more. Needing more.

Dear god, he didn’t disappoint.

His mouth closed over me. His tongue teasing and tasting. Laving me, playing me, bringing me closer and closer and closer until—

It wasn’t him—oh, Christ, it wasn’t him.

Not Cole but Roger. Sixteen years old, with dark hair and droopy eyes and soft fingers that played with my sex, groping and exploring, as I lay there, frozen and scared and turned on, with all the sensations building and building inside me, but I had to hold them back. Had to keep quiet and still. Had to keep the secret because—

Because—

Because if I didn’t, then—

I came awake with a gasp, but kept my eyes closed.

I was on my back, my legs spread, and I could feel the warm heat of Cole’s tongue on my clit, teasing and playing. I wanted to pull him up, to cry out for him to stop.

I wanted to do that, but I didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want him to see the secret on my face.

And oh, dear god, as he played and teased my clit with his tongue, I couldn’t deny that I didn’t want to stop him because it felt too damn good.

So I stayed there, legs spread, Cole’s mouth so intimate upon me, his expert tongue doing amazing things, and the whole world reduced to this tiny point of pleasure that began as a single spot between my legs and would soon grow and grow until it had no choice but to explode.

And I would explode. I knew it. Hadn’t Cole taken me there already? Over and over and over?

I waited, letting it build, relishing the sparks, the growing culmination of this ultimate passion. I clenched my hands at my sides, silently willing myself to go over, because it was too big now to hold in.

And yet, just like in my nightmares, the explosion wasn’t coming.

I writhed against his mouth in silent demand, wanting, needing, and yet not finding. And god help me, I wanted to cry, because this was it—this was me right back again. Unable to get there. Unable to achieve. Unable to experience that last, final rush of pleasure.

Most of all, unwilling to explain to Cole.

So I did the only thing I could do. Something I knew how to do because hadn’t I done it with every boy I’d dated? Every boy who had wanted to get close?

I cried out. I arched up. I let my body shake and quiver. I brought my thighs together, as if in an effort to ward off the near-pain of too much pleasure.

In other words, I put on a hell of a show.

And then, when the performance was over, I gasped and sucked in air and rolled over on my side saying, “Oh, god, oh, god, that was—shit, that was incredible.”

“I’m glad you thought so,” Cole said, pulling me close.

I rolled over and buried my face in his chest, then snuggled close.

He kissed the top of my head. I stayed as I was, not wanting to raise my lips for a kiss, because I didn’t want him to see the lie—or my disappointment.

I’d thought I was cured, for lack of a better word. That being with Cole was all I’d needed to fix what had been broken since childhood.

Apparently I’d been wrong, and I hated myself for having gotten my own hopes up. Hated myself even more for caring so much about a goddamn orgasm.

But I did. Damn me, I did.

“Am I that much of an asshole?”

His words, so soft in tone and harsh in meaning, pulled me from my thoughts.

“What?” I looked up at him, saw the hard lines of his face and the hurt in his eyes.

“You heard me.”

I propped myself up on my elbow, confused, because surely he couldn’t know what I’d done. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to fake an orgasm to keep my ego in check. I promise you, I can handle it.”

“Oh.” Apparently he did know.

A little numb, I laid back down, then rolled over so that I was facing the wall rather than him.

“Why?” he asked. “Why not just tell me to stop? That you weren’t in the mood? Did you think it would piss me off?” he asked, and there was no disguising the harsh tone of self-disgust in his voice.

“No.” I spoke firmly, then rolled back to meet his eyes because he had to understand that it wasn’t him. “No,” I said again.

“Then why?”

“Because you made me feel it.”