I let out a harsh breath, my head falling forward as I lick my lips. “Shit.”

“Okay?”

My breath grows short, the tingling heat on my ass glowing. “That shouldn’t feel so good.”

“But it does.” Not a question. Even so, his warm, questing hand goes still. Waiting.

“Yes. Yes, it fucking does.”

Rye makes a noise of amusement. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, palming me.

Then he spanks me again, a firm but easy slap. I groan, my body jolting with sensation.

Why does it feel so good? How did he know?

Unnerved, I shoot him another look. “I’m going to return the favor later.”

His answering smile is dark sin. “I’m looking forward to it.”

One more slap and my knees are wobbling. Rye smooths his hand over my hot flesh before dipping between my legs. His finger slides around my messy sex in an indolent circle. “Look at you, all hot and slippery for me.”

He spanks me again. Right on my clit.

I jerk in surprise and pleasure. Because it felt insanely good, that slap. I want it again and again. I don’t understand it and try to cover my confusion. “You’re pushing it, buttercup.”

But there’s no conviction in my voice, and he chuckles, pleased as punch with himself. I can’t exactly blame him for that. He’s playing me like a well-loved song. I tense, anticipating another teasing spank, but Rye doesn’t do that.

His big hands settle on my ass and glide up my back. It feels so good, so wonderfully tender, that ripples of sweet pleasure run over my body. Slowly he rubs me, along my sides, over my aching breasts. I fight a sob. I hadn’t truly realized how much I needed someone—him—to simply stroke my skin. To just touch me.

But he knew. Somehow, he knew. And it devastates me.

Unbidden, a memory rises, of me sitting in a booth, tense and fractious as I confess to Jules.

It isn’t the same as feeling someone else’s hands on my body, not knowing exactly where they’ll touch me next or how.

For a second, I can’t draw a breath, and then it returns with a rush of aching affection. He’s giving me what I yearned for. My throat closes in on me, and I swallow thickly, the fine weave of his flannel bedding blurring before my eyes.

“Rye.” It comes out broken.

He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, smoothing his hand over the crown of my head and down the long length of my ponytail. Shivers flow over my scalp. He was right; I love having my hair stroked. My lashes flutter. Without warning, he coils the length of my hair around his fist and tugs. Not hard, but enough to fucking rein me in.

My eyes snap open, a gasp escaping me.

“Easy, sweetness.” Rye steps closer, and the thick slab of his cock lies heavy on my ass.

Heart thudding, muscles trembling, I blink down at the covers. With one hand, he moves his hard dick along my sex, the thick length sliding over my tender slickness.

The wide head of his cock pauses at my opening, notching just inside. Rye bends over me, blanketing my body with his heat. “You ready for me, Bren?”

I feel him there, searing hot against my sex, spreading me wide to accept him. Just the tip. Just that alone is so good I have to brace myself against the urge to whimper and whine, to push back against him, make him sink into me.

Despite my disquiet and the fact that I’m teetering on the edge, a smile breaks free. And I find my voice, strong and sure. “Fuck me, Rye.”

His grip on my hair twitches, but he doesn’t move. “Tell me one thing first.” Soft lips touch the shell of my ear, his voice dark and resonant. “Who’s your Daddy?”

Shock explodes over my skin in a wave of heat. My knees buckle. A breath escapes me—half startled laugh, half groan. Sweet hell, I’m so hot, I can barely breathe. My response is thready, needy. “You. Only you.”

He tenses. I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked I capitulated. But then he’s pushing in—slow, steady, making me feel every inch he gains. I’m stretched, filled, taken.

We both pause, him deep within the clasp of my sex. Rye makes a noise that sounds almost pained. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath. And then he moves, rolling his hips in a lazy rhythm.

I can’t see him. He has me where he wants me, one hand fisting my ponytail, the other gripping my ass. But I can picture him, the way he is on stage, feet planted, massive thighs bulging as he thrusts his hips, thick-cut arms and muscle-packed chest flexing as he plays.

He feels so good, the push-pull of him, the smooth glide and hard impact. Liquid heat flows through my limbs, my nipples tighten and ache, my clit throbs. As if he knows these pleasure points need attention, Rye grunts, and, with one simple move, tugs me up against the sweat-slicked wall of his chest.

He finds my nipple and tweaks it, while his other hand slides between my legs. I moan as he thrusts up into me, fingers strumming a beat on my sensitive flesh.

“Fuck, Bren,” he rasps, his lips at my cheek.

I turn my head, find his mouth with mine. Rye groans, his grip on me tightening. My hands slip behind him to cup his ass—that perfect flexing ass—and he grunts, pumps harder.

We stay like that, locked together, moving in perfect rhythm, everything coiling tighter, getting a little more desperate. Rye moans, thrusts going deep like punctuation.

“Beethoven.” The husky whisper escapes his lips. I falter, tripped up by the odd non sequitur. Our gazes collide, his widening.

Fingers still clutching his sweat-slicked ass, I pause, panting. “Beethoven?”

Because there’s no denying what he said. Rye’s lips twitch. “I’m trying not to come.”

We’re still moving, slowly fucking, as if both of us are unable to fully stop. And it feels so good, that big, thick dick shoving inside me, that my lashes flutter before I lick my lips and speak. “And Beethoven stops that?”

A wry half smile tilts his lips. “Listing composers in my head helps.” His hand slides up my belly. We share the same breath as he pumps into me, and his voice grows rough. “It’s barely working. You feel too damn good, Bren. I’m hanging on by a thread.”

He sounds so disgruntled by his lack of control that I kiss him softly. “Maybe you should try humming his Fifth Symphony.”

There’s a pause. Rye stares at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m being snarky, then his face lights up, a smile pulling wide. Something impish glints in his eyes. In a blink, he pulls out and flips me onto the bed, flat on my back. I yelp in surprise. Then Rye is over me, pushing inside with a sure thrust. A laugh breaks free from me when he starts humming the Fifth.

Then we’re both laughing. Fucking and laughing. Rye’s strong body bracketing mine, his face burrowed in my neck. God, it lights me up, laughing with him. I breathe him in, soak up his heat, his strength. I never want to leave this moment; I want to live right here in this bubbling contentment of sex and joy.

His deep chuckle reverberates through my bones. Soft lips brush over my pulse and press there like a statement, telling me he’s right here with me in this joy. And like that, everything turns unexpectedly tender. It catches us unaware, and Rye’s grip changes, deepening with intent. Something in the way he moves makes me melt. There’s no other word for this liquid wash of pleasure and heat, or how my body wants to meld with his until there’s no space left between us.