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his mouth partially open.
    I pass him back the cold beer bottle. He takes it, sips from it, his eyes fixated on mine. I watch his lips as they suck from the bottle. I watch his throat as he swallows. And then I feel his thumb slide from my outer hip toward my inner thigh. He follows the satin line of my panties. His thumbnail snakes across the seam, crossing the stitched boundary, making me gasp.
    He smiles at the sound, pulls the bottle from his lips, and narrows his gaze at me. I am still dressed, except for my bare legs, exposed as they are from the high rise of my skirt, but I might as well be naked. I am made raw and revealed simply by his look.
    “You’re hot,” he says.
    It’s true. I am flushed, damp with sweat, and I want to rip my clothes off.
    “You’re beautiful and hot, Ava Nichols.”
    I lick my lips, watch him. “Undress me,” I whisper. I draw my thighs together just a bit. He smiles at that, takes another sip of beer.
    “Soon.”
    His thumb still rests lightly at the edge of my panties, which are wet with wanting.
    “Now,” I say. “Please.”
    His brow furrows the tiniest bit, as if he’s not happy about my impatience. I’m about three seconds away from ripping his clothes off, too. I draw my thighs together to squeeze him into agreement.
    He shakes his head lightly. “You’re too hot I think.”
    He does two things in quick succession: one, his thumb, pulling aside the triangle of my panties, skims over my swollen clit, making me cry out, and two, he presses the cold beer bottle against my wet lower lips, eliciting a sharp intake of breath coupled with a bucking, writhing scramble away from the chill.
    He puts the bottle down and I still myself, recovering from the shock of heat and cold. I feel myself throbbing intensely, pleasurably. My thighs have fallen open, relaxed. I’m flat on my back on his bed. He’s moving between my legs, taking his shirt off, flinging it to the side.
    I rise up on my elbows to look at him. Smoothly bare-chested, he grins devilishly at me.
    “I’m still thirsty,” he says. Then he bows down and his mouth is on me, the perfect temperature and texture, the kiss to end all kisses.

Chapter Five
    Logan O’Shane’s perfect lips suck and lick me to ecstatic heights. His tongue, so often full of wit and whiplash remarks, is weaving lines of wordless pleasure along the throbbing folds of my pussy. I hold fistfuls of his duvet in each hand, my back is arched, my heels push into the end of his bed, I hold his gorgeous face between my flushed thighs. My pelvis rocks against his tempestuous mouth. He probes me thoroughly, licking and lapping until I am squirming beneath him. I whimper and cry out, try to push his head away. It’s too much. I feel as if I will crawl out of my skin from the intensity of his focus, and I don’t want to leave my skin. I want to inhabit it fully, push it to the edges of its pleasure limits, but it’s as if I’m there already, at my limit, the edge of myself. My chest heaves with deep breaths mixed with shallow gasps. Is this an orgasm already? Or something beyond? All I know is that I’ve never felt this before. Did I come when his thumb brushed against me? Or when the bottle shocked me to my core? I feel as if I’ve been coming since he laid his lips on me, peaking and peaking and never subsiding. How much am I imagining, how much is really happening? I want to stop and step back. I want to feel my blood in my veins at their normal thrum, not this roiling explosive electricity, as if I might burst from the boundary of my body.
    My head is turning side to side, my breath seems to slosh in my lungs, but he won’t let me go, he draws me tighter to his face and I feel myself buried there, I feel myself drowning in sensations that pervade everything I’ve come to know about sex, which in five minutes has been reduced to nothing. He comes up for a breath, licking with light flickers, and I think, yes, air, a break, a coming back into my