I was young, curious, and utterly infatuated with the man who made me feel like the most desirable girl in the world. He was older, experienced, and had this way of looking at me—like he already knew my body better than I did. Every touch from him sent a shiver down my spine, every whisper in my ear made my thighs press together. That night, we were in his dimly lit bedroom, wrapped up in each other, his scent—clean, musky, intoxicating—filling my senses. I was already dizzy from the way he kissed me, slow and teasing, his tongue just barely brushing mine before pulling away, leaving me breathless and needy. He knew exactly how to wind me up, dragging his lips down my neck, his teeth grazing over the sensitive spot just below my ear before sucking gently, marking me as his. His hands wandered, mapping my body like he was committing every curve, every dip, to memory. When his fingers slipped between my legs, finding me already soaking, he chuckled against my skin. “So eager for me,” he ...