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And then Benji is kissing me again as we struggle with belts and zippers, knees bumping, hands fumbling.

Benji’s boxers—purple, which doesn’t surprise me—slide down his legs, and I’m suddenly breathless. My underwear joins his, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nakedness and everything to do with how he’s looking at me like I’m the last green paddock in a drought.

To have Benji Gange stretched out naked in my bed sparks something primitive inside me. The need to possess, to claim, to mark him as mine.

I kiss down his chest, following the trail of dark hair, mapping every muscle and scar with my tongue.

His hands fist in the sheets when I reach his navel.

“This is just another way to torture me, isn’t it?” he asks, but his voice is too wrecked to contain much snark.

“You know I like to do things thoroughly,” I reply.

And Benji doesn’t seem to mind my thoroughness as I head lower. I press my mouth to that crease where thigh meets hip, tasting salt and skin, reducing him to breathless curses and pleas.

His cock is rigid, the head glistening. The desire pulsing through me feels like someone’s replaced my blood with lightning, every heartbeat sending sparks through my veins.

How the hell have I noticed every detail about this man except for how much I’ve wanted him?

I press my lips to his inner thigh, hesitating, feeling his pulse flutter under my tongue.

I’ve never done this before. My heart hammers against my ribs.

Then summoning my courage, I finally wrap my mouth around his cock.

The unfamiliar fullness makes my jaw ache in a way that’s strangely satisfying. He’s smoother than I imagined, warmer too. The taste of him, salt and musk, floods my senses, making my hips rock involuntarily against the sheets, seeking friction that isn’t there.

The sheer intimacy of him trusting his most vulnerable part to my inexperienced care makes my own desire spike sharply, my body responding to each muffled sound he makes. His hands clutch my shoulders, fingertips pressing into muscle as I take him deeper.

I hollow my cheeks, determined to apply the same stubborn focus to this that I do to everything else in my life.

Then I touch the soft skin behind his balls, feeling him tremble under my calloused fingers.

He grabs my hand and pushes it farther back, and I circle his hole with a teasing pressure that has him cursing my name in ways that would make a shearer blush.

“You’ve got lube anywhere?” he asks desperately.

“Top drawer.” I nod, suddenly grateful for Lance’s Christmas joke gift that isn’t quite as funny anymore.

“What about a condom?”

“There should be a box in there too.”

Benji doesn’t comment on the unopened box of condoms, instead ripping through the plastic, his usual precise movements clumsy.

“I’m open to ditching these once we get tested,” he says as he passes me a condom.

Fuck. I can’t help cringing at his words.

A frown creases his forehead, and he fidgets with the edge of the sheet. “It’s going to be just us, right?” he asks quietly.

My cringe fades.

“Of course it’s going to be just us.” Shit, I didn’t mean for that to come out as such a possessive growl.

“Then why did you cringe?”

“Just imagining having a conversation about getting tested with Doc Wilson,” I admit.