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Heat pools low in my belly, my thighs clenching around him, and the way he grips me—like he can’t get enough—makes my head spin.

His hand slides from my throat down to my back, pressing me harder against him, and I can feel just how much he wants me. The rigid length of him is unmistakable, and the frictionof our bodies pressed together sends sparks shooting down my spine.

I moan into his mouth, unable to stop myself.

His lips break from mine, just long enough to breathe, and his forehead drops to mine, both of us panting.

“Laney,” he says, voice hoarse, shaking with restraint. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because I do.

I know exactly what this is doing to me too.

And I don’t want him to stop.

Eddie’s breath is ragged against my skin as he stares at me like I’m something sacred, something he’s been waiting too damn long to touch. Then he lowers his head, and his lips brush the side of my neck—just a whisper-soft touch—and my whole body trembles.

When he finds the place where my pulse thrums, he lingers, gently sucking on it, dragging his mouth over the frantic beat. My breath stutters out of me as I instinctively fist my hands in his thick hair, tilting my head to the side in a silent plea for more.

He groans low in his throat, like he’s barely holding himself together, and his hand rises, fingers skimming the neckline of my dress before cupping my breast. His thumb strokes across the fabric, teasing and possessive, and a whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it.

God, I want him. I want this—this heat, this connection, this man who touches me like I’m his to worship.

Things blur after that, urgency crackling in the air like a live wire. I don’t even register the moment he shifts until I’m suddenly not in his lap anymore. He moves me gently, reverently, placing me down on the bench seat of the limo, my dress pooling around my thighs. Then he drops to his knees in front of me on the floor, and my heart lodges in my throat.

“Eddie…” I whisper, breathless.

His hands are on my calves, sliding upward slowly, and he lifts my foot, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to my ankle. My skin burns beneath his lips.

My breathing grows shallow.

He keeps eye contact as he kisses higher, his mouth trailing up the length of my leg in a path that feels like fire. He moves my dress aside, bunching it delicately above my hips, and I feel completely exposed—utterly bare beneath that dark, hungry gaze.

But I’m not embarrassed.

I’m seen.

His hand slides to the inside of my thigh, and he kisses me there, slow and tender. I gasp—an involuntary sound as my body arches toward him. His thumb skims along my inner thigh, and I can feel how close he is. My skin tingles with anticipation, every nerve ending drawn taut.

Then his hand slips higher, and when his thumb drags softly over my center, he groans deep and rough.

“You’re so damn ready for me,” he growls, voice strained, full of awe and hunger.

I can’t form words. My mouth parts, but all I can do is breathe, pant, feel. My whole body is vibrating, my heart racing, my breath catching on every touch. He presses his forehead against my knee for a second, like he’s trying to regain control, and I swear I’ve never seen anything so raw, so real.

I’m drowning in this. In him.

My thighs tremble under his hands, and my fingers dig into the seat beneath me, anchoring myself as everything inside me screams for more. The way he touches me isn’t just about lust—it’s devotion. It’s a man unraveling for someone he’s been starving for.

And he’s starving for me.

God help me, I think, as heat pools low in my belly and the world fades to nothing but the sound of his breath and mine.

Because there’s no coming back from this. No pretending this is fake.

Not anymore.