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But each subsequent thrust changed. Built. Showed her something.

And her body began to move to welcome his. More than just accommodate.

She got wetter when he met up against that sensitized bundle of nerves there, and as she got yet slicker, it felt better and better.

He thrust into her until she was trembling, until they both were.

Until she was on edge.

And then he reached his hand between them and pinched her there, just gently before stroking her. And that sent her right over the edge.

She cried out his name as she clung to him, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through her.

It was different. Different from having an orgasm alone. Different even from the one he’d given her earlier.

She felt exhausted with it. Spent.

But it kept on going. Deeper and deeper into her, and that was when he went over the edge, too. On a growl, he thrust hard inside her twice more and froze, his arousal pulsing inside her. And she turned to look at him, at the vein standing out on his neck, at the tension in his jaw.

She had done that to him.

She had made him come apart the same as he had made her come apart, and that felt right.

Except then... Her eyes filled with tears.

And Quinn Sullivan didn’t cry. Not in front of anybody. Not ever.

But her heart was beating hard, and her body felt boneless, and she was trembling. And she didn’t have any idea how the hell to stop it. Because she didn’t know how to do this, and it had been fine when he was leading the charge, when he was showing her how good it could be.

And now it was just... Now it was just done.

And she’d had sex with him, and he was still inside her, and she felt like maybe she was dying.

“Quinn,” he said, his voice quiet but scolding.

“I...I...”

“Come on.”

The water was still pounding down on them. She’d lost her sense of it at some point, but when he reached down and turned it off, she was unbearably conscious of how quiet it was. How she could hear her heart beating in her own ears, how she could hear their breathing, ragged and far too intimate for her to handle.

“Come on,” he said, picking her up so she didn’t really have a choice and depositing her outside the shower. He grabbed a very large towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, and then he began to dry the water droplets from her body.

It wasn’t wholly dispassionate. There was still some fire in his eyes.

But it was banked. And she could tell that he was exercising control now.

She couldn’t help but watch his body. The play of muscles.

The look of him when he was relaxed, having just been satisfied.

Except he wasn’t totally relaxed; there was tension in his jaw and his shoulders. She could see it.

She was about to ask, and then she found herself being lifted up off the ground again and carried into his bedroom, where she was deposited, still wrapped in the towel, at the center of the bed.

“That was swinging a bit above your pay grade,” he said.

And very suddenly, she decided she couldn’t deal with the conversation, and so she did a very mature thing. She crawled out from beneath the towel and slipped beneath the covers on the bed, all the way under, making sure they were over her head.