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Then he reaches toward the nightstand.

And suddenly it isn’t just flirting anymore.

This is it.

The big moment.

My heart starts beating harder as I watch him, and all the conversations and wondering and imagining what this would be like somehow narrow down to right now. Wyatt coming back over me. His face inches from mine. Both of us naked and breathing too hard.

For the first time all night, my confidence wobbles.

Not because I don’t want this. I do. God, I do.

But wanting it and actually being here are two different things, and suddenly I’m painfully aware that I have absolutely no idea what happens from this point on.

Wyatt must see something change in my face because he stops.

He doesn’t move away or ask me a dozen questions. He just stays there, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips, and waits for me.

I slide my hands up his chest and around his neck.

“I’m ready.”

His gaze searches mine, making sure I mean it.

I do.

I pull him a little closer, and after another beat, his mouth comes down on mine.

Then I feel his cock prodding my entrance. The head of him, blunt and thick, presses against where I'm slick and open and still impossibly tight.

He's big—I know that, I've held him, stroked him, felt the weight of him in my hand—but knowing and this are two different countries with no road between them.

He pushes in just a tiny bit. Just the tip. Just enough that my body registers the stretch, the intrusion, the way he's spreading me open in a way nothing ever has before.

The sensation steals the air from my lungs. I make a sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, and my hands fly to his shoulders, gripping hard enough that my nails dig into skin.

I knew it would feel different. Obviously. I'm not naive. I've read things, heard things, talked about things with friends over too many glasses of wine.

But knowing something and experiencing it are apparently two completely different things. The reality of him, hot and hard and pressing into me, is so much more than I prepared for.

There's so much to process at once that my brain immediately tries to process all of it.

My thoughts scatter in a dozen directions, each one demanding attention.

What am I supposed to do with my legs? They're wrapped around him, but should they be higher? Lower? My hands—are they gripping too hard? Is that weird? Am I too tense? I can feel the muscles in my thighs locked up, my stomach clenched. Should I move? Is he waiting for me to move? Does this feel right to him? Am I supposed to know? Is there a sign I'm missing?

Panic flickers through me, small but sharp. A quick bright flare behind my ribs.

Not because I don't want this. I do. God, I do.

I just hate not knowing what I'm doing. I hate the uncertainty, the fumbling, the not-being-sure. I want to be good at this. I want to be natural and fluid and confident, and instead I'm lying here with my brain spinning like a hamster wheel while the most gorgeous man I've ever seen is half-inside me.

"Quinn." His forehead comes down to mine. The press of his skin against my skin, warm and slightly damp. His breath ghosts across my lips, unsteady.

I focus on his face: on the freckle below his left eye, the faint scar through his eyebrow, the way his jaw is clenched tight like he's holding himself back.

"Hey." His voice is quiet now, completely different from the man who practically dragged me down the hallway ten minutes ago. That man was all urgency and heat, all commanding grip and desperate mouth.