Oh my god. I’m melting, turning into a puddle of a person. “Wouldn’t freak out.”

“What if I told you that I feel ridiculous for ever thinking thirty days with you would be enough? That thirty years won’t be enough? That I know they’re going to go by too fast, and I’ll be asking you for thirty more?”

I can only nod. “That would be okay.”

He crushes me to his chest, talking into the top of my head. “Good.” Words rumble from his chest into mine. “Because I love you. I love you so fucking much it terrifies me.”

My cheeks are wet, my voice watery. “I love you too.”

“Does the magnitude of your love for me terrify you?” His teasing, petulant tone makes me sniffle a laugh.

“Even more than ticks,” I manage.

Rough hands steer my face gently to his. “Good.”

Then his lips are on mine. This kiss is nothing like the one in the conference room; it’s tender and sweet, making my head spin with love instead of lust. Equally satisfying, but in a different way.

A few minutes later, when we’re cuddled in our blissful post-confession moment, Shane stiffens. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

“No more contracts,” I mumble into his chest. “You can’t make me.” His seriousness doesn’t worry me. I’m too cozy to care.

He mutters something under his breath, and I tickle his ribs. “What was that?”

A smirk, and that damn dimple taunts me when I stretch to see his face.

“Nothing. Just that one way or another, I will legally bind you to me.”

Fidgeting with my left hand, he moves my fingers until it looks like I’m shooting him the bird, but with my ring finger. Holy hell. The butterflies in my stomach run wild, roused by the flush of heat spreading through me.

Don’t get carried away.

Literally just said I love you for the first time.

My pussy missed the take it slow memo. She’s ready to put a cock ring on his dick and call it a day. Is monogamy kink a thing? Marriage kink? If so, I think I have it.

Making my voice drier than another, less rational part of my body, I ask, “Is that a threat? It sounds like a threat.”

My head is back on his chest. His laugh jostles me. “More of a promise.”

“Hmmm,” I tease. “If you say so.”

“Focus, please. We need to talk about your torture shorts.” Shane reaches over me to the nightstand and holds up my shapewear. The slippery brown fabric is stained with dried arousal—very gross—and he’s gripping them a bit aggressively.

Torture shorts?

He shakes them. “Do I not tell you enough how gorgeous you are? Why the fuck are you wearing these? Your ass is fantastic, your thighs are incredible—”

Equal parts embarrassed and flattered, I cut him off. “Okay, okay. Thank you. I wear them because they make the dress look smooth, hide cellulite, that kind of thing.”

“Cellulite.” His face is blank.

How did we go from I love you to me explaining what cellulite is?

Thanks to budget cuts, I teach health along with PE, so at least I’m ready with the scientific explanation.

“You know, the dents and textured skin on my thighs and ass? When muscle fibers—”

He waves me away. “I know what it is. Why would you hide it?”

Really?

“Sometimes I feel self-con—”

“Ridiculous. The only reason you should hide it is so that I’m not thinking about licking it.” He’s on another level, but it’s making me smile. “These look painful.”

“They’re fine. Tight but soft. Like a compression sleeve, but for my ass.”

“They offend me.” His grumble tickles my neck. “I was ready to chew through them earlier.”

“Thank you for your restraint.” Controlling myself is the true torture here. I’m shaking with silent laughter. If I encourage this behavior, I’ll never be able to own a piece of shapewear again. And regardless of Shane’s threats of destruction, I plan on continuing to wear it.

“I can’t believe you put these on your body.” It’s the disgust in his voice that bests me. A giggle breaks loose, then it’s a full-on laughter avalanche. I can’t stop. Tears stream down my cheeks, and if my face wasn’t red before, it is now. Feeling Shane’s chest shift against mine as he laughs only intensifies my giggle fit.

“How did we go from I love you to torture shorts?” I ask when I can speak normally.

“First, I had to make sure you know I love you. Then once that was sorted, I needed to make sure you realize how beautiful you are.”

And we’re back to sweet.

Beneath my ear, his heartbeat is steady, even. Mine’s running wild. From laughing and the surge of love I feel for this overthinking, shapewear-hating man. It’s unfair. I can’t be the only one with an elevated heart rate.

Cotton smooths beneath my palm as I ease my hand toward the waistband of his pajama pants. The slightest hitch in his breathing makes me smile.

There we go.

When I reach the meeting of his shirt and pants, I slide my hand under his shirt. His stomach muscles tense beneath my fingertips as I drag them through the soft trail of hair that disappears into his pants.

Temptation is strong, the desire to slip my hand into his pants rushing against the dam of my self-control. Teasing will only make it better, but it’s hard to be patient when I know what’s waiting for me: The heat when I wrap my hand around him. How feeling him stiffen and grow will send that jolt of pride through me. The one that always makes me want to say, Look, look at what I can do to you, as if I’ve cracked some magic code instead of triggering a biological instinct. That first teasing dewdrop of arousal that makes me crave more. I want all of that, and I want it right now.

But I wait, gently running my fingers back and forth along his waistband, enjoying the shiver of his abdomen beneath my touch. His heartbeat is picking up, the steady thump, thump, thump, becoming a thumpthumpthump. That isn’t good enough. I want it racing, my head rising and falling with his chest as he breathes harder and harder. Shifting his hips, he moves enough for the bulge in his pants to become noticeable. There’s a subtlety to the movement, as if he thinks I don’t realize he’s hard, and he’s trying to inform me politely.

Precious.

Another little hip wiggle. It’s the equivalent of his cock giving me a wave. A friendly, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m hard, right here, just saying, flag-down. I ignore it. Back and forth, I trace patterns on his skin, asking inane questions about work and pointless things that neither of us care about. His answers are distracted. Both of us are focused on my fingers, specifically the distance between them and his cock.

Trust me, I want to touch it as much as you want me to.

Tenting his pajama pants, his cock is the elephant in the room. Trying not to think about it means it’s the only thing in my head. Is arousal leaking from the tip yet? A drop ready to be caught by my tongue? I can practically taste him.

There’s a racehorse in his chest now, runaway and unstoppable. Another slight shimmy of his hips.

“Do I need to move?” I ask innocently. “So you can get comfortable? Should we talk about the shorts more?”

“I’m comfortable.” Ground through gritted teeth, his statement isn’t very believable. But clearly, he’s figured out what I’m doing and wants to play too. For the first time since I started this, I reach beneath his waistband, flicking the elastic of his boxer briefs.

“Good.” Another flick of the elastic. “Because I’m very comfortable.”

Lifting the waistband, like I might be sliding my hand beneath, makes his whole body tighten. Whatever this game is, I’m totally winning.

Unable to resist, I steal a peek at his cock.

Damnit.

Looking was a mistake because I don’t just want to look. I want to touch and squeeze and stroke and lick. But I also want to make him suffer. Just the teensiest bit.