"Thirsty?" she asked innocently.

And he did. For about an hour.

They arrived Friday evening. By the time Alex had the fire going, she had already changed into his favorite sweater—the one that hung off her shoulder—and was pouring two glasses of red wine. "Relax," she whispered, guiding him to the worn leather couch.

"And you said no." Her smile was pure wickedness. "But now we’re here. No cell service. No neighbors. Just you and me… and my growing need to drain every last bit of stress out of you."

He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. His brain was too empty—drained, you might say—to form a coherent argument.

She didn’t ask. She took.

Alex laughed nervously. "Patient? You tried to pull over at the last three rest stops."

Shaiden’s laugh filled the car. "Oh, honey. Next weekend. I’m just getting started." End.

Then her hand found his thigh. "You know," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear, "I’ve been thinking about this drive up here all week. Watching you concentrate on the road. Your jaw. Your hands on the wheel." Her fingers traced higher. "I’ve been patient."

He barely got a word out before she proved that morning stamina was a myth. Her mouth was relentless, her hands pinning his hips down when he tried to squirm. "No," she ordered softly. "You don’t get to help. Just feel." By the time she finished, his legs were shaking. "Two," she smiled, kissing his stomach. "Now you can have your coffee."

"You can," she said, pulling him toward the bedroom. "And you will. That’s what a boyfriend is for." By Saturday night, Alex had lost count. His body was a pleasant, aching void. He lay sprawled across the bed, sheets tangled, while Shaiden traced lazy patterns on his chest.

She reached over and squeezed his knee. "And you love it."

She leaned down, her lips ghosting over his. "Good. That means I did my job." Then she slipped under the covers. "One more for the road."

"Shaiden, I have nothing left. I’m running on fumes."

The first round was slow, deliberate. Shaiden knelt between his legs on the fluffy rug, her dark hair spilling over his lap as she worked him with a maddening rhythm—eyes locked on his, pausing only to whisper, "Watch me." By the time he finished, his head was thrown back against the couch, and she was licking her lips. "One," she counted.