Page 114 of If Love Had A Manual

Her eyes flash, daring me to move, taunting me for hesitating.

That look shatters every ounce of self-control I have left.

One step, then another, and suddenly I’m in front of her, bracing my hands on the counter, boxing her in.

Lena’s chin tilts up, stubbornness bright in her eyes. “I thought we were talking?”

My gaze dips to her lips, and every coherent thought just fucking evaporates. “Yeah, that was the plan.”

A long second ticks by.

Then my mouth slams into hers, and every single rule bursts into flames.

She gasps into the kiss, her initial stiffness melting away as her hands curl into my shirt.

She tastes like chaos and clarity.

Warm and perfect.

The answer and the question wrapped together.

My hands find her waist and effortlessly lift her onto the counter.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. We had a plan, remember?” I murmur roughly, trailing kisses down her jaw, savoring every gasp and trembling breath.

“I hate plans,” she says between gasps, nails biting into my shoulders.

That’s all the permission I need.

Clothes vanish in seconds, shirts hitting the floor, leggings following close behind. We’re a mess of impatient hands and fumbling fingers. It’s frantic, and I don’t care, because within moments I’m buried deep inside her, chasing sanity and losing it simultaneously.

“Upstairs,” she pants desperately, eyes wide and wild. “Bed, Wes.”

I stumble backward, mouths locked together, bodies still tangled and clumsy, colliding gracelessly into the furniture along the way. Lena laughs against my lips, and that sound—the pure joy of it—almost brings me to my knees.

Almost.

Clothes scatter like confetti from the kitchen to the bedroom, leaving a messy trail behind us. By the time we fall onto the bed, we’re skin on skin, stripped bare in every sense.

Now Lena’s straddling me, her hands braced firmly on my chest. She’s wild, relentless, riding me hard with each roll of her hips, a heatedfuck-youto every sensible boundary we thought we’d set.

I grip her hips tighter, savoring the bruising pressure of her movements, matching the fierce rhythm she sets.

Until I can’t hold back anymore.

I slip a hand between us, pressing my thumb exactly where she needs me most. Her rhythm falters.

“Wes—”

“You started this,” I say, voice gravel-thick. “Now finish it.”

She trembles. “I—I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” I demand, capturing her lips again. “Show me.”

She breaks beautifully, trembling apart in my arms, my name spilling from her lips like a prayer. Her pleasure drags me dangerously close, but I’m not finished yet.

I flip us, pressing her beneath me, thrusting harder and deeper, completely consumed by her.

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