Page 142 of If Love Had A Manual

I’m pretty sure I’m running late. The sun’s been up for a while now, painting the yard in warm gold. But I don’t care. Not when Lena’s face is buried in the pillow beneath me, her voice coming out in muffled, breathless moans as I drive into her over and over. It’s been ten years, and I swear I want her more every single day, especially when she arches her back and presses that perfect ass against me like she can’t get me deep enough.

“Oh God,” she gasps as her fingers claw at the sheets. I see her knuckles go white with the tight stretch of her arms as she tries to brace against thepleasure.

“Fucking perfect,” I groan, keeping a hand on her hip, guiding her back onto me. Our bodies meet again and again, an unspoken rhythm that’s part desperation, part devotion. The mattress squeaks under our weight, but I don’t give a damn.

Paint me a saint, but I love it when she’s loud. Except she’s trying not to wake the house while trying to keep her scream buried in that pillow. I’m torn between letting her keep quiet or coaxing her into waking the whole damn neighborhood.

Her entire body trembles, thighs quivering, back shining with a thin film of sweat. I lean down, whisper filth against her shoulder, biting and kissing where my teeth meet her skin.

She whimpers something unintelligible, a choked cry muffled by the pillow. Her hips circle back, meeting my thrusts with a frantic demand. I can feel the tension gathering in her body, every muscle tightening as her breathing goes ragged.

She’s so damn close.

I slide a hand over her lower belly, pressing in just enough to amplify the sensation of me inside her.

“Come for me,” I rumble, shifting my angle, giving it to her harder. “Right now. I’ve got you.”

A shuddering moan tears from her throat, her entire frame locking up. She quivers around me, walls fluttering in violent pulses that drag a guttural growl from my chest.

She’s so fucking beautiful when she breaks.

I hold her through it, working her orgasm until she’s nearly limp.

Then I finally let myself go, chasing that burst of white-hot bliss that leaves me groaning against herneck, pressing her into the bed as my pulse thunders in my ears. The world collapses to just me and her.

When we both come back down to earth, she sags against the sheets and lets out a breathless laugh. “You’re—” She pauses for air. “—going to make me late for work.”

Yeah, me too.

“Fuck it. You’re the boss. You make the rules, remember?” I remind her, slapping her ass.

She shoves my arm. “Not the point.”

The corners of my mouth tug up in a lazy grin as I roll onto my back. “Worth it.”

Tossing me a halfhearted glare over her shoulder, she stands and reaches for the robe draped on the chair. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction she’s trying to disguise. She’s not really mad.

Her footsteps retreat down the hall toward the main bathroom.

I fight the urge to join her in the shower because if I make the argument that we’re conserving water once more this week, she’ll drown me.

So, I lay there, heart still pounding, staring at the ceiling.

Almost eleven years. That’s how long it’s been since she walked into my house as Rosie’s nanny. Well, the old house. We’ve moved since.

A decade of love, madness, heartbreak, and healing followed. A decade of building a family I never knew I wanted, or ever thought I deserved. Everything I had before feels pale in comparison.

I drag myself to my feet and ignore the slight ache in my back.

Not twenty anymore, Turner.

Still, I grin.

I can keep up with her.

That thought alone propels me out of the bedroom and into the other shower.

When I’m done and dressed, I head to Rosie’s room.

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