Page 45 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

R outines sneak up on you quietly. They’re sneaky little bastards that slide into place before you even realize they’ve changed you.

One minute, life is hectic. Next, you’re brushing your teeth in someone else’s bathroom and pouring coffee into a mug you didn’t buy but now can’t imagine your morning without.

That’s what this has become. A rhythm. A life. A family I never expected to have. And it terrifies me how badly I want to keep it.

I wake up to Rosie’s babble most mornings, her voice crackling through the baby monitor.

By the time I get downstairs, Wes already has coffee waiting.

No words, no ceremony. Just that familiar mug on the counter.

Sometimes Rosie’s already in her high chair, flinging toast. Other times, she’s in Wes’s lap, trying to feed him instead.

Either way, I walk into that kitchen like I belong. Like I’ve always belonged.

On those nights when I’ve got a gig at the bar, he finds me. He doesn’t say he will, and he never promises to show. But every single time, I spot him in the crowd, always in the same chair, his stare a brand on my skin.

Then there’s the other routine. The one we never talk about, the one written in glances and touches. The one where Rosie’s asleep and my feet carry me down the hall before my brain even catches up.

Like tonight.

The hallway is hushed, but my heartbeat is a drum in my throat as I reach his door, where he’s waiting. Arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he knew I’d come. Like he felt the same pull I did.

Neither of us says a word.

We don’t need to.

I step over the threshold, and he’s on me, kissing me like it’s the only thing keeping us both breathing. His mouth is slow yet unyielding. His hands grip my hips as he backs me toward the bed, and I follow without question.

When my back hits the mattress, he follows me down, pressing himself between my legs with the kind of weight that settles deep.

There’s no rush. Just aching intensity. He kisses me like he’s cataloging every part, like he’s afraid he’ll forget the details. His lips trail down my throat, his touch everywhere.

We undress in pieces, not like we’re racing to get there, but like we’re savoring the journey. Every sigh, every tremble, every scrape of skin on skin, it all builds. It all means something.

His mouth drifts lower. Past my collarbone, over the curve of my breast, and the dip of my stomach. I gasp when his hands part my thighs. He looks up at me once, just checking. Asking.

Breath catching in my throat, I nod.

In the next beat, he buries his face between my thighs like he’s been starving for me. His tongue slides over my clit with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my hips lift clean off the mattress.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he groans, breath hot against my core.

My body jolts, but his hands are firm, spreading me wide like he’s staking a claim, like this is his and no one else’s. He licks me again, then flicks my clit with the tip of his tongue. I try to close my legs on instinct, but he growls and pins them open.

“Uh-uh. Keep those pretty thighs right there, baby. I’m not done.”

I nod frantically, already on the edge.

He slides two fingers inside me with devastating ease.

My hips buck, but he holds me in place, mouth working in tandem with his fingers, tongue circling and sucking, fingers curling just right. My entire body is a live wire, tension coiled tight in my belly.

“Wes—I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he demands. “Let me taste you fall apart.”

And I do. I detonate, crying out, body shuddering as waves of pleasure crash over me. He doesn’t stop until I’m whimpering and wrung out.

Only then does he crawl back up, mouth slick, eyes ablaze .

He fumbles for the condom, not even bothering to hide how badly he needs me, and when he slides into me, it’s a slow, ruthless stretch.

I wrap my legs around him, anchoring him to me, helpless against the onslaught.

“More,” I beg.

Because all at once, it’s never enough and always too much.

He gives it, driving into me with punishing precision, whispering filth in my ear between kisses that are all teeth and tongue and possession.

“I think about this all fucking day,” he pants. “About your moans. About the way you beg. About how tight you squeeze my cock when you come.”

I unravel again, body shaking as another orgasm crashes through me. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just rides it out until he finds his own release.

We gradually drift back to earth with tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

He withdraws and lies down beside me, but I’m trembling, and my mind is spinning with everything unsaid. It’s not just sex; we both know that. It’s something else, something deeper.

Yet the fear lingers.

What if we can’t keep this going?

What are we even doing?

He rolls onto his back, one arm draped across my waist as he pulls me into his side.

I rest my cheek against his shoulder, allowing the cool air to waft over our overheated skin.

For the longest time, the only sound is our combined breathing settling into a calmer rhythm.

I try to lose myself in the moment and ignore the prickle of anxiety that creeps in.

But if I don't say something, I’ll spiral .

“Wes?”

“Hmmm?”

My insides twist with nerves. “What are we doing?”

That catches his attention. “What do you mean?”

I push up on one elbow, dragging the sheet to cover my chest. My heart’s pounding again, but this time with worry, not lust. “I need to know where we stand, because if you wake up and decide this is over…” My voice quivers.

“I love Rosie. If this ends, then I lose her. I can’t take that risk if this is just some fling for you. ”

The moment those words fall, I regret them, but I need the truth. Every day I sink deeper into this, it makes the potential fallout even worse.

His jaw tightens, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “Lena—”

“I’m serious,” I push on, ignoring the lump in my throat. “Do you even do casual? You keep your emotions guarded, Wes. So if this is temporary, if you—”

His hand cups my cheek and cuts the words from my tongue. “You’re not just the nanny.”

“What am I then?” I whisper, hating how vulnerable I sound.

“You’re mine.”

A shaky breath leaves me as the tension uncoils in my chest, and I feel a hint of hope stirring.

But hope is such a fickle thing. I know that.

Sensing the shift, his thumb brushes my lower lip, then drifts up to press gently into my cheek, nudging it into a half smile.

“There she is,” he says. “I’m not good with words, Lena, but I’ll do my best. Every time I see you with Rosie, every time I wake up and you’re here, I feel like I’m finally breathing right.

I’ve never had this. Not ever. But I want it.

” His voice cracks around the edges, but he doesn’t try to hide it.

“I don’t know how to be good at it yet, but I’m trying. For you. For both of you.”

I try to speak around the lump in my throat, but it’s choking me.

“Did you hear me? Because if you ever need me to say it again—”

I surge forward and press my mouth to his in a kiss that answers everything. His arms loop around me with a groan, pulling me back down onto his chest.

And just like that, the worry fades into another wave of desire. I don’t resist. I let the sheets slip away.

There’s no urgency. It’s a slow reaffirmation that we’re here, together. That we’re holding something fragile yet precious.

This time, we don’t fall apart.

This time, we fall into each other.