Page 14 of Our Pucking Secret (2-Hour Quickies #4)

"Because together, we're better than alone. And someday, we'll build our own family. One where it won't matter which parents belong to who, because they'll all be ours ."

Her eyes fill with tears. "I'm scared."

"I know. But this time, I need you to trust me. Not your research. Not your fears. Just me. "

I brush a tear from her cheek. "I've followed your lead since the beginning. Now it's time for you to follow mine."

She's quiet for so long my heart nearly stops. Then, finally, she whispers, "Okay."

"Okay?"

She nods, and suddenly she's in my arms, face buried in my chest. "I missed you too," she mumbles against my shirt. "Every stupid, stupid minute."

I hold her tight, breathing her in, feeling my world settle back into place. Because this—this isn't about genetics or psychology or fate.

This is just us. Choosing each other. Every day.

And that's all the proof we need.

She doesn’t let go. And neither do I.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time doesn’t move right when she’s in my arms.

Eventually, she pulls back just enough to look up at me. “Stay?”

I nod. Because there’s nowhere else in the world I want to be.

She breaks the hug and moves to put on the kettle. I follow, unable to stay more than a step away.

“You always do that,” I say.

“What?”

“Use tea to delay.”

She smiles faintly. “Not delaying. Just… collecting myself.”

I walk up behind her. Close enough to feel the heat of her body.

“What if I don’t want you collected?” I murmur. “What if I want you messy, Amanda?”

She turns slowly, eyes catching mine—uncertain, vulnerable, but not afraid .

She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she steps forward and places her hand over my heart. Her fingers press against my chest like she’s checking if I’m really here. I cover her hand with mine.

“I really missed you,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” I lower my head, brushing my lips against her forehead. “Me too.”

She tilts her face up, and our mouths meet in a kiss that starts soft, almost reverent. But then she presses closer, her fingers fisting my shirt.

She kisses me—this time with no restraint. No second-guessing. Just heat and need and the kind of ache that comes from holding yourself back too long.

I lift her easily, hands sliding under her thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I walk her backward toward the couch, never breaking the kiss. We tumble down together, her body beneath mine, breath mingling, hips rolling instinctively.

Her fingers push under my shirt, tugging it up. “Off.”

I grin against her mouth. “I asked for messy, not bossy.”

“You like me bossy.”

“I love you bossy.”

The shirt goes over my head, and her hands are everywhere—tracing the muscles of my chest, dragging down to my waistband, exploring like she’s afraid I might disappear if she doesn’t memorize me fast enough.

I reach for the hem of her shirt. “Your turn.”

She nods and lifts her arms. I peel the fabric away and toss it aside. Her bra is plain white cotton, her breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath. I brush my fingers over the straps, then down between her breasts, watching her tremble.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur.

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true. ”

She bites her lip. “Then show me.”

I reach behind her and unhook her bra with one hand, fingers steady even though my pulse is anything but. She watches me as the straps fall down her arms, her eyes dark and full of questions she’s not asking. I ease the bra away, and her breasts are revealed—soft, full, flushed with anticipation.

But I don’t touch her yet.

I just look. Let her see how much I want her. Let her feel it in the way my breath shortens, the way my gaze lingers.

“You always stare like that,” she whispers.

“Because I never want to forget this view.”

Her breath catches, and I finally lower my mouth to her breast. I press a kiss above her heart first, then trail lower, sucking one nipple into my mouth, slow and deep. Her fingers bury in my hair, her back arches.

“God,” she breathes.

I hook my fingers into her waistband and slide her leggings and panties down together. She lifts her hips to help me, and I sit back for just a second, letting my gaze travel over her.

Naked, flushed, eyes wide and unguarded.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because you let yourself feel everything. Even when it’s hard. Even when it terrifies you.”

Her eyes soften. Her hand comes to my jaw, thumb stroking lightly. “I’m not brave. I’m just… tired of being afraid.”

I lean down and kiss the inside of her thigh. “Then let me make you feel safe.”

Her breath stutters as I kiss higher. Then again. Then again, until I’m right where she’s hot and wet and waiting.

I press a kiss to her clit, soft and slow, and her whole body jerks. Her fingers fist in the couch cushions .

“Logan…”

I don’t answer. I just lick her again, long and firm, then suck gently, teasing her with rhythm and patience. Her hips lift, chasing more, and I give it—let myself get lost in her. The taste of her. The scent. The little noises she makes when I circle her with my tongue just right.

She’s trembling now, legs shaking. “Oh my God, I’m—Logan—I—”

I don’t stop until she cries out, her orgasm crashing through her like a wave. She shudders beneath me, thighs clenching, back arched, mouth open in a wordless gasp.

When she finally slumps back against the cushions, boneless and breathless, I kiss my way back up her body. Her eyes flutter open, dazed and warm.

I kiss her slow, savoring the taste of her still on my tongue, and she pulls me on top of her like she can’t get close enough. Her legs wrap around my hips, and our skin slides together—warm, flushed, real.

She whispers my name, like a prayer and a question and a homecoming.

I reach between us, wrap my hand around my cock, and stroke once—because I need to breathe through how much I want this—then guide myself to her entrance.

“I need you to look at me,” I say, voice hoarse.

Her eyes open, wide and wet and unblinking.

“I need you to see who you’re choosing.”

“I do,” she whispers. “I see you.”

And I sink into her.

She gasps—soft, sharp—and clutches at my shoulders as I fill her slowly. Inch by inch. Not because I want to tease her, but because I need to feel every goddamn second of this. Of us.

She’s wet and hot and tight around me, her body welcoming mine like it was always meant to. I rest my forehead against hers, trying not to shake .

“I missed you,” I breathe. “Oh God, how much I fucking missed you.”

She cups my face. “Then stop holding back.”

I start to move. Deep, steady strokes that drag soft moans from her throat. Her heels dig into my back, her hips meeting mine like a heartbeat. I bury my face in her neck, in her hair, in the curve of her shoulder—every place that smells like home.

“You feel…” I can’t finish the sentence. There’s no word big enough.

“I know,” she murmurs. “You too.”

Her hands slide down my back, her nails grazing, grounding. I shift my angle, searching until she gasps—right there—and then I give it to her. Again and again. Until she’s clenching around me, whimpering, so close I can feel it building in every breath she takes.

“I’m here,” I tell her. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

She lets go with a cry that’s equal parts pleasure and release. Her body trembles beneath mine, and I follow, hips stuttering, climax pulling through me like a riptide.

I empty into her with a groan, mouth against her shoulder, holding her like she’s the only thing tethering me to earth.

For a while, we don’t speak.

I stay inside her, head on her chest, listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat slowing.

When I finally pull out, it’s gentle. Like I’m afraid of breaking whatever spell we’re under.

She turns onto her side and pulls me with her, our legs tangled, her fingers tracing slow patterns across my stomach.

“What now?” she asks softly.

I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Now we live in the after.”

She smiles faintly. “And what does that look like?”

I grin. “Messy. Complicated. Honest. Full of dogs, probably.”

“And tea,” she adds .

“And bad jokes. And your boots on my couch. And me trying to cook and you pretending not to judge.”

Her fingers drift lower. “And this?”

I roll her onto her back again. “Especially this.”