Her hands roam, sliding under my shirt, nails dragging lightly up my stomach and chest until I feel goosebumps ripple over my skin.
“Been thinking about this all damn week,” I murmur, my voice rough against her pulse.
She tilts her head back, granting me access, her breath coming faster. “Then stop thinking.”
The truth is, she’s all I can think about—not just the sex part, even though the sex is fucking amazing.
Obviously.
I think about my future with her. Lazy Sundays, her hair spread across my pillow. Trips that end with us coming home to the same place. Date nights out; date nights in.
I love her.
I seriously fucking love her.
The words feel like they’ve been sitting on my tongue for weeks, heavy and restless.
I press my mouth to her jaw, my breath hot against her skin. “Poppy…”
She hums again, distracted by the path my hands are taking, but I need her looking at me for this. I pull back just enough to meet her eyes.
“I love you.”
Her breath catches.
Not from what my hands are doing, but from the words. For a second, she’s still—frozen in that narrow space between shock and something else I can’t name.
“I…” She flounders for several seconds before the corners of her mouth lift, before biting down on her bottom lip. “You really know how to pick your moments.”
“Yeah?” I murmur, kissing her jawline. “Couldn’t keep it in anymore.” My thumb strokes along her jaw, the rest of me stillpressed tight against her as I tease, “Figured if I was going to say it, it needed to be when I had you at my mercy.”
She laughs, the sound bright and bubbling up between us, and it’s pure oxygen in my lungs.
“I love you, too.” She leans in, brushing her mouth over mine before murmuring, “I really do.”
I’m not stupid enough to confess the rest of how I feel out loud yet—not when her legs are bracketing my hips and the promise of a sexy, kitchen fuck. But yeah, I’ve thought about it.
Hell, I’veplannedit in my head.
The ring. Popping the question.
And yeah—babies. Lots of little fucking babies with her smile and my eyes, running around a kitchen that’s bigger, with more space, that’s ours.
I kiss her again because if I don’t, I might actually tell her all of that right now. Eventually I will.
Not yet.
But soon.
epilogue
. . .
Georgia
Iswear, if one more person tells meeverything happens for a reason,I’m going to start throwing things. Not little things, either. Big, heavy, emotionally satisfying things.
Like vases.
