Page 109 of Offside Angel

When we break apart, he’s panting. “I want. All I fucking do now is want, Mira.” Our foreheads press together. “Ever since I met you, I want it all.”

I wrap my hand around him and he takes my hips. We fall together like a sigh, sinking back together in a kind of frenzied haze I’ve never felt before. I ride him in long, slow strokes, rising and falling down every inch of him.

“I already want to come,” he grits out. He sounds half-amazed.

“Do it.” The way he’s filling me has me teetering on the brink.

But Zane shakes his head and pushes me back onto the mattress. “I want this to last. I don’t want to stop.”

He slides into me and it’s too good. I cry out. “We’ll die.”

I believe it. Death by excessive orgasms. We’ve got to be setting records here.

“Then we’ll die together.” He slides his hands into my hair and kisses my neck, licking my pulse as he fucks me faster and faster.

I hook my legs around his thighs and pull him closer. I claw at his chest and cry his name and lose myself to whatever this madness between us is.

I’d say it’s love, but if that’s true, we must be the first two people who have ever felt it.

Because no one has ever fit together the way we do.

“I’m going to put my baby in you,” he groans, pumping faster. “You’re mine, Mira. All mine.”

I arch off the bed, so close to the edge my vision is going black. “I’m yours.”

A deep hum rumbles through his chest. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Zane.” I tug my hands through his hair and give myself over to everything he has to give. “I’m all yours.”

He grips the top of the headboard and spills into me in long, powerful strokes. My orgasm stretches and carries until I think I really might die.

Hearts shouldn’t beat this fast. Bodies shouldn’t burn this hot.

Then Zane collapses on top of me, and everything is just as it should be again.

“That was more official than any ceremony.” He sinks into the mattress next to me and flattens his hand on my quivering stomach. His lips brush against my jaw as he whispers, “Now, you’re officially Mira Whitaker.”

41

MIRA

“Oh, no.”

Zane’s voice drifts into the bedroom where I’ve been dutifully putting clothes on hangers for an eternity. If it takes ten thousand hours to become an expert at something, then I’m definitely a leading expert in the field of clothes hanging.

My knees pop as I stand up straight for the first time in way too long and head off to find my husband.

The thought still brings a smile to my face. My husband.

Zane Whitaker is my husband.

“Hello?” I pad barefoot down the hallway, poking my head into rooms to look for him as I go.

Compared to the madness of planning a wedding in one week, unpacking has been leisurely. A relaxing stroll in the park compared to the Ironman Triathlon.

But the office is still a catastrophe. I actually pull the door closed so I don’t have to think about the computer cords and filing cabinets that will need to be organized at some fuzzy, distant point in the future that will never come if I have anything to say about it.

Aiden’s room is entirely unpacked, though. All of his superhero action figures have made themselves at home on the top row of his bookshelves, and he has a giant bean bag chair that he’s sneakily slept in three times this week. Between his “cool” room—his words, not mine—and the swingset Zane set up in the backyard months ago, Aiden is little more than a blur in passing, usually running from one to the other.

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