This life.
This woman.
This story we built with nothing but broken hearts, overdue books, and a lot of stubborn love.
She arches up against me, mouth against my ear. “Just checking… you still obsessed with your hot writer wife?”
I groan, burying my face in her chest with a muffled laugh. “Smartass.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging me back toward her. “Oh please—you didn’t marry me for my cooking.”
I smirk against her skin, already sliding my hands lower.
She leans in, eyes gleaming. “You know, I was planning on finishing that novel I was reading. If we do this, I won’t have time. Better be worth it.”
And I show her, slowly, that this is so much better than any fiction.