Page 132 of Catch Got Your Tongue

She laughed. “No, on the pancakes.”

“French toast,” I argued.

She gave me that look then. The one that always undid me—eyes soft and wide, lips parted just enough, a quiet, pleading heat that said everything without words.

I groaned low in my throat. “You know I can’t tell you no when you look at me like that.”

“You love it.”

I wrapped a hand gently around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her there, anchoring her to me. “No, baby,” I murmured. “I love you.”

Her breath caught.

I kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, without a care for who might be watching. She melted into me, her body pressing closer, like she was trying to bury herself under my skin.

When we finally broke apart, she whispered, “I love you too.”

The music and laughter faded into a distant hum behind us. There would be plenty of time to figure out the rest—Matty, Diaz, our future kids’ names—but at this moment, there was one thing I knew for sure.

Bella and I were endgame.

The kind of forever I had only ever read about in the books she kept on her nightstand, which yes, I had taken to reading, too. Talk about sex inspiration.More like sex-piration. Just last night, she had let me tie her to my bed and fuck her ass like one of the scenes in her favorite story.

I smiled against her hair, the memory still vivid. Bella’s wrists bound above her head, moans muffled against the pillow as her tight hole stretched around my cock while I’d stroked her clit and whispered how perfect she felt. How she’d been made for me. Afterward, she’d curled into me and asked, half asleep, if we could do it again tomorrow.

I pressed another kiss to her temple, breathing her in.

The rest of the world could wait. Tomorrow, I’d check on my friends, make sure they were okay. I’d figure out how to help them navigate whatever mess they were in. I’d keep showing up for the Junior Roasters, keep talking about how it was okay to not be okay, andactuallybelieve it myself.

But tonight? Tonight was ours.

And maybe one day, years from now, when we had a house full of kids—at leastthree—I’d finally convince her that French toast was indeed the superior breakfast food. Come to think ofit, there were plenty of ways to convince her, many of which didn’t require any words.

Regardless, I had the rest of our lives to persuade her.

And I couldn’t wait to start.