Page 76 of Finding Noah

She laughed into my mouth, grinning, then gasped at how far, how deep, my body could reach inside hers, fitting into her perfectly, as if we had been made for each other.

Because we had been.

There wasn't a single doubt in my mind that we had been … made for one another, made for this. Made to travel through this life together, and the next, and the next, and the next …

But here?

Stop. I swallowed, focusing on the pleasure coursing through my body, taking life, tightening and pulsing and begging for release.

“Yes,” Meg said, answering both my question and the call for explosive release.

“That's what you want? To be pregnant and having me bend you over every chance I get, stuffing you full with my hard cock?”

“Fuck,” she groaned. “Yes. That's what I want.”

Five years ago, if you'd told me that Meghan Kinney would get off on dirty talk, I'd say you were crazy. She had always been so polite, so pure. Such a good girl.

Until I got her in my bed … or hers, I should say.

We never had sex at my parents' house.

That was the last thing I needed—to have my little brother interrupting intimate moments with my girlfriend … or worse, walking in and witnessing them. I never would've heard the end of it.

There had been none of that at Meg's apartment, and there was none of that now, as we made love on the couch in the middle of our living room, tumbling over the edge of ecstasy together, panting and sweating in a chorus of moans.

“I love you,” I said, breathless and sated.

“I love you too,” Meg said, kissing my neck, ear, and along my bearded jaw. “And hopefully, I won't get my period in a few weeks.”

She gave my cheek an affectionate pat, the romance officially over, and climbed off my lap unceremoniously to grab her pants from off the floor.

“Maybe your body just wants you to finally be my wife before it gets pregnant,” I suggested jokingly.

She cocked a hip and raised a brow. “You think my body really cares about getting pregnant a handful of months before the wedding?”

“Four months, excuse me, and you never know. You wouldn't want your grandma accusing you of being a … what does she say? A floozy?”

Meg threw her head back and cackled as she turned to enter the kitchen. “Baby, first of all, she's never called me a floozy. And second of all, we've been living together for, what? Five years? You think she doesn't know what we're doing over here?”

“I dunno. We could call her up and ask,” I muttered. “Maybe she wants to walk over and watch one day—”

“Oh my God, shut up!” Meg exclaimed, continuing to laugh. “Noah, you're awful.”

“The literal worst,” I said, leaning my head against the back of the couch to watch her continue to work around the kitchen.

Putting dishes away. Wiping down the counter. Humming every step of the way, a flush of happiness and hope bright on her cheeks.

Truly, truly, I loved her. I would love her forever; there was no doubt in my mind.

But what about this nagging feeling of discontent? What the hell was I supposed to do about that, and how was I supposed to make it go away?

How was I supposed to keep it from worming its way into this life, the one I'd wished for and never thought I'd have?

***

“Help me! Noah! Help!”

BANG!