Rhys chuckles beneath me.
I’d give myself a high five for prompting a laugh from this grumpy mountain of a man if I had the energy.
“Good thing I’m trained to push my body past its limits,” he murmurs.
“Was that past its limits?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Still breathing, aren’t I?”
He is.
He’s breathing deep and steady, with his heart thumping solidly beneath my ear.
He’s still in his flannel, with his undershirt pushed as far up as it’ll stay, courtesy of me.
I smile and press a kiss to his chest, getting mostly white T-shirt under my lips.
“Two more minutes,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
“And then?”
“And then I’ll carry you into the house and show you what I can still do.”
The truck smells like sex and leather, and I’m realizing how quickly the temperature is dropping.
Not that I mind.
It’s comfortable here.
As comfortable as it can be with both of us squished into the driver’s seat.
I start to giggle.
Yeah.
Giggle.
I laugh regularly.
Cackle sometimes too.
But I’ve never been a giggler.
“You doubt me?” Rhys asks through a yawn.
“Never. Just—just happy.”
I don’t elaborate on the realization that I haven’t been as happy as I want to be.
Don’t think I need to.
Rhys—he seems to be in the same spot.
Or worse.
