Page 48 of My Reckless Biker

And then it's quiet. Just us and a house full of boxes and the afternoon sun coming through windows we haven't put curtains on yet.

"They lasted longer than I thought they would," she says.

"You scare them."

"I don't scare them."

"You organize things. Same effect."

She smiles and turns back to the box she was opening, pulling out plates wrapped in newspaper. I watch her work for a minute — the way she bends to reach into the box, the curve of her hips in those jeans, the soft roundness of her stomach visible where the shirt rides up slightly. Three years and I still notice. Still want to touch every time she's within reach.

"You going to help or just stand there staring?" she asks without looking up.

"Haven't decided yet."

"Very helpful."

I cross the kitchen and she straightens when I get close, turns to face me with a wrapped plate still in her hands. I take it from her and set it on the counter, then pull her against me because I can, because we're alone in our house, because three years in I still want her as much as I did the first night.

She fits against me the same way she always has. Soft curves pressed to harder lines, her body substantial and real under my hands. I slide my palms down to her hips and grip, feeling the width of them, the generous flesh that I never get tired of touching.

"We have a lot of unpacking to do," she says, but her hands are already moving up my chest.

"It'll still be here later."

"Very responsible."

"I've got priorities."

I kiss her and she opens immediately, tastes like the coffee she was drinking earlier and something that's just her. Her fingers slide into my hair and grip, pulling slightly, and I make a sound low in my throat that she's learned means I'm done with slow.

We make it to the stairs. Get halfway up before I turn her around and press her against the wall, my hand sliding under her shirt to find bare skin. She gasps when I cup her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple through the bra, and I can feel her heartbeat racing under my palm.

"Bedroom," she manages.

"Yeah."

We get there somehow. The mattress is exactly where we left it, no frame yet, just sitting in the middle of the empty room. Afternoon light falls across it through the uncovered windows and dust motes hang in the air and there's nothing in here except us and the bed and the understanding that this is ours.

I pull her shirt over her head and she reaches for mine, both of us stripping down to skin with the specific efficiency of people who've done this enough times to know exactly what they want.

When she's bare in front of me I take a second to just look, soft stomach, full breasts, thick thighs, every curve and dip and generous inch of her that I've learned by touch and sight and still find absolutely perfect.

"Stop staring and get over here," she says, but there's heat in her eyes that matches what I'm feeling.

We fall onto the mattress together and I cover her body with mine, feel her soft warmth everywhere we touch. She wraps her legs around my waist and arches up against me and I'm already hard and ready and she's wet when my fingers find her.

"Now," she says. "I need you now."

I push inside her in one slow thrust and we both make sounds. Three years and it still feels like this — necessary, consuming, exactly right. I move and she moves with me, rhythm we've perfected through repetition, her hands gripping my shoulders, my face buried in her neck breathing in the smell of her skin.

It's not the desperate rough sex from the early days. It's deeper than that. Slower.

I know exactly what she needs and I give it to her, the angle that makes her gasp, the pressure that makes her shake, the specific combination of movements that builds her higher until she's close.

"Right there," she says. "Don't stop."

I don't stop. I keep the rhythm exactly where she needs it and watch her face as she comes, the way her eyes close and her mouth opens and her whole body tenses and releases. I follow her maybe thirty seconds later, hips stuttering, her name on my lips.