I lifted my head, my brows knit and glared at him. “Are you about to whisk me away to the Florida Keys and ask for my hand in marriage?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Then we’re fucking to celebrate.”

His mouth twitched. “Fucking?”

“Fast, hard, rough,” I dipped closer, “and quiet.”

My breath left with the swiftness of him rolling on top of me.

“To be quiet, I gotta do all the work,” he declared. “You get on top, you moan and do it loud.”

That was okay by me.

I grinned.

My guy kissed me.

Then he fucked me.

We were as quiet as we could be.

After, me cleaned up and back in my nightie, Mickey in his pajama bottoms, we were tangled up in the dark in my bed.

“Love you, Mickey Donovan,” I whispered.

“Love you too, soon-to-be-Amelia Donovan,” he whispered back.

Amelia Donovan.

God.

I closed my eyes and pressed deep into his body.

His arms convulsed around me. “Shit, you like that.”

“Happy,” was all I could say.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

I tipped my head back and looked at his face in the shadows. “A flash?”

He slid his hand up my back, over my shoulder to cup my cheek. “No, baby. See, ’bout nine months or so ago, give or take a few weeks, this spitfire brunette moved in across the street and those flashes became history. Now I live life blinded and that is not a bad thing.”

That moved through me, setting me soaring, and I bent my neck and shoved my face in his chest so he wouldn’t see me crying, even in the dark.

He felt it since I was shaking uncontrollably (and might have let out a sniffle) and he gathered me closer.

“Don’t like my woman crying in my arms.”

“Ha-ha-happy tears.”

“Cut it out anyway, Amy. Yeah?”

My head tipped back again and I declared, “You can’t order me to stop crying happy tears, Mickey.”

“I just did.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.”

“It already did, seein’ as you’re layin’ into me and no longer crying.”

I glared at him through the dark because he was right.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “I can actually feel that angry heat and now I wanna fuck you again.”

“I don’t actually have anything pressing on my schedule for the next oh, I don’t know, eight to nine hours, Mickey.”

“Jesus, you’re a smartass.”

“Bitching about me being a smartass is not fucking me, Mickey.”

I ended that on a gasp because I ended that being flipped to my stomach then Mickey’s hand was yanking up my nightie right before it dove right in my panties. It curled, I spread my legs to give him better access and he found me.

“Where’s the smartass now?” he murmured in my ear.