“Okay?” I ask, and she nods and instantly realigns her focus on the route ahead, not giving me nearly enough time of her bright eyes. But I still caught the flash of determination. She is struggling now. How long will she hold out? How long will she kill herself simply because she doesn’t want to lose?

We pass through Green Park, and I drop my speed a little more, keeping by her side, waiting for her to break. I silently will her to stop being stubborn and admit defeat so I can ravage her on the grass, and yet she soldiers on, her cheeks red and wet, her breathing loud. It’s doing me no favors, the sight of her like that, all hot and bothered. My dick is starting to fight for room in my shorts.

We approach Piccadilly, a good ten miles in, and I start to think she’s actually prepared to do herself some serious damage to prove this point of hers. And then what? If she pulls a muscle, that’s also going to do me damage. No sex.

Oh no.

But just as I’m about to call a halt on our run, she gasps and takes a sharp right back into the park and tumbles to the grass like a sack of shit. I smile at her splattered form, wandering over and getting the photo I’ve been dying to get all morning. Our first run together. I drop to my knees and crawl up her body. The heat emanating off her is burning through my shorts.

Her lashes flutter open, and she looks at me with a million pleas in her eyes. She’s nothing to fear. I won’t be making her run anymore. Only to the taxi so I can get her home pronto. “Baby, did I wear you out?” I rub my face into hers, spreading the sweat, kissing her everywhere. “Hmm, sweat and sex.” I roll us, getting her on top of me. She’s good for nothing. That needs to change sharpish.

I give her a few moments to find her depleted breath, content just for now, to lie here with her spread all over me. Eventually, she struggles up, straddling me. It’s a vision and a half.

“Please don’t make me run home.”

This is a turn out for the books. She’s begging. I should use this to my advantage. The Manor anniversary stamps its way across my mind. Two weeks.

“You did better than I expected.”

“I prefer sleepy sex,” she moans, plummeting to my chest. I smile. I can’t argue with that.