No more jokes. No more playful tension.
He drinks me in. His gaze travels over the white lace that clings to my body. I am seen in a way that has nothing to do with what I’m wearing and everything to do with how deeply this man knows me.
“You’re not real,” he whispers, voice thick. “You can’t be.”
My breath catches. “I’m real. And I’m yours.”
He moves toward me. His hands rise to frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheeks. His mouth finds mine—slow, unhurried––and I melt into him.
His warm hands are sure, sliding down my arms, around my waist, until they settle low on my hips. When he lifts me, I gasp—a sound stolen more from wonder than surprise. He carries me to the bed and lays me down slowly and carefully, like placing a prayer at an altar. And then he kneels.
His fingers trace the edges of lace along my thighs. “You’re so beautiful, babe. Every inch.”
I reach for him, threading my hands through his hair. “Come here.”
He stretches out beside me, his body pressed against mine, and kisses me again. This time it’s deeper. Hungrier. But still tender.
His mouth moves along my jaw, down the curve of my throat. “My wife. My heart. My breath.”
When he cups my breast through the lace, his touch is gentle but possessive. I arch into him, silently begging for more.
“You’re really mine now,” he says, voice rough as his fingers slide under the edge of lace, slipping the strap down my shoulder.
I meet his eyes, aching and full. “We have the same last name now. I’m definitely yours.”
“Magnolia Sebring,” he says.
Something shifts in him—something unspoken. Like hearing it said aloud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.
Alex undresses me slowly, peeling the lace from my skin until I’m bare beneath him. He trails his lips along the curve of my waist, my hip, and the soft underside of my thigh. And when he moves back up—when our eyes meet again—I see everything.
Love. Need. Wonder. Gratitude.
He doesn’t rush to take.
He worships.
Every kiss, every touch, every press of his mouth to my skin is a vow.
He rises above me, muscles flexing in the candlelight as he crawls up the bed, his body covering mine, shielding me from everything but him. The heat of his skin meets the softness of mine, and the weight of him—solid, grounding—presses me deeper into the mattress. It’s not heavy. It’s home.
His hand slides along my jaw, thumb stroking the corner of my mouth.
His voice is thick with emotion. “This is what I’ve been waiting for––being inside you for the first time as your husband… and you as my wife.” He pauses, eyes shining. “I’ll never forget this moment.”
My chest tightens, my heart climbing into my throat.
“You’ve always been the only one for me,” I whisper back, threading my fingers through his hair. “And now I’m yours in every way. Always.”
When he enters me, it’s slow. Deep. Devastating.
We both inhale—our bodies meeting, molding, memorizing.
His forehead presses to mine, our breaths mingling in the warm space between us. “You feel like heaven.”
I cradle his face in my hands, my thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You feel like home.”
He moves inside me with measured care at first. His hands grip my hips, and thread with mine above my head, anchoring us together.
