CHAPTER EIGHT #3
“Hey,” Ty says, squeezing my hand, “you were sharing your own experience. No need to apologize or make excuses for how you handled it or felt about it. You did perfect.”
“Thanks.” I smile sheepishly, vulnerability rolling off me in waves. “Anyway, before that, I only had a fling in high school with innocent messing around, and afterward, I was more certain than I’d ever been that sex wasn’t happening unless the chemistry was off the charts and I felt safe.”
“Good for you. I wish I had waited.” She points a finger at Ty, her eyes downright scary. “You never heard this. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He throws his hands up in surrender, but there’s a slight stiffness to his shoulders, screaming that he’s uncomfortable. “Not a word.”
“Good.” She murmurs some obvious apprehension through an elongated exhale.
“I did once, a year ago. It wasn’t anything to brag about; it was with a guy I hardly knew, all because I was pissed at my brothers, who I also credit with all my piercings.
I get one every time they dish out a new rule. I’m twenty-one, for Christ’s sake.”
“And see, I like you more by the minute too.” Tipping my nearly empty lemon drop martini toward her, I add, “The art of quiet rebellion. But I am sorry you didn’t have a better first experience.”
She flaps her hand, but the regret is visible in her eyes. “It wasn’t great, but if at first you don’t succeed …”
We clink our depleted drinks while I singsong, “Try, try again. ”
Ty groans, finishing off his rum and Coke as well. “The two of you are trouble together.”
“Bridesmaid,” I bark, and he chuckles.
“Fine.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You need honeymoon advice, Freckles?”
“Oh, Jesus. No, ” I rush out.
I need Celeste, who treats sex as an extracurricular activity.
She’s shared plenty over the years. Although it’s entirely possible Wells won’t even be interested, which would leave me feeling foolish and rejected.
As weird as all of this is and despite the fact that I waited and there’s a hunch that something is off , I feel both safe and aroused by him.
A first. So, I don’t think I need advice.
I need a drink. “Let’s do shots and pretend that didn’t happen.”
“That’s a plan I can get behind,” Ty says, calling the waiter over.
When the shots arrive, we lift them up, and Rena toasts, “To being bridesmaids for one badass gothic princess.”
In fifteen minutes, I’ll be Mrs. Ivanna Wells. The royal treatment at the spa today was amazing but did little to calm my nerves. Partly because this step feels final, five years or not.
Marriage is binding .
And partly because I think the marriage is merely a formality. Certificate or no certificate, I know too much. I’m already bound to Wells.
But my father raised me to be a survivor. To face challenges head-on. To be a force.
There’s nothing in this life that can break me. I won’t let it.
Not wanting anyone other than my father to walk me down the aisle, I asked Ty to inform Wells that I’d meet him out there. One of the Noire brothers will be conducting the ceremony for us, which will be short, since in our case, it’s only a hoop to jump through. Then, we’ll be on to the party.
I also asked for a few minutes to see the courtyard, alone—with all entrances guarded, of course .
Rena told me it was decorated, and I didn’t want to risk having any type of emotion in front of others, whether it be joy, sadness, or disappointment, because I’m not quite sure what I’m feeling at this point.
Grazing my black-tipped, French-manicured nails over my gown, I take a deep breath on my solo walk to the courtyard but lose it the second I step outside.
Yellow-tinged book pages are strung everywhere by bright green vines with various shades of pink roses across the brick of the building.
The whole garden area is aglow with hanging candles and tiny off-white lights, casting the whole space in an intimate honey hue.
On a round table, draped in white cloth, is the cake—not a traditional wedding cake, a stacked-book cake with an icing ribbon and classic titles on the spines.
A huge white fireplace looms in the center, trimmed with candles, vines, and quotes from so many famous authors.
And in the middle of the mantel, there’s a red rose, encased in glass.
Beauty and the Beast.
Tears prick my eyes. Dangerous tears.
Tears full of hope.
I refuse to allow them to brim, let alone fall.
The ambience is so romantic and yet …
Ty and Rena must have done this. At least, I’m not alone.
Long before I’ve calmed my racing pulse, everyone begins to filter into the courtyard. Including Wells, who looks dapper as always, in his all-black three-piece suit.
His eyes land on me, and he pauses. But when his breath visibly catches, my pulse ratchets all the way up into my dry throat. He stalks toward me, his emeralds full of want. Hungry. Ravenous actually.
Dueling urges war within me.
Flee or leap.
He threads his fingers into my hair, forehead pressed to mine, not caring that others are standing around us. Watching. Waiting. “ You’re a goddamn vision, Ivanna Kingston. Radiant.” His voice is so thick with emotion that my knees nearly buckle. “There’s never been a more stunning bride.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Leap.
I melt against his touch, and my breathing staggers. “I think we’re supposed to say I do or something.”
“Right.” He lifts his head, separating us only inches, and keeps a possessive hand on my waist while he waves the other at Maddox Noire. “Get on with it.”
Everyone in the courtyard bursts into laughter, and I can’t help but giggle with them. This whole thing is so ridiculous, and yet Wells’s reaction couldn’t have been more perfect if I had scripted it.
By the amused sounds of our guests, it’s evident Maddox is witty with his ceremony speech, but to me, it drones more like an airport announcement—foggy and muffled.
Wells keeps his intense eyes on me the entire time.
Piercing me, as though he can see the deepest inner workings of my soul and wants to memorize them.
My mind clouds, floating into the surrealness.
A shooting star.
When it’s time for the rings, Rena hands me a diamond-studded platinum band for Wells.
Not sure where that came from.
Wells removes my engagement ring, clasping a blue-and-white diamond-studded band onto it, and slides the set onto my shaking finger before I take the matching band and glide it onto his.
Grains of sand.
“Time to make out with your bride,” Maddox declares with a wink.
And Wells doesn’t waste a second. One hand snakes around my waist while the other weaves back into my hair. His lips land on mine with a determination that has me whimpering, my whole body liquefying in his embrace.
So, I return it with every bit of pent-up lust I’ve held since I met him. My tongue waltzes with his as my hands coast over his chest to the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. His mouth is warm and slick and coaxing. Consuming.
He tastes like cotton-candy transgressions. Sugarcoated sin.
And the world disappears. The courtyard. The guests. The inheritance and business deal.
Dandelion dreams.
It’s only Wells and me. Sharing a kiss that is deeper and more passionate than anything I’ve ever known—a tethering, a renewal, a twining that has me nearly crumbling to the brick floor, desecrated rubble of my former self.
An idyllic tempo thumps in my muscles and veins and bones.
His hand fists in my hair, yanking on the flowing salon curls with a sting.
I moan into his mouth, and he meets it with his own avid groan.
Something about his sound, erotic and demanding, along with the heat flooding my core, startles me back to reality. People are here, witnessing us come undone. I untangle my tongue from his, release my grip on his neck, and step back.
My fingers brush over my swollen lips.
That was real.
He studies me. A question hovering in the space between us.
What was that, Little Storm?
There isn’t even a smidgen of hesitation in my answer. I lean in close and whisper, “That was an invitation, Mr. Wells.”
His eyes light, voracious excitement swirling inside them.
Here in the candlelight with my unlikely groom, I realize, this path may be off , but I’ve always loved twisted fairy tales.
Gavin Wells might not be the hero of my story, but he may be my dark knight.