Chapter Nine
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Sarelia
“Do you, Sarelia Prim, take this moron to be your not-so-lawfully wedded husband?” Stryker asks.
I stare into his unnerving blue eyes as we stand before Archie’s family on the edge of where the compound’s road ends. The beauty of the Kentucky forest surrounds us, a backdrop of spring blooms and budding greens—the beginning of a new season wishing us well.
“I do,” I reply, pinching my wrist.
Still not a dream, somehow.
“And do you, Archibald Pine, take this woman to be your wife, to cherish and to treat like a person deserving of respect and love for the rest of your life?”
Archie snorts. “Am I not to be treated like a person deserving of respect and love, then?”
“Just answer the question,” Stryker grunts, glaring at my groom.
My eyes flit between them as I nibble at my cheek.
Archie’s gaze wanders to me and softens.
“I take this woman to be my wife, and I promise to cherish her and treat her in any and every way she wishes, no matter how respectful and loving they may look from the outside.” His eyes darken and a rogueish glint winks at me from their depths.
“In fact, I hope that some of the ways she asks to be treated look very disrespectful from the outside.”
I blush when his eyes dip down, then back up.
My goodness.
“I’m going to throw up,” Millie groans.
“Me too,” Heidi concurs.
“I think it’s romantic,” Rosie says. “May you always have that spark.”
“Please stop talking about Archie’s spark,” Millie complains, gagging. “I can’t take it.”
Stryker scowls. “If she vomits, you’re cleaning it up.” He shoves his massive hand in Archie’s face, index finger out.
Archie sniffs. “If she vomits, we’re outside. The wildlife will clean it up.”
My nose wrinkles. “Ew.”
Archie turns to me as Stryker drops his hand, but not his glare. “Don’t worry, love. She won’t chuck.” He side-eyes her. “After all, it would be unbelievably rude to lose your hold on your stomach at someone’s wedding, wouldn’t you say?”
I would. I really, really would.
“No one is doing anything gross,” Rosie declares. “We’re having a beautiful wedding, after which we will have a beautiful reception.”
Millie whimpers, but does not otherwise do anything distressing.
“Blessings,” Heidi whispers. “I’m a sympathetic puker. That could have been bad.”
“Can we stop talking about puke at my wedding?” Archie asks. “It’s making Sarelia uncomfortable.”
“Me?” I ask. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m super comfortable. Comfort princess, me. Never been more comfortable in my life.”
Archie’s lips twitch, and he reaches for my hand, gently removing my nails from where they’ve embedded themselves into my palms.
Ah. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t apologize,” he whispers back, then, louder, “They’re going to stop being annoying now, and we’re going to finish our beautiful wedding, to be followed by our beautiful reception. Right, everyone?”
A murmur of agreement sounds, and Archie taps me on the nose before turning his attention to Stryker. “I believe it’s time for you to tell me to kiss her,” he says.
My lungs cease functioning.
I knew about the kissing part of the wedding. Obviously. Everyone knows about the kissing part of the wedding.
However.
It hits me quite suddenly that I am going to be doing the kissing part of the wedding, and I will be doing it with Archie Pine, also known as CinnaRoll47426, also known as the man I’ve been obsessively molding my life around for the past decade.
His lips are going to be on mine.
My lips are going to be on his.
Oh my gosh, I should have asked for a mint before we came here. Or to brush my teeth. Or for a brand new mouth that has never once eaten anything with garlic or onions in it.
“Breathe,” Stryker orders. “No fainting.”
“I’m not going to faint,” I wheeze, swaying on my feet. “What a ridiculous notion.”
“Only Millie faints,” he barks. “Sarelia does not faint. Millie faints.”
Archie’s hand in mine squeezes, anchoring me.
“I can see that you feel very strongly about this,” he mutters. “But perhaps you could refrain from scolding my bride on her wedding day, hm?”
Stryker says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. His displeasure with my weak constitution is ripe in the air.
“I’m not going to faint,” I repeat, struggling to catch a full breath and make my words reality. “I might hyperventilate, though.”
Stryker considers this, then nods. “That’s fine. Millie doesn’t hyperventilate very often.”
“Oh, well, if it’s fine with you.” Archie rolls his eyes, then turns fully toward me. “With me, my love. In, out. In, out.”
Our eyes lock, and I follow his instructions as he comes so near that the air I’m breathing in is the same air he’s breathing out.
“Very good,” he murmurs. His nose brushes mine, and I focus on the flecks of gold splattering his irises. “Stryker?”
“Kiss her,” Stryker grunts. “Before she forgets how to function again.”
Archie’s eyelids lower, then close completely as I forget how to function despite Stryker’s wishes. Because, truly, how does one function when the love of her life wraps his arms around her, bumps his nose against hers, then meets her in a kiss that starts not with his lips, but with his tongue.
My knees go weak, and I gasp as Archie follows tongue with lips, warm and soft against mine.
This… this is…
My goodness, this is nice.
Slowly, I work up the courage to take an active role in the kiss, sliding my lips against Archie’s in tandem with the press and pull his give.
When his tongue slides out to play again, I take a chance, letting my own slip out to tease his.
He. Loses. His. Mind.
His hand slides into my hair, fingers digging into my scalp as he moves my head where he wants it.
His kiss becomes hungry, demanding more from me, taking and giving until everything around us ceases to exist. Until my world narrows to this, him, us.
Until I’m dizzy and drunk on the taste of him—sunflowers and spring dew.
My lungs burn with a plea for air despite my heart being quite certain we could survive on Archie alone. What is air worth breathing for anyway, if it does not taste like him?
“Are they going to stop?” a voice in the distance asks, threatening to unravel my slow, thoroughly welcome suffocation.
“I hope so,” another voice answers. “Did he growl?”
“Yuck.”
“Ew.”
“Blegh.”
“Girls,” an older, softer voice admonishes. “It’s his wedding day. Let him enjoy it.”
“He’s enjoyed it enough,” a man’s voice, much closer. “We want cake.”
And then Archie’s lips are no longer on mine.
I whine as my eyes open, my lungs taking in mere air.
My gaze meets Archie’s, and I see my displeasure echoed in his face.
“Let me go,” he growls, a threat rumbling below the surface of his words.
I start, my arms dropping from where they’ve wrapped themselves around his shoulders, but his head cuts toward Stryker, and I realize he wasn’t speaking to me at all.
Stryker’s hand drops from the top of Archie’s head, and he grunts. “If you’ll recall, you interrupted my first kiss, too.”
Archie’s face promises murder, and not the swift kind.
“If you’ll recall,” he hisses, “your first kiss was not your wedding kiss.” Then, he calls Stryker a string of four letter words I would not otherwise find attractive to hear a man utter, but on Archie’s lips? On Archie’s dewy, sunflower tongue?
Hot.
So. Freaking. Hot.
“I didn’t interrupt anything at all,” I note, somewhat breathily. “Why am I being punished?”
Archie’s hand convulses against my scalp.
“Collateral,” Stryker answers. “Also, it’s cake time.”
Screw cake. If it doesn’t taste like sunflowers and dew, I don’t want it.
“We’re skipping cake,” Archie announces. “You’ll have to have the reception without us.” His eyes meet mine, burning embers clashing with riled flames. “The honeymoon starts now.”
I lick my lips, all shyness forgotten as I bask in the drug that is Archibald Pine.
My husband.
Who wants to start our honeymoon now.
His family around us grumbles, insisting that a reception without the couple isn’t a reception at all, but I can only think one thing.
Yes, please.