Chapter 16 #2
“I’m aware,” Ethan says, unbothered and glowing with the kind of confidence only husbands with no self-control have.
Callan’s arched brow turns into a grin. He lifts his glass in a toast. “To your incredible talent for not pulling out of anything. May it continue to bless you.”
Gage chokes on a laugh next to me while Bradford and Hayden’s lips quirk with amusement.
“Callan!” Olivia is scandalized but her husband merely shrugs and continues grinning at his brother.
“Wait,” Tim says. “How old is Annalise again?”
“Five months,” Gage drawls, and I hear the thread of quiet horror in his tone. His hand tightens on my thigh, and I know he’s thinking what I am: two babies, no sleep, just survival mode and love holding it all together.
Maddie laughs. “We obviously weren’t trying. It just . . . happened.”
Kristen nods while smiling affectionately at her sister-in-law. “Oh, we all know how it happened. Your husband cannot keep his hands to himself.”
Ethan just shrugs and reaches for a cookie. “Can you blame me?”
Tim smacks his hand away from the cookies. “Announcing a pregnancy does not count as an emotional truth.”
Ethan looks at him. “How about this then: I was scared shitless about becoming a father, but it’s the second-best thing I’ve ever done. And even if my wife gets pregnant every damn year, I’ll happily keep losing sleep, changing diapers, and falling in love with her all over again.”
I watch as Maddie’s eyes go glassy, and I feel it too. The ache that only comes from watching your partner love you out loud.
Tim points at Ethan. “Okay, that is how you ruin people. I am unwell and going to have to lie down in the grass soon and scream into the earth for a spiritual reset.”
Ethan grins and takes his cookie while we all launch into a conversation about the pregnancy. There’s happiness, congratulations, and some more light roasting at his expense. And then, slowly, everyone settles back into the rhythm of opening up a little more to each other.
The rest of the truths come easier after that. Some are funny. Some are quiet. A few, more emotional than anyone expects. But no one opts out. Even the ones who usually hold things closest.
I don’t know what it is, but something about being together at this table makes people speak softer. Sit closer. Show some vulnerability.
Eventually, the energy shifts, and we all start stacking plates and gathering glasses. Gage’s parents arrive just as we finish clearing the table, greeted with warm hugs and delight while Tim shoves the last cookie in his mouth.
The girls beg to go back to their fairy garden, pulling Ethan and Maddie with them. Sarah and Luna are both infatuated with Annalise, which means Ethan and Maddie are at the top of their list for who they want to spend time with this weekend.
The rest of the family drifts.
Gage’s parents head to their cottage to settle in. That’s after they both let me know how happy they are to be here for the wedding. To watch me marry their son.
Kristen and Bradford wander toward the sitting room with fresh coffee in hand, deep in conversation about whether they’d choose to erase memories or plant fake ones in people.
It’s another one of Kristen’s signature questions; the kind she’s apparently been asking Bradford since they got married.
And of course, he’s taking it seriously.
Giving her a thoughtful answer like he always does.
Some couples talk about movies they’ve loved and trips they want to take.
These two debate hypothetical scenarios like they’re prepping for real-life application.
Callan and Olivia disappear outside after stealing a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Colin vanishes into the garden and stretches out on a weathered bench like he’s entering his Regency era.
Tim and Marin linger by the flower bundles in the kitchen, discussing whether rose quartz is a legitimate excuse for crying or just a vibe amplifier.
Hayden walks outside without a word. His usual version of an Irish goodbye. He never stays long when the air gets this full of feeling.
And Gage takes my hand.
We slip upstairs, his palm firm against mine, the door to our bedroom clicking softly behind us as the hum of voices float up from downstairs.
Then it’s just us. My husband. His arms. That heated look of his.
He pulls me in tight, his hands on my body possessively as if he’s been holding back for hours. His scent wraps around me like it always does, a drug I can never get enough of.
His fingers find the hem of the shirt I stole from him this morning, and he slides one hand beneath it.
His thumb brushes over the skin of my stomach like he doesn’t care that we have maybe only ten minutes before Tim separates us for our afternoon apart—my brother’s emotionally branded version of a bachelor and bachelorette party that we somehow agreed to.
I have a million other things I could be doing. Deciding on my lipstick for tomorrow. Checklists. A minor wedding-day hair crisis I’ve been ignoring. But none of it matters. Because Gage has his hands on me and his eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing that exists.
He bends his mouth to my neck, kissing me there with the kind of hunger that doesn’t apologize. “Do you know how fucking hard it was to sit next to you through that whole lunch and not touch you the way I wanted to?”
I’m turned on and moving quickly into unable-to-think territory, but I manage a sexy smile and say, “I distinctly recall your hand on my leg the entire time.”
“Correction,” he says, gliding his hand higher up under my shirt until he cups my breast. “I spent the entire time stopping myself from dragging you inside and fucking you against the nearest wall.”
Holy obsessed husband.
I pull his mouth down and kiss him hard before saying breathlessly, “We only have about ten minutes.”
“Then I’m gonna ruin you fast.”
His mouth crashes down onto mine like it’s his right. No hesitation. Just filthy want and heat and full-body possession.
He strips the shirt off me, breaking our kiss to look at my body, his eyes roaming hungrily over my breasts. “This fucking bra,” he says. “It’s a goddamn distraction.”
A second later, it hits the floor, and Gage has his hands and lips on my breasts. He sucks one of my nipples into his mouth and groans as he squeezes my breast. I lean into him, hands in his hair, and lose myself in the pleasure.
He spends a long time with my breasts before lifting his face to mine. His expression is absolute filth as his hands go to my jeans and he says, “You know what I thought about all through lunch?”
He flicks the button of my jeans, lowers the zipper, then presses two fingers against me through my panties.
“This pretty little pussy stretched around my cock, tight and soaked while you tried to be a good girl and stay quiet.”
I moan. Loudly.
He slides his fingers into my panties, one finger pushing inside me. And his groan? God, it’s indecent. As if just the feel of me is enough to undo him.
“Jesus,” he rasps. “Were you this wet while you were sitting next to me at that fucking table?”
I can’t speak. Can’t think.
“Tell me how bad you need this.” His mouth is at my ear now. “Tell me you want your husband to wreck you.”
He adds another finger and reaches deep, hitting the exact right spot. When his thumb finds my clit at the same time and circles slowly, my knees nearly give out.
“Twenty-four hours, Amelia,” he says roughly. “And the whole damn world will finally know that I’m your husband.”
And just like that, he flips a switch in my brain.
It’s his possessive tone. His need that knows no bounds when it comes to me. And it’s that he wants nothing more than for everyone to know we’re married. It all tips me over the edge. Not into orgasm territory; into I-fucking-need-his-dick-inside-me-right-now territory.
“Off,” I gasp, grabbing at his jeans button. “We need these off now.”
Gage doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for his jeans as I shove mine down like I’ll die if I don’t feel him inside me right now. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted in his entire life, and that look only makes me more desperate for him.
“I hope you locked the door,” I say, every nerve in my body lit, every part of me his. “Because I’m not stopping for anyone.”
He groans like I’ve broken something loose in him.
Then we’re naked and he’s pushing me against the wall. Spinning me to face it, he grips my hip with one hand while he lines himself up with the other and demands, “You want your husband’s cock, Princess? Want me to fuck this sweet pussy and leave you filthy for the afternoon?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
It only takes one long, perfect thrust inside me and the world disappears.
The checklist. The plans. The voices downstairs.
Gone.
All I know is Gage.
“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s my cock owning every inch of you.”
I curl my fingers against the wall and moan.
“Say it,” he demands, his grasp of my hips tightening possessively. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” I gasp. “Fuck, Gage . . . you.”
“That’s right.” He fucks me harder, deeper, every thrust claiming more of me. “Your husband’s cock. Your husband’s cum. Your husband’s fucking name on your lips.”
His fingers find my clit, rubbing it exactly how he knows I need, and it doesn’t take long before I come. Body clenching, voice gone, everything in me breaking apart around the feel of him.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.
“I’m not done,” he grinds out, still pumping inside me. “My ten minutes aren’t up, and I’m spending every second inside you. And—” he keeps circling my clit with wicked skill “—I want you to come again. Show me what’s mine.”
I’m a panting mess. My body completely his, and almost unable to take more of his touch.
“Gage,” I whimper. “Oh god . . .”
I orgasm again. Heat rushing up my spine, thighs shaking, body unraveling as he keeps fucking me.
“Look at you,” he groans. “Falling apart on my cock like you were made for it.”