32. Stephanie #2
“Insisted, actually. Said the newlyweds deserve a proper wedding night.”
“Did they now.”
“Mmhmm.” His hand slid down to rest on my hip, warm through the silk. “So we’ve got the whole evening to ourselves.”
Heat woke low in my belly. Sixteen years, and he could still do that with one hand and a look.
“That’s very generous of them.”
“I thought so.”
His thumb traced circles on my hip bone through the fabric of my dress, unhurried, watching my face the whole time to see what it did to me. He paid attention now. He watched for the catch of breath, the way my weight shifted toward him without my permission.
“Of course,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing about as well as he had, “we could wait until we get back to the hotel.”
“We could.”
“That would be the responsible thing to do,” I said, not moving an inch away from him.
“Very responsible.”
“As married adults with a child and a reputation to maintain.”
“Absolutely.” His mouth brushed my ear, and his voice dropped to the register that lived under my skin. “Or we could sneak off to the bathroom right now.”
I shivered, and he felt it, and the corner of his mouth curved.
“Kevin. We’re at our own wedding reception.”
“I know.” His lips traced down my neck, light, teasing, deliberately not enough. “Makes it more exciting.”
“We’ve got guests.”
“They’ll survive five minutes without us.”
“Five minutes? That’s optimistic.” I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Ten, then.”
I laughed despite myself, my hand fisting in the front of his jacket. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m your husband. There’s a difference.”
He pulled back and looked at me with those blue eyes that still made my heart race after all these years.
There was nothing desperate in them tonight, none of the grief-raw hunger we’d found each other with in the hard years.
This was easy and greedy, the look of a man who had all the time in the world now and intended to spend it.
“Come on, wife. Let me steal you away.”
I should have said no, been responsible and mature and all the things I was supposed to be as a thirty-six-year-old mother and newly remarried woman.
Instead, I took his hand and let him lead me inside.
The bathroom was small but elegant, white marble counters and soft lighting. Kevin turned the lock on the door with a decisive click, and the sound of it went straight through me.
Then he was kissing me.
Hard and hungry, his hands already working on the buttons at the back of my dress, and I could feel him smiling against my mouth as he backed me toward the counter. I laughed against his lips and fumbled with his belt.
“We’re going to ruin my dress,” I said.
“I’ll buy you another one.”
“This is a custom gown.”
“I’ll buy you ten custom gowns.” He got the buttons undone and the fabric slipped off my shoulders, cool air on my bare skin, his hands warm on the small of my back. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m correct.” He pressed me against the counter, the marble cold through the silk at my hips, his body hot everywhere it met mine. “I’ve been watching you all day in this dress, thinking about getting you out of it.”
“Even during the vows?”
“Especially during the vows.” His hands slid up my thighs, thumbs dragging the hem of my dress with them. “Do you know how hard it was to say all those romantic things while imagining you naked?”
“You seemed very sincere.”
“I was very sincere. And very distracted.”
I finally got his belt undone and pushed his pants down. He was already hard, straining against his briefs, and I wrapped my hand around him through the fabric and squeezed just to watch what it did to his face. He groaned, low, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
“Steph.”
“Yes, husband?”
“Fuck.” His head fell back, throat working, the tendons in his neck standing out. “Say that again.”
“Husband.” I stroked him slowly, savoring the way his breath stuttered. “My husband.”
He lifted me onto the counter in one smooth motion, hands sure at my waist, and my dress bunched up around my middle.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear and pulled, and I lifted my hips to help him, and then his hands were spreading my knees apart with a confidence that made my breath go thin.
“You’re going to have to be quiet,” he said, his mouth at my jaw, his eyes bright and dark at once. “There are people right outside.”
“Then you’d better give me something to bite down on.”
He kissed me instead, deep and consuming, one hand cradling the back of my skull, and he swallowed my moan as he pressed inside me.
We both went still. I felt every inch of it, the stretch and the sheer rightness of him, and I heard the breath catch in his chest against mine.
“God,” he said into my mouth. “You feel like mine. You feel exactly like mine.”
“Move,” I demanded, my heels hooking behind his thighs. “Please.”
He moved.
Fast and hard, the counter rattling beneath us, my hands gripping his shoulders through his shirt.
We were both trying to be quiet and mostly failing, muffled gasps and half-swallowed groans escaping despite our best efforts.
He kept his forehead pressed to mine so he could watch my face, and the watching was almost as much as the rest of it, every sound I made pulling a matching one from him.
“My wife,” he said against my neck, the word rough. “My perfect wife.”
“Your wife,” I agreed breathlessly. “Yours.”
“Always?”
“Every day you’ll let me.”