Chapter Thirteen
Tyler
String lights and chandeliers lit up the night, while music drifted from the Bartletts’ restored barn into the courtyard, blending with chatter and laughter.
And I breathed in the clean, crisp air, my hand tucked into my husband’s elbow.
My husband.
I’d faltered halfway up the aisle, the weight of what we were doing with no love between us settling in my lungs, pushing out all the air.
Jase, his gaze on my face, strode to meet me, curving his palms around my elbows, warm through the thin lace.
All of him warmed me, his tall body strong and steady in a dark gray suit.
“We don’t have to,” he’d whispered. “We can walk back up this aisle, have a great party, go home, and carry on like we are until you’re ready.”
My bouquet in one hand, I’d clutched his lapel and stared into those serious eyes, aware of the eyes on us. They didn’t matter, though. Only the way he looked at me did. Waiting wouldn’t change who he was. And sure, we didn’t love one another now, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t later.
I’d smoothed out his lapel, then his green tie, still looking up at him. “I want to.”
A slow smile had transformed his entire face, tension dropping away to be replaced by relief and happiness. He’d dropped his head to kiss me, squeezed my elbows, then shifted to stand at my side. “Let’s do this, then.”
We had and now he was my husband.
I glanced up at his profile, lips curved in an easy grin while he listened to his grandfather tease his grandmother. This steady, handsome man was mine.
And I was his.
I ran my thumb over my wedding bands, a giddy excitement I’d never fully experienced before bubbling through me.
The reception wasn’t responsible, although this party was beautiful.
And it wasn’t his mama accepting me with a smile and a hug, even though she must have doubts.
It wasn’t the gorgeous dress, the friends, the music or the food.
It was him and the certainty we were building something beautiful, something easy and strong.
Something permanent.
He’d married me.
I was his wife.
“What’s that smile about?” he murmured near my ear as his grandparents walked away to join Coach Bartlett, who was talking with another man around his age.
I turned to meet those serious eyes. Touching his jaw because I could, I tilted my mouth up to kiss him because I wanted to and smiled wider. “You.”
Pleasure flared in his gaze, brightening the blue depths. He squeezed my waist then spread his hand across my hip, so I felt the hot press of every fingertip.
“I’m not rushing you. I want you to enjoy every second of this.” His warm voice rushed over my ear, lips brushing the curve of my cheek. “But we can sneak out when you want.”
With a glance around, I soaked in the details – the soft lighting, the nineties country love songs, the sparkle of glass and china, our friends and family. It was wonderful, but I felt a strong draw to be alone with him for a more intimate celebration. “Let’s go.”
A wide grin curved his lips, and he linked our fingers. We’d already said our thank-yous while we made our rounds earlier. Nothing separated us from what we both wanted – to be alone.
With eager steps, he hustled me away from the lights and onto the paver path that led to the tiny honeymoon cottage, which seemed straight out of a fairy tale wonderland.
The tang of young pecan trees starting to bud colored the cool, clean air hovering between winter and spring.
Pools of light spilled on the pavers, guiding our steps.
Clad in white wood siding that glowed in the landscape lighting around it, the cottage sported wide brick steps leading to a porch spanning the entire front.
We ran up the steps, my heels clicking on the brick, but Jase stopped me before I opened the door.
Bending to slide an arm behind my knees, he scooped me into his arms, nudged the door open with his elbow and carried me across the threshold.
Cradled to his chest, I stroked his arm, happiness fizzing through me.
With gentle movements, he lowered me to my feet, and I glanced around, enchanted with the pretty sitting area, ivory slipcovers on squashy sofas, roses and peonies to match my bouquet in a silver bowl on the coffee table.
Jase tilted his head toward the little kitchen, an array of snacks and beverages waiting on the small island. “Do you want something–”
I tiptoed up to kiss him, caught his hand with both of mine and tugged him toward the bedroom. Anticipation uncurled in my belly, little tendrils of desire. We’d moved in together weeks ago, and we’d had sex, hot as always.
But this . . . this was different now, leaving me breathless.
This was my husband.
“Gorgeous.” With one fingertip, he traced the lace pattern at my shoulder, then followed the lace to brush against the first button at the base of my neck. “Been thinking about these buttons all day. Is there a zipper or are they the real thing?”
“The real thing.” My voice emerged as a breathy murmur. “It’s vintage.”
“Real, like you.” He brushed my hair to the side and pressed a kiss to where my shoulder met my neck. I shivered, and his lips moved in a smile. He slipped one button free. “Those heels are pretty lethal, too. Want to leave them on in bed?”
“You have a shoe fantasy?”
“I have a you fantasy.” Nimble fingers, used to turning bolts, popped another button open. His mouth teased my ear, sensation shooting over my nerves. “My wife, laid out on that bed, ready for me.”
Forget breathy. Now I honestly couldn’t breathe, achy desire radiating all the way through my body.
He fiddled with the next fastening. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
His low chuckle vibrated over me. “I like this. You, me, slow and easy.”
“It’s always easy with you.” I fanned my fingers over his chest, smoothing starched cotton over warm skin.
I wanted that skin under my hands. I started on his buttons, faster than he was unbuttoning me.
Parting his shirt, I shaped his pecs and traced his ribs before brushing my fingertips over his belly.
He groaned, hands pausing halfway down my back.
I smirked against his skin and leaned in to lick the tendon at the side of his neck, tasting a hint of salt and the tang of his aftershave, the subtle spice filling my nose.
He feathered a finger over my wedding rings and nipped at my ear, then took a step back and spun me. Hot palms slid down to grasp my wrists, bringing my hands up to shape my fingers around the bedpost.
My stomach clenched, desire pulsing between my thighs.
With a kiss at the base of my neck, warm breath rushing over my skin, he worked through each button – all focus. All mine.
The buttons finished, he trailed a knuckle up my spine, the dry warmth of his finger a contrast to the smooth cool metal of his wedding band.
He traced the edge of my bra before he flipped the clasp free. With my arms stretched up to hold the bedpost, the dress didn’t gap, its fitted silhouette clinging to me, outlining the curve of our baby. I knew from experience, we’d have to peel it off.
Nuzzling at my ear so a shiver worked down my neck, he eased the fabric forward, clearing the way for his hands to slip under the silk lining and my satin bra.
With those long fingers, he cupped the underside of my breasts, a butterfly touch because I was swollen, nipples almost painfully sensitive.
His shoes scraped on the hardwood, and his bare chest pressed to my spine, belt buckle a chilly kiss on my skin. He dragged his teeth along the side of my neck. “You’re mine.”
Was it possible to orgasm from his voice alone? At his deep rasp, the flesh between my legs spasmed, a sweet ache, and I knew I was wet.
And he chuckled, dark and rich, like he knew. When he kissed the side of my neck, I tilted my head to give him access. I didn’t have to protect myself, didn’t have to consider every movement or choice. Simply being with him was so easy.
Now I could breathe, could let us be more than hot and fast.
We could be slow and easy.
Intimate.
Somehow, with this new shining commitment between us, I could make love with him.
Changing course, he slid his hands down to cover my belly below my navel, the dress pressing his palms to the barely-there curve where our baby was growing. My chest lifted with a shaky inhale.
Emotion hovered, shimmering around us like a precious bubble, something too fragile yet to be named. I closed my eyes, concentrating on his hands cradling my stomach, breathing him in.
But this was true.
He was mine now.
And I was his.