Bonus Scene #2
Willow
Wedding/Wedding Night
The ceremony was perfect in the most Fallen Souls way.
Hawk standing tall in his weathered cut, voice gravel-rough as he said the words that bound us.
No fancy church, no white roses or string quartet.
Just the clubhouse main room cleared out, brothers lined up in a row like a wall, arms crossed, watching with that mix of pride and shit-eating grins they wear when one of their own finally caves to something permanent.
Princess stood beside me as my witness, Havoc next to Diesel, the air thick with cigar smoke and the low rumble of approval when Hawk finished with, "You may kiss your old lady, brother. "
I still feel the echo of that kiss, hours later, Diesel's hands framing my face, mouth claiming mine like he'd been starving for it, the whole room erupting in whistles and stomps when we finally broke apart.
My dress is short, white lace over black satin, hugging my curves and ending high on my thighs.
The ring he gave me at the overlook glints on my left hand, slim silver catching the low lights, now joined by the simple band we exchanged today.
Mrs. Turner. Willow Turner. The name feels new, shiny, like it hasn't fully settled into my bones yet.
Now the party's raging. Music pounds through the speakers, classic rock mixed with something more current, which the prospects keep queuing up.
Bottles pop, brothers toast "to Diesel finally locking it down," shots are poured, laughter rolls loud and rough.
The air smells like whiskey, leather, and the faint char of the grill someone fired up out back for late-night burgers.
I'm dancing with some of the other old ladies, my hips swaying, laughing as they spin me, my dress flaring around my thighs, when strong arms wrap around me from behind. Diesel's scent hits me first, that warm, masculine heat that's all him.
"Time to go, Mrs. Turner," he murmurs low in my ear, voice rough with want.
I shiver, leaning back into his chest. "Already?"
"Been waiting all fucking day to get inside my wife." His teeth graze my earlobe, sending sparks straight down my spine.
The women catcall and whistle as he scoops me up, bridal-style.
My arms loop around his neck, legs dangling, boots brushing his thigh.
The room erupts again with cheers, bottles clinking, someone yelling "Get it, D!
", as he carries me through the crowd like I weigh nothing.
Hands slap his back, brothers grinning like idiots, a few offering crude advice that makes me laugh into his neck.
He kicks the door to his room shut behind us. The slam echoes. Then he's pinning me against it, mouth crashing to mine, hungry and urgent. His hands are already shoving my dress up, bunching the lace at my hips, calloused fingers finding bare skin.
"Can't wait," he growls against my lips. "Need you now."
I fumble with his belt, fingers clumsy with want. "Then take me."
He hikes one of my legs over his hip, my boot heel digging into the back of his thigh. His hand pushes my panties aside, no patience for removing them, and he thrusts in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one deep stroke.
I cry out, probably loud enough that the party hears it through the door, but I don't care.
The stretch is perfect, filling me completely, with the wall behind me and his body pinning me in place.
He fucks me against the door with deep, claiming strokes, hips snapping, whispering "my wife" over and over like a mantra, like he needs to hear it as much as I do.
"My wife," he groans, mouth on my neck, teeth scraping the spot that makes me arch. "Fucking finally. My wife."
I clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders through his tee, the new ring catching on the fabric. Pleasure builds fast, too fast, coiling tight in my core. "Diesel—"
"Come for me, baby. Let 'em hear how good your husband makes you feel."
I shatter, crying out his name, body pulsing around him. He follows right after, burying deep with a guttural groan, filling me as he pulses inside.
We slide to the floor laughing, tangled, still connected. My dress is hiked up around my waist, my panties crooked, his jeans barely past his hips. The door vibrates faintly with the bass from the main room.
"Round two in bed?" I ask, breathless, grinning up at him.
He grins back, that rare, full smile that makes my heart stutter. "All night, baby."
He pulls out slowly, both of us hissing at the loss, then lifts me again and carries me to the bed.
The cut he gave me months ago is draped over the chair as he lays me down on the sheets and finally strips us both properly.
Dress over my head, boots tugged off, his tee and jeans kicked away until it's just skin on skin.
He crawls over me, kissing every inch he uncovers, murmuring against my skin. "My wife, fuck, I love saying that."
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. "Say it again."
"My wife," he growls, sliding back inside me slowly this time, savoring. We move together with lazy, deep rolls of his hips, my legs wrapped around him, nails dragging down his back.
He flips us so I'm on top, hands on my hips, guiding me as I ride him. My wedding band glints as I brace on his chest. "Look at you," he rasps. "My old lady. My wife. Riding your husband like you own him."
"I do," I whisper, grinding down harder, chasing the next wave.
He sits up, arms banding around me, mouth on my breast, teeth grazing. We come together this time. It’s quiet and intense, our faces buried in each other's necks, as we ride out our pleasure.
After, we lie tangled, sweaty, sated. He traces the ring on my finger with his thumb. "Never thought I'd have this."
"Me either." I kiss his chest, over the scar that runs along his ribs.
“You doing okay?”
“I couldn’t be better,” I answer truthfully.
“Good to hear.” He kisses my forehead. "I plan to keep you busy all night."
Eventually, we clean up, take a quick shower in the tiny bathroom attached to his room, and slip back into our clothes.
My dress is wrinkled, my hair is messy, and my lipstick is gone.
His tee is rumpled, jeans low. We look exactly like what we are, newlyweds who couldn't wait to consummate our marriage.
When we step back into the main room, the party hasn't slowed. Heads turn. Someone whistles. Havoc grins widely. "Took your time, D. Thought maybe you bored Willow, and she fell asleep."
Diesel just wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me close, and kisses me hard in front of everyone.
Princess pulls me aside, eyes sparkling. "You look happy, girl."
"I am." I glance at Diesel, who's already being dragged to the bar for a shot by Havoc. "Happier than I ever thought I'd be."
She hugs me. "Good. You deserve it."
We rejoin the chaos. There’s more dancing, more toasts, Diesel never letting me out of arm's reach. Later, when the music slows and most people start drifting off, he pulls me into his arms.
“Wanna head home?” he asks.
“We are home. I don’t mind staying here on our wedding night. In fact, I think it’s perfect.” I kiss him gently.
"Round four?" I tease as we walk to his room in the clubhouse. Tomorrow we’ll return to our home and christen it as husband and wife.
He grins, kicking the door shut. "All night, wife."