Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Gage
The door had barely closed behind us.
I'd been patient all day. Through the ceremony and the reception and my dad's limestone monologue and watching Sawyer dance with Daniela and feeling my daughter move under my palm for the first time.
Patient through all of it, my hand at Millie's back, her smell in my nose every time she leaned close, that dress.
That dress.
"Gage—"
"Turn around," I said.
She turned. Presented me with a column of tiny pearl buttons running from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, and I looked at them and then at her bare shoulders and thought about how long it was going to take me to get through every single one.
Good.
I wanted it to take a long time.
I started at the top.
"You've been looking at me like that all day," she said.
"Like what." I worked the first button free. Her skin underneath was warm.
"Like you were waiting for everyone to leave."
"I was waiting for everyone to leave." Second button. Third. The dress loosened incrementally, a slow reveal, and I pressed my mouth to each inch of spine as it appeared. She shivered. "Been waiting since you walked toward me this morning."
"That was—" She exhaled when my mouth found the back of her neck. "That was six hours ago."
"I know exactly how long it's been." Fourth button.
Fifth. The dress was opening down her back, the fabric parting, and I could see the clasp of her bra and the curve of her waist and the way her body had changed these past months—fuller everywhere, softer, more.
Mine in a way that had nothing to do with a deed or a contract or a clock ticking down.
"Been thinking about this since you said obviously yes on the phone outside that diner. "
She laughed, breathless. "Romantic."
"I'm a practical man." Sixth button. Seventh. I spread the dress open with both hands and pressed my palms flat against her bare back and felt her breath catch. "I knew what I wanted. I was just waiting to have it."
"And now?"
I leaned down and put my mouth against her shoulder blade.
"Now," I said against her skin, "you're my wife. And I've been patient long enough."
8:26 PM
The last button came free.
I spread the dress open and stepped back.
She turned around slowly, the fabric slipping off her shoulders, and I stood there and looked at her.
White lace. Soft, delicate, doing absolutely nothing to contain the body underneath it.
A bralette that was losing the argument against her breasts—fuller now, heavy, the lace straining prettily—and a pair of high-cut underwear that sat below the round curve of her belly and made the whole picture into something that hit me low and hard.
She watched me look.
"You wore white," I said.
"It's my wedding day." A small smile. "Seemed appropriate."
I crossed the room.
She tipped her head back to keep my eyes as I got close, and I took her face in both hands and kissed her—slow, thorough, the kind I'd been saving up all day—and felt her exhale against my mouth like something releasing.
My hands moved. Down her throat, her shoulders, the straps of the bralette.
I traced the edge of the lace where it cut across the swell of her breasts and she shivered.
"You did this on purpose," I said.
"I have no idea what you mean."
"You wore something you knew I'd want to take off slowly." I hooked a finger under one strap. "You've been doing this all day. Making me wait."
"You're the one who did all the buttons."
"I liked the buttons." I pressed my mouth to her collarbone. "I like this better." My hands slid down her sides, over the curve of her waist, spread across her belly—both palms, the way I always did, feeling the weight of her. She covered my hands with hers.
I looked down at that. Our hands stacked together on her stomach. Her in white lace and nothing else, barefoot on the hardwood, flushed from the reception and the cool air and whatever was moving across her face right now.
"God," I said. Low. Not really to her. Just—out loud, because it needed somewhere to go. "Look at you."
"Gage—"
"I mean it." I walked her back toward the bed, slow, my hands still on her stomach.
"You have any idea what you look like right now?
" She sat on the edge of the mattress and I stayed standing, looking down at her—the lace, the belly, the way her hair had come fully loose now, all of it.
"My ring on your finger. My baby in you.
" I reached for the clasp of the bralette. "Mine."
She looked up at me and her eyes were dark.
"Then stop looking," she said, "and do something about it."
I unhooked the bralette.
The lace fell away and I stood there for a moment just—looking. Fuller than they'd been, heavier, her nipples darker than they used to be. I brought both hands up and cupped her, careful, feeling the weight of her, and she made a low sound and her head fell back.
"Sensitive," I said.
"Everything is sensitive right now," she breathed. "Pregnancy does that."
"I know." I brushed my thumbs across her nipples, light, and she grabbed my wrists. "Been paying attention."
"Gage—"
"I've got you." I pressed her back against the mattress. Looked at her laid out in just the white underwear, belly round, hair loose, chest heaving. "I've got you. We're not in a hurry."
She made a sound that suggested she disagreed with that assessment.
I smiled.
"We are absolutely not in a hurry," I said.
I took my time with her breasts.
She was so sensitive there now—had been for weeks, arching into my hands every time I touched her, oversensitive in a way that walked the line between too much and not enough.
I learned that line. Mapped it the way I mapped everything about her—carefully, permanently, like information I intended to use for the rest of my life.
Soft at first. Mouth gentle, tongue slow, just tracing the curve of her. She had her fingers in my hair and she wasn't pulling yet, just holding. Waiting.
I sucked her nipple into my mouth and she pulled.
"God—"
I did it again, my hand on her other breast, and she arched up into me and made a sound that went straight down my spine. Sensitive everywhere, she'd said. I believed her. I could feel it in the way her whole body was responding—everything heightened, every touch landing harder than it used to.
I used that.
Mouth and hands, slow and thorough, until she was squirming underneath me and her hips were rolling against nothing and her fingers had gone tight in my hair.
"Please—"
"Not yet." I kissed the curve of her breast. The soft skin underneath. "I've been waiting all day."
"Gage—"
I moved down.
Pressed my mouth to her sternum. Her ribs. And then I was at her belly—round and firm, my daughter in there, my wife's skin warm under my lips—and I spread both hands across the full curve of it and just stayed there for a moment.
Millie had gone still.
I kissed her belly—the top of the curve, the sides, the soft skin just below her navel. Her hands came down and covered mine.
"Hey, baby girl," I said quietly, against her stomach. "Give us a minute."
Millie made a sound above me that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.
I pressed one more kiss to the lowest curve of her belly. Then I hooked my fingers in the white lace underwear and dragged them down her legs and dropped them off the side of the bed.
I looked at her. All of her. Laid out on the white quilt in nothing, round and bare and flushed, my ring on her finger.
"You are," I said, "the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
She opened her mouth.
"Don't argue with me," I said.
She closed it.
I pushed her knees apart and settled between them and put my mouth on her.
Not teasing. Not working up to it. I buried my face in her pussy and got to work—tongue flat and broad, tasting her, feeling her clench immediately at the contact.
Her thighs came up around my head and I let her, my hands spreading under her hips to tilt her closer.
She was already soaked. Had been wound up for hours, all through the ceremony and the dancing and the buttons, and I could taste exactly how much.
"Oh god—" Her hand found my hair.
I groaned against her. Felt her shiver at the vibration.
Pressed closer—deeper—my tongue working into her and then pulling back to circle her clit, relentless, reading every hitch of her breath and every roll of her hips.
She was moving against my mouth already, chasing it, her whole body pulling toward what I was doing.
"Right there—" Breathless. "Please—don't stop—"
I didn't stop.
I slid two fingers inside her and felt her clench—immediate and desperate—and groaned again because she was so wet, so warm, her body pulling me in. I worked them slow while my mouth stayed on her clit, curling into her, finding the spot that made her thighs shake against the sides of my head.
"Gage—" My name, wrecked. "I'm going to—I'm already—"
I pressed deeper. Sucked her clit and fucked her with my fingers and felt her tip over the edge—clenching hard, her hips jerking up against my mouth, my name breaking apart in her throat.
I worked her through every second of it, not letting up until she was pulling at my hair with both hands and shaking.
I lifted my head.
Looked at her.
Hair everywhere, chest heaving, eyes dark and glassy, her belly round between us.
My wife.
"Again," I said.
"I just—"
"I know." I pressed my mouth to the inside of her thigh. "Again."
She was still shaking when I sat back on my heels and reached for my belt.
She heard it. The clink of the buckle, the slide of leather, and her eyes dropped down from the ceiling and found me—found my hands—and went darker.
I didn't hurry.
I worked the belt loose one-handed, slow, while my other hand slid back between her thighs. She was soaked, swollen, still clenching from the first one, and when my fingers pushed inside her she made a sound that I felt in my back teeth.
"There you are," I said.
"Gage—"