25. Christine #2
Rose petals scattered across white sheets like I’m trying too hard, because I am, because I’ve spent these past months learning that trying too hard is better than not trying at all. Every romantic cliché I could think of, spread across the room like an apology and a promise wrapped into one.
Christine stands just inside the door, still in her simple white dress, flowers wilting slightly in her hair, and looks at the bed like she might laugh.
“I can’t believe you actually did the rose petals.”
“I had years of bad romantic gestures to make up for.” I close the door behind us. The lock clicks soft and final. “This is just the beginning.”
She turns to me.
For a moment neither of us moves. The wedding is still on her - the grass stains on her bare feet, the faint smell of Mr. Kim’s string lights and somebody’s grill, the echo of husband and wife sitting warm in my chest. Isabella is with Clara tonight.
The whole city can wait. There is no parking lot, no fogged glass, no we can’t here.
There is only this room. And her. And all the time in the world.
“Come here,” she says.
I do.
The first kiss is almost shy. Ridiculous, after everything - after the car, after the months, after standing in front of everyone we love and promising forever with my voice breaking on every word.
I frame her face with both hands and kiss her like I’m still a little afraid she might vanish, and she makes a small sound against my mouth that undoes me completely.
Then it isn’t shy at all.
She fists the front of my shirt and pulls me in.
I walk her backward until her thighs hit the bed and still I don’t rush - mouth open, hungry, kissing her like I’ve been waiting through the entire reception for this.
Wine on her tongue. Flowers crushed in her hair.
My hands find the buttons at her spine and pause.
“May I?”
She laughs, breathless, forehead against mine. “Benedict. I just stood in my mother’s courtyard and chose you in front of everyone we love. You don’t have to ask.”
“I want to.” My fingers trace the first button. Slow. “I want to do this right. I want to take my time. I’ve taken so many things from you too fast. Not tonight.”
Her eyes go bright.
“Then take it off,” she whispers. “Slowly.”
I do.
The dress slips from her shoulders like it’s been waiting to.
White fabric pools at her feet. She’s in lace the color of champagne, candlelight on her skin, and for a moment I cannot breathe.
I’ve seen her before. I’ve had my hands on her in a parked car with the windows gone white.
But I haven’t seen her like this - my wife, barefoot in rose petals, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
“Benedict.”
“Give me a second.” My voice comes out ruined. “I’ve looked at you every day for six years and I’ve never once earned this.”
I sink to my knees.
Not because I planned to. Because my legs won’t hold me.
I kiss her hip. The inside of her thigh.
The faint tremor in her legs when my mouth opens against her skin.
My hands slide up, slow, reverent, mapping her like I’m learning her all over again now that she’s mine in every way that counts.
She threads her fingers into my hair, and I look up at her like she’s holy.
Because she is.
“I love you,” I say into her skin. “I love you. I’m going to say it until you’re sick of it.”
“Try me.”
I smile against her thigh. Then I hook my fingers in the lace and draw it down.
I take my time.
Not the frantic, stolen rhythm of the car. This is unhurried. Thorough. I learn every sound she makes now that she doesn’t have to be quiet. When her thighs start to shake, I slide two fingers into her - slow, careful, curling - and her whole body arches off the bed.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her. “Let me hear you. No one else. Just me.”
She comes with my name on her lips, and I stay with her through it, gentling, kissing the inside of her thigh while she trembles. Then I climb up her body and she pulls me into a kiss that tastes like her, and I groan into her mouth.
She undoes my shirt with impatient hands. My belt. I help, clumsy now, less worship and more want, and when I’m finally bare against her the sound I make is embarrassingly honest.
“Hi,” she whispers, smiling, wrecked, beautiful.
“Hi.” I kiss her forehead. Her nose. Her mouth. “My wife.”
“Say it again.”
“My wife.” I settle between her thighs. Don’t push. Just rest there, forehead to hers, shaking. “Christine. My wife.”
She hooks a leg around my hip.
“I’m sure,” she whispers. “I’ve been sure. Come here.”
I slide into her like coming home.
We both stop breathing.
It’s not desperate. It’s slow. Deep. The kind of joining that makes my throat tight. She’s warm and perfect and mine, and I have to bury my face in her neck and just exist there for a moment, overwhelmed, one hand cradling the back of her head.
“Look at me,” she whispers.
I do.
Candlelight. Tears on her lashes. A smile that undoes every version of me that ever thought success was measured in dollars.
I move.
Slow. Deep. Reconnecting. My eyes never leave hers. Every stroke is the same promise I made in the grass: I will stay. I will stay. I will stay. When she gasps, I swallow the sound. When she says my name like a prayer, I answer it with hers.
It builds the way good things do - not all at once, but inevitably. Her legs tighten around me. My rhythm falters, then finds her again. I slip a hand between us, and she breaks first, clenching around me so sweetly I follow within moments.
I shatter with her name on my lips.
After, I don’t move right away. I can’t. I just hold her, face in her hair, breathing like I’ve run a very long way to arrive exactly here.
“Stay,” she whispers. The word from another night. Another almost.
I kiss her temple.
“Forever.”