The Wedding Night #2
THE SUN HAD STARTED to set by the time Maika was all alone in the master bedroom.
It was enormous. The bed could have fit four of her. The ceiling was higher than her entire old apartment, and the window looked out onto the garden, where the last of the evening light was turning everything gold.
He had promised that all of her belongings in her dorm room would be here, and they were—her books stacked neatly on the desk, her well-worn copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream placed on the nightstand like someone had known it mattered to her.
But not just that. He had also prepared an entirely new wardrobe for her, and that included a selection of frilly, silky, and lacy things.
Gulp.
Maika was still in the shower when she heard the door to the en-suite open.
But she refused to turn around.
She simply stayed there under the shower, the water cascading down her body, her heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it over the sound of the water.
She could feel him behind her before he even touched her.
The air itself seemed to change, growing heavier, warmer, charged with something that had nothing to do with the steam.
A moment later, her husband joined her, and...oh.
His hands were on her waist first. Just resting there, his thumbs tracing slow circles against her skin, like he was giving her time to breathe.
But she couldn't breathe. Not with his chest pressed against her back, not with the water running between them, not with his mouth finding the curve of her shoulder and pressing a kiss there that was so gentle it made her knees buckle.
He turned her around in a blink, and then he was kissing her again and again and again. Her back against the cool tile, his hands cradling her face, and the contrast of the cold behind her and the heat of him in front of her was making her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the steam.
She kissed him back, her fingers threading through his wet hair, and when she felt him shudder at her touch—
Oh. She could make him shudder. She, Maika Nolan who could barely walk in a straight line, could make this man tremble.
That knowledge was more intoxicating than anything she had ever felt.
And somehow, she had ended up in his arms, his hands lifting her effortlessly, and then they were in his bed, and the cool sheets against her skin were a shock after the warmth of the shower, but that shock lasted only a moment because he was already there, already over her, already everywhere.
Oh.
His hands. They were everywhere—her face, her hair, the curve of her waist—but somehow tender.
Unhurried. Like he had all night, and he intended to use every minute of it learning her.
His mouth followed where his hands had been, tracing a path down her collarbone, and every inch of skin he touched seemed to come alive in a way she hadn't known was possible.
She tried to hold still. She tried to breathe. She couldn't do either.
"Mykos..." she whispered, and she didn't even know what she was asking for, but he seemed to know, because his mouth curved against her skin and he murmured something in Greek that she couldn't understand but felt, deep, deep in her chest.
Tears stung her eyes when they finally became one, and he went still above her, his forehead pressed to hers, his breathing ragged, waiting for her.
Just...waiting. Like he would have stayed there forever if she needed him to.
His hands found hers and their fingers intertwined against the sheets, and the way he held her—firm and trembling at the same time—told her something his voice never would.
"I'm okay," she whispered, and she felt his breath catch. "I'm okay, I'm okay..."
And a little while later, as the pain turned into something beautiful, they also started moving as one, and...oh...oh...the way he was making her feel—
It was like drowning, but in reverse. Like she had been underwater her entire life and was only now breaking the surface, and every nerve in her body was singing, and she couldn't tell anymore where she ended and he began, and she didn't want to.
"Mykos."
It was her first time to say his name, and she didn't really plan on doing so. It simply happened, his name slipping past her lips as she came apart, and as ripples of pleasure pounded her body, she realized he was right behind her, and because they were now one...
"Maika."
It was her name on her husband's lips, and it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard.
He held her afterward. Just held her, his face in her hair, his arm heavy and warm across her waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her hip.
She could feel his heart pounding against her back—wild, unsteady, nothing at all like the controlled man who commanded rooms and made grown men look at their shoes.
She wanted to say something. Something meaningful, something worthy of the moment. But what came out instead was: "I have a midterm on Friday."
His arm tightened around her, and she felt his chest shake with a laugh he tried to hold back. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh, and the sound of it—low, surprised, almost involuntary—was so unexpected that her eyes filled all over again.
Oh no. Don't cry. Not now. Not when everything is so—
She pressed her face into the pillow so he wouldn't see. But he turned her toward him, and his thumb caught the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and the look on his face when he saw her crying was something she would never forget.
Not alarm. Not confusion.
Wonder.
Like he couldn't quite believe she was real. Like he had been bracing for something cold and gotten something warm instead, and he didn't know what to do with it.
She didn't know what to do with it either.
So she tucked her face against his chest, and listened to his heartbeat settle, and felt his lips press against her hair, and thought: I am in so much trouble.
THE SUN HAD STARTED to rise by the time his wife succumbed to an exhausted sleep. He had made love to her for hours, and now, as he gazed down at her beautiful, innocent face...
He was right about her.
She was indeed the light that kept the darkness away.
But how long that would last, though...
Only time would tell.