21. Marcus #2
I spent years believing I wasn’t made for this kind of love. That commitment was a risk. That marriage was something transactional, not transformational.
I was wrong.
I lean against the edge of the bed, my tux jacket already discarded, the top button of my shirt undone. My tie, loose around my collar, hangs there forgotten. The only thing I can focus on is the door across the room.
She’s in there. My wife.
Changing, slipping into something delicate, something meant for me.
Is this a 1950’s honeymoon? Should we have gone to Niagara Falls?
My hands flex at my sides, my chest tight with anticipation. I never used to be patient—not when it came to Avery.
The first time I had her, I was hesitant, unsure; I’d never had a virgin before. The second time, I was desperate, starved for her after years of wanting. But now?
Now, I’m settled.
This isn’t something I have to chase, something that might slip through my fingers if I let my guard down.
She’s my wife. And tonight, I’m going to take my damn time.
The soft sound of the bathroom door unlatching pulls my focus, my breath slowing as it creaks open.
Avery steps into the room, bathed in soft lamplight, and fuck.
Delicate cream lace clings to her, sheer in places that make my throat tighten. The thin straps frame her shoulders, the fabric dipping between her breasts, skimming down to barely-there panties that do nothing to hide the curve of her hips.
She hesitates, shifting slightly under my gaze. “It’s a little?—”
“Perfect,” I cut in, my voice lower than I expect.
I push off the bed, crossing the space between us. My fingers slide beneath one lace strap, tracing the line of her shoulder. The heat of her skin warms my palm, and I follow the curve of her body—down her side, her waist, the flare of her hip. Mine.
I tilt her chin up, forcing her to hold my gaze. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her lips part, a soft breath escaping, but I don’t give her a chance to speak.
I kiss her.
Slow. Deep. A deliberate possession.
She melts into me, fingers sliding into my hair as she tugs me closer, her body molding against mine.
Patience is gone.
I lift her, swallowing her surprised gasp as her legs wrap around my waist. The lace is thin enough that I feel her heat, the soft rub of her against my hard length sending fire through my veins.
I take two steps before lowering her onto the bed, bracing over her, fingers coasting over the sheer fabric covering her breasts. Her nipples tighten beneath my touch, and her breath stutters when I slide my hand lower, down the smooth plane of her stomach.
I want these barriers gone.
I pull at the lace, dragging the delicate lingerie down, my mouth following the path of my hands.
I take my time exploring her—lips, teeth, tongue—learning what makes her body tremble, what makes her breath hitch.
But when she moans, head tipping back, thighs shifting restlessly beneath me, I can’t hold back anymore.
I settle between her legs, pressing her thighs open. “Let me taste you.”
A sharp inhale. A nod.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh before dragging my tongue up, slow, savoring.
Avery breaks.
Her back arches, a sharp gasp filling the room as I claim her with my mouth. She’s already so wet.
I grip her hips, holding her still as I feast on her, tongue flicking, circling, devouring. She writhes beneath me, hands gripping the sheets, my name spilling from her lips in ragged moans.
“Marcus, please?—”
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right. Her cry is sharp, her body locking up, and I know she’s close.
“Come for me.”
A sobbed breath. A broken moan. Then she shatters.
I don’t stop, not until she’s trembling, her body completely undone beneath me.
When I finally pull away, my lips are slick with her taste, my cock so hard it’s painful. I strip off my briefs, settling between her thighs, pressing against her soaked entrance.
“Look at me,” I murmur, voice thick.
She does.
I slowly push inside.
A gasp. A tightening of her fingers against my shoulders. The slow, familiar stretch of her body adjusting to mine..
I drop my forehead to hers, shuddering as I bottom out, buried so deep in her it makes my vision blur.
She exhales, her hands sliding up my back, nails lightly scraping. “Marcus…”
I roll my hips, slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive inch inside her. Her breath catches, a soft whimper breaking free, and my control snaps.
I grip her thigh, hitching it over my hip, sinking deeper, harder.
“I love you,” I grind out, my pace shifting, urgent and possessive. “My wife.”
She moans, wrapping her legs around me, pulling me closer, deeper.
“I love you, husband” she whispers, voice shaking.
My movements falter, breath unsteady. Then, a groan rumbles from my chest.
“Again,” I demand, snapping my hips forward.
My name is the only thing she says after that.
I chase her release, my strokes deep and relentless, until she’s clenching around me, her body shaking with another orgasm.
I thrust once. Twice. Then I’m falling with her, pleasure crashing through me in hot, ragged waves.
For long seconds, neither of us moves, still tangled, still shaking.
Then, I slide my hands up her arms, lacing our fingers together, pressing them into the mattress as I catch my breath.
Our foreheads touch, both of us utterly spent.
Her fingers squeeze mine.
I press a soft kiss to her temple.
“My wife.”
She smiles against my lips. “My husband.”
And just like that, forever begins.