Epilogue
Mia.
I don’t care for superstitions. A second after I put on my wedding dress, I run straight into my fiancé’s arms. Yes, I’m calling Preston my fiancé for the few hours he’ll be one, and I’m making the absolute most of it.
It’s a Vera Wang in silk Mikado with a square neckline and a single strap crowned by a sculptural bow. The skirt is all architectural drape that parts high up my thigh, flashing a leg when I move. Oh, and it has pockets.
This gown doesn’t float; it sculpts. It makes every princess—Disney or otherwise—look underdressed.
I decide it only comes off when we’re back in our honeymoon suite.
I’m already the luckiest woman alive. I don’t care if Pres sees me like this before the ceremony.
And, it’s Vegas, so no one will look twice at a bride walking down the street.
Well, maybe they will, because this is the most beautiful dress ever.
Anyway, I don’t care. It’s not coming off.
We slip into the limousine Liam rented and head for the Marriage License Bureau on Clark Avenue, just the two of us.
The rest of the party is staying at the hotel to get ready.
We’ll be back for the final touches after we sign the paperwork, and head for the chapel all together.
I’m last for hair and makeup, so I’ll be fresh for the, ahem, altar.
“Are you sure?” Pres asks for the hundredth time, which is wild, because usually I’m the one who needs steadying.
“About marrying you or doing it in Vegas?” I grin.
“Don’t give this old man a heart attack, Trouble.” His laugh is tight. “I promised you the world. Giving you your dream wedding would be a good start.”
I turn him toward me and hold his face, my thumbs firm in his beard.
“Pres, before you, I didn’t make space for dreams. Life boiled down to work.
Paying the bills my family dropped at my doorstep.
I simply marched forward, head down, career-focused.
” He tries to smile, but instead, the muscles in his jaw jump.
I brush my nose against his, then tip his chin down so he’s looking right at me.
“Then I met the man who loves hard, who earns his daughter’s pride every day, who waited me out without faltering. ”
His big smile reassures me all over again.
“What started as a wild, off-limits crush became real. I denied it until denial started sounding like a lie. I tried to treat this as temporary. But you kept treating me like the only possible choice.” I lean in until our foreheads touch.
“You, Dr. Preston, make me dream in real time.” I tighten my fingers on his jaw and whisper fiercely, “This is what I want.”
The green in his eyes softens, and I know he feels my certainty.
It doesn’t stop me, though. “I never planned on loving a child this much, and now the simple thought of going a day without Lily in my life gives me crippling anxiety. She’s become part of me.
If someone ever asks if I have kids, I’ll say I have the best one. ”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes, shining.
“I never, ever dreamed of marriage,” I admit.
“Then you dropped to one knee and planted that in my mind. Two minutes later, I’m in Vegas getting a license in the most beautiful dress I never would’ve let myself want.
But hey, apparently Prince Charming exists, and he’s inconveniently hot.
” I kick my feet under a cloud of white fabric and throw my legs over his lap.
“Don’t you get it?” I say, smiling. “You’re the dream, Pres.”
The limo hums beneath us. I kiss the corner of his mouth, then press my lips to his ear. “Yes,” I say, because he needs to hear it. “Yes to Vegas. Yes to now.”
He exhales like I opened a valve. Then, he says, “I need to tell you something before we step out.”
“You can tell me anything, fiancé,” I say, giving him what I think is a sexy wink.
“I called my lawyer.” His voice drops, steady.
“When we get home, we’ll sign a postnuptial.
What’s mine becomes ours. No more using my card to buy things for our home and pretending it’s a company card.
It’ll be our name on the card. From our joint account.
And your name on the deed. I want you untouchable.
You will never worry about money again.”
I sit up straighter. “Pres, that’s…” I swallow, searching for a word better than mad or irrational. “A lot.”
“I’m in, Mia. I’m all in.”
“I want to talk to the lawyer too. We do this right. Not high on Vegas or hormones.”
His eyes glint. “That’s my wife.”
“Oh God, I love the sound of that. Say it again,” I breathe, shifting, letting the dress flood his lap.
He swallows. “My wife.”
His hand finds the slit of my skirt and parts it. My legs follow. He reaches my panties—fine, my high-waisted Spanx—and pulls them aside. A single finger strokes up and down my entrance. “This dress is a hazard. An invitation I’d never be rude enough to refuse. Say yes, Trouble.”
“Yes.” I guide his wrist deeper. “Fuck me in the back of the limo. Make it rough, Pres. Give me”—I glance at the partition currently keeping this moment private—“and the driver, the rides of our lives.”
“Fuck.” He huffs, palming his hard length over his pants with his free hand. “I’ve gotten myself a slutty little wife, haven't I?”
I answer him with an open-mouthed kiss and a sound I don’t bother to hide while two of his fingers keep working me where I’m already slick for him. “I’m going to wrinkle this dress beyond saving, baby,” he says, low and wicked. “And I won’t be even a little sorry for it.”
He yanks his belt, the buckle clapping leather. Button and zipper come next, and he’s free. For the rest of my life, the sight of his hard length will steal my voice.
“Kneel. Get my cock wet. There’s no time to stretch that pussy, and you’re getting what you asked for. Rough.”
I hike up my skirt, drop onto my knees, and the white of my dress swallows me whole. I take him in my hand and drag my tongue along his length, slow enough to make his breath go ragged. Then I stop.
“I need your help, Doctor.”
“Anything for my wife,” he drawls.
“My mouth is so dry.” I clear my throat, devoted to the part.
“And how could I possibly help you, baby?” His eyes spark, chest expanding, his hand going still on his length.
“Spit in my mouth.” I stretch my tongue out for him.
“Fuck, Mia. You want me spilling before I’m inside you?” He evens his breath before he commands, “Open wider, baby.”
He spits, and I moan. It hits my tongue, but I feel it everywhere. I want to swallow and ask for more, but we’re on borrowed time, so I spread it over his crown as my pussy clenches around nothing. I don’t get a full minute with him in my mouth before he pulls back.
“Baby, you’re too good at this. Lie back on the seat. Now. I’m only coming inside that tight little cunt today.”
The leather feels cold on my back, and I welcome the tiny mercy in the inferno he’s turned this car into.
The fabric frames us; the bow skews as he fits his body over mine.
He opens me with his knees and pushes in—thick, sure—until I’m denied oxygen.
One of his hands keeps me open for him; the other grips the top of my bodice, pinning me in place while he moves.
That first stretch always hurts, and I revel in the pain as if it’s part of the reward.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, Daddy.” It slips, and my eyes snap open in time to catch his darkening.
“Careful, Trouble.” He stills inside me. “You know damn well that word empties my restraint.”
I gulp, then my hips start moving.
“You want that, don’t you?”
Guilt and want wrestle for control inside me. My hips move faster, announcing the winner. “I want the worst version of your good intentions. Give it to me.”
“Fuck, Trouble,” he says, voice low. “You want me to crack the divider an inch? Let the driver sit there hard and polite while I fuck you?” He pumps into me. Hard.
Heat. Shame. Thrill. Yes—God—yes. My moans fill the space around us. “Be loud, Doctor. Make sure the driver knows exactly what you’re doing to me.”
Preston presses his forehead against mine. “You’ll be the death of me, Mia. Tell me more; bury me with a smile on my face.”
“Your new wife is a little whore, Doctor. I want him to hear. I hope he’s stroking himself as he listens to us. Fuck me harder, and let’s give him a fucking show.”
He drives into me. Precise, mean. I love it. I love all versions of this man.
“Who…” Thrust. “Do you…” Thrust. “Belong to?”
“My husband,” I manage, laughing breathlessly as he drives into me.
His mouth ghosts my ear, one hand knots my hair tight, the other wraps around my throat. His finger presses deeper on my pulse. “Then I’m going to thrust into you so hard, this car is not going to rock. It’s going to fucking move lanes.”
Heat prickles everywhere.
He slides out an inch, then back in.
Over and over.
My moans pitch higher.
“Say that word again, and I’m taking that ass on spit alone.”
I roll my lips and whimper on his next punishing stroke.
“Not such a bad girl anymore, are you, Trouble?”
His laughter is dark; it dares me. Preston is nothing if not a man who keeps his promises.
When he angles just right, I bite the bow hanging from my shoulder. No, I practically chew on it, afraid I’ll blurt that word again.
“Count my thrusts. Out loud.”
“One… two… oh God—”
“Start over.” He lands a hard slap on the side of my ass. “Louder. I don’t think the driver heard you. Give the man something to think about.”
I nod, though it barely counts with how hard my body trembles. My manicured nails dig into his jacket. I suck in a breath, and the number scrapes out of me, shaky and stripped of pride.
"One!" That’s all it takes. My body tightens around him, his name a broken record on my tongue as my mind fizzes out to static. Pres follows with a sound that’s all chest and promise, pistoning into me until he spills, and the force of it leaves me shaking.
His breath punches out, chest heaving, and he stays pressed deep inside, forehead lowered to mine. He holds me with the intent of a thousand love letters and kisses me, slow and reverent, like this is actually his favorite part.
Once he softens, he eases back with the utmost care and pulls my panties back into place.
Neither I, the Spanx, nor the dress will ever be the same after this ride.
Pres tries his best anyway, straightening the bow and shaking my skirt into something almost presentable, then looks at me the way artists must look at finished masterpieces.
When the car comes to a stop, we step into the Vegas daylight, fingers linked.
* * *
Inside the Marriage License Bureau, it smells like print toner and nerves.
We take a number, and I look around for the bathroom sign.
I’m leaking my fiancé’s cum with every step.
Beside me, Preston glances down at my shoes once, then back at me, his smug mouth doing a piss-ass job of pretending this isn’t the second highlight of his morning.
“Names?” the clerk asks when we’re called.
We give them, spell them, produce IDs. The clerk stamps and slides the form. Pres fishes my lucky pen from his suit pocket, and we both sign the papers with it. My knees remember the limo, still shaking and aching, but Preston’s palm finds the small of my back and keeps me steady.
He bends close, his voice for me alone. “I’m going to use that pen to write ‘my wife’ just above your pussy. Let’s see how lucky that gets you tonight.”
“Pres,” I whisper, feigning shock but wondering it too.
“I love you too, baby.”
“License is good for a year,” the clerk cuts in, sounding bored. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” We step aside for the quick photo—me flushed, him lethal in a suit—and the bow sits crooked as a memento of what we did on the way here.
Back by the door, he turns me, hands cradling my head, thumbs next to my ears, that focused, surgeon look—only softer.
“One more thing,” he says.
“If you say there’s a new list, I’m staging a coup.”
“It’s about my name.”
Huh? “What about it?”
“I want yours next to mine.” He doesn’t blink. “I’m changing it to Preston Jett-Thorne.”
For a beat, I forget my own. Then I remember his—ours. “You know, it’s usually the other way around.”
“I’m not interested in usual.” His mouth tilts.
“I want to see your name next to mine on every letter, every bill, every dumb spam email. Because that means I did something right. Because of you, I became the man I wanted to be—and I want my name to remind me of that, every damn day. Keep yours if you want. But I’m taking yours and making it ours. ”
It knocks the air out of me and fills me right back up. It’s my turn to ask. “Say it again.”
“Preston Jett-Thorne,” he repeats, tasting each syllable. “Now tell me what you’ll be.”
I rise on my toes, brush my lips over his, and say: “Your wife.” I’m not one bit afraid to overuse those words. They feel magic.
He smiles wickedly and challenges me. “Make it filthier.”
“Your Mrs. Jett-Thorne.” The way his eyes change tells me I’ll be saying it over and over in our suite tonight. “I’ll go back there and sign it again if you want.”
“Don’t worry. You sign it like that a thousand times,” he says against my mouth. “You can start with the chapel book.”
“So bossy,” I tease.
“Devoted,” he corrects.
“Both,” I say, because that’s the whole truth.
He laces our fingers and lifts them to his lips. Vegas roars outside, its ink and vow in every delicious promise we’ve already started to keep. We turn toward the light—license in hand, names chosen, and ready for a lifetime of ‘yeses’ ahead.
* * *