Chapter 31 - Stella
Stella
I’m standing at the altar, Donovan reciting his vows to me, and panic is setting in.
Why am I panicking?
I’m marrying my best friend. The love of my life. The man who continues to choose me, day after day.
And still—something in me wavers.
I push it down, swallowing hard, forcing my breath to steady as he finishes.
“You are the only altar I will ever kneel before,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “and the only future I’ve ever been sure of.”
Tears are pouring from his eyes—not sad ones, but tears that carry weight. Hope. A promise of forever.
And then it’s my turn.
I take a breath. My voice doesn’t shake.
“Donovan, I’ve never been the girl who believed in fate.
But then you showed up—loud, stubborn, and impossible to ignore—and somehow, you became my always.
You see the parts of me I try to hide. The ones I armor in sarcasm, in control, in lipstick and silk.
And still, you stay. Still, you choose me.
I’ve loved you through youth and distance, through storms and silence.
And somehow, even now, I find myself loving you more than I ever meant to.
More than I should. Today, I’m not promising perfection.
I'm not promising to be easy, or quiet, or soft. But I am promising this: I will fight for us, even when we’re splintered.
I will carry your name like it’s mine—even when I curse it.
And I will love you in the small, impossible ways that matter most: in every coffee I bring you.
In every look that says, 'I see you, and you are still mine.
' In every ordinary moment that somehow feels like home. You are my beginning. You are the storm and the shelter. And today—I choose you.”
Ansel hands me a handkerchief, and I dab at my eyes, praying I don’t look like a raccoon in my wedding photos.
Huxley says a few closing words, and we exchange bands—simple, silver, perfectly paired to my engagement ring.
“You may now kiss the bride,” Huxley declares.
The world tilts—literally—as Donovan sweeps me back into his arms and kisses me like it’s the last time. Long. Deep. Devastating. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask. It claims.
“I now present to you… Mr. and Mrs. Stella Carrington.”
I freeze—just for a second.
Donovan leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“Your name is a legacy,” he whispers. “One, I’m not willing to let you lose.”
We turn to face our guests. There’s not a dry eye in the crowd as two families melt into one.
The next several hours are filled with parting hugs and cheers. The food and drinks never stopped flowing.
Donovan laces our fingers together, kissing the top of my hand before leading me onto the dance floor. His arms wrap gently around my waist, pulling me closer. You’re the Reason I Come Home by Ron Pope begins to play.
He rests his forehead against mine, and we begin to sway—slow, steady, like the world exists only here. Our bodies fit perfectly, like we were always meant to move this way together.
As the final notes approach, a tear slips down my cheek.
Donovan kisses it away without a word. Then he leans into my shoulder, his voice low and shaky as he sings, “You're the reason I come home, my love…
You're the reason that when everything I know falls apart…
You're the reason I come home. You're the reason I come home.”
When the song fades out, he dips me back, stealing a greedy kiss that leaves me breathless, branded, his.
The next song starts, and the crowd moves with it. We’ve played our roles—said “I do,” kissed, and clinked glasses. Now all I want is to disappear with him. No one will miss us if we vanish for a while.
I grab his hand and tug him away from the reception, weaving through the back hallway. I push open a door and find an empty, quiet room—dim, still, perfect. With one firm shove, I guide him inside and shut the door behind us.
He stumbles backward and lands on a crate of beer with a soft grunt, eyes lifting to meet mine.
I walk toward him slowly, deliberately. Then I straddle one of his legs, close enough for him to feel the heat of me. Taking his hand, I guide it up my bare thigh, stopping just shy of the lace. His fingers tense under mine.
His eyes go wide, his voice breaking on a whisper. “Baby… you said we weren’t doing garter.”
With a sly smile, I lean down, my lips brushing his ear.
“No,” I whisper, my voice low and sweet. “I said we’re not doing a garter toss.”
I pause, just long enough for him to shiver.
“I never said you weren’t taking it off me… with your teeth. Only.”
I feel his other hand slowly trail up my other thigh. He grips my ass and yanks me closer to him.
Without another word, I lift my shoeless foot to his thigh. Donovan’s hand wraps around it, slow and reverent, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against my arch. He brings my foot closer, planting a kiss on top, then another—each one slower than the last.
His tongue slides from my red-painted toes to the delicate curve of my ankle. “Goddamn, Stella…” he breathes, his voice rough. “These fucking perfect toes—painted in my favorite color… so fucking sexy.”
He kisses up the bridge of my foot, lingering at my ankle, where his gaze catches on the dainty platinum anklet. His initials gleam in the low light—DSD.
“My initials,” he murmurs, possessive. “Marking you as mine.”
A low growl rumbles in his chest as he sinks his teeth into the soft skin just beneath the anklet—firm, claiming, careful not to leave a mark but making sure I feel it.
My head tips back, a moan catching in my throat. Why the hell does this feel so good?
He continues the assault of kisses up my leg, palming my ass to pull me closer. His teeth catch the edge of the garter, tugging it down just enough to make me gasp—then he lets it go and trails his mouth higher.
With a rough tug, he fists the hem of my wedding dress, shoving it up to my waist. His tongue traces a path from the top of the garter up to the edge of my bare pussy—oops. I forgot my panties today.
He pauses.
Inhales.
A low, feral growl rumbles in his chest. “Stella,” he grits out, voice wrecked, “are you trying to fucking kill me? No panties. Under your wedding dress. This whole damn time.”
Before I can even think of a response, his mouth is on me—hot, ravenous, and unrelenting.
His tongue swipes through my slick folds with a growl of satisfaction before he dives in, lips wrapping around my clit like he’s been starving for it. His hands grip my thighs, keeping me open, steady, as he feasts like he’s trying to memorize the taste of his wife on his tongue.
“Donovan—” My head tips back, eyes fluttering, spine arching. I grip the shelf behind me, wedding dress bunched at my waist, veil half-falling off, heart pounding in sync with the wet, obscene sounds echoing in the closet.
He hums, and the vibration rocks through me.
“Oh my God—” I pant, legs trembling as his tongue flicks, circles, then drags long, greedy strokes over me, over and over, faster, more precise. His nose presses right against me, like he’s not just eating me but devouring me whole.
The pressure coils tight, impossibly tight, until I break—coming on his mouth with a cry muffled by the fabric I bite into, my entire body jerking as he groans and holds me there, tongue still lapping until I’m wrung out and shaking.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, mouth shiny with my slick, eyes dark, reverent, ruined. “I just wanted to make you come. I didn’t plan to—”
I cut him off, dropping to my knees and grabbing his belt. “You think I’m letting you walk out of here with a hard cock after that?” My voice is sharp, breathless, still trembling from the aftershocks. “You’re mine now. My husband.”
His eyes burn as I unbuckle him, yank his pants down just enough, and pull him free. He’s already hard—thick, flushed, and leaking. I stroke him once, twice, then climb into his lap, straddling him right there on the storage chair like I own the place.
Like I own him.
“Stella,” he pants, trying to grip my hips. “You don’t have to—here? Baby, we could get caught.”
I lean in, brushing my lips against his. “So let them hear,” I whisper, sliding the head of his cock through my wetness. “Let them know I married a man who knows how to worship his wife.”
And then I sink down onto him, slow and unflinching, savoring every inch.
He groans loudly, hands trembling as he grips my ass, but I set the pace—grinding, rolling my hips, pushing him deeper.
He twitches inside me, thick and pulsing, but I don’t give him time to think.
I ride him hard, wedding dress a mess around us, veil sliding off my head as the crate creaks beneath us.
“You feel this?” I murmur against his neck, biting down lightly. “That’s your wife fucking you. Taking what she wants.”
He gasps my name, tries to meet my rhythm, but I press him back. “No,” I growl. “Let me.”
The sound he makes is broken, half-worship, half-destruction.
I fuck him until his head falls back and his voice is a string of curses and praise, until my second orgasm punches through me like lightning and he follows with a stuttered, frantic groan—spilling inside me, locked together in this tiny closet, tangled in silk and sweat and the scent of sin.
After, we stay there. Breathing. Shaking. Married.
He brushes a thumb down my cheek, dazed and smiling. “Holy shit, Mrs. Carrington.”
I grin, lips still flushed and swollen. “Better get used to it, Mr. Carrington.”
I rise slowly, his cock slipping free from my still-throbbing pussy. He groans softly at the loss, then tucks himself back into his dress pants with shaking hands.
I pull my dress down, trying my best to smooth out the wrinkles, though we both know the damage is done. Donovan steps toward me, kisses me like he’s never going to stop, and then helps me straighten my veil, his fingers brushing reverently through my hair.
We lace our fingers together—one final anchor before rejoining the world.
As we walk hand in hand toward our wedding reception, the feeling of being his wife seeps from between my thighs with every step… a wicked reminder of what we’ve just done.
What we’ve just become.