Chapter 31
GAGE
Iget the bedroom door closed behind us and finally—finally—it’s just me and my wife.
Amelia kicks her heels off immediately, sending one careening into the wall with a soft thud. She pays no attention to that. Just sighs, and I can tell she’s been waiting all night to do that.
“Holy god,” she breathes. “My feet forgot what it feels like to be flat.”
I toss my jacket over the chair near the window and reach for my vest buttons. I’m distracted though, too busy watching Amelia pad across the room in bare feet, reaching back to feel for her zipper.
She glances over her shoulder at me and her eyes drag down my body with heat as I undo buttons. “You look indecent.”
I raise my brows. “I’m fully clothed.”
“Barely.” Her gaze lingers on my forearms, then the open collar of my shirt before she concentrates on her zipper again. “Can you help me with this? I can’t reach.”
I cross to her in two strides and slide the zipper down slowly. Halfway down her back, it catches.
I tug gently. Nothing.
“Is it stuck?” she asks.
“Give me a second.” I try again, carefully working the fabric. The zipper moves another inch, then catches again. “What the hell is this thing made of?”
“Spite,” she says, twisting to try and see what I’m doing. “Don’t rip it. Tim will have a breakdown.”
“I’m not going to rip it.” I finally get it free and pull it the rest of the way down, revealing the smooth line of her back. My hands linger there, thumb brushing her spine.
She turns to me, eyes half-lidded. “If you were planning on getting your dick sucked tonight, you might want to lower your expectations.”
I just give her an amused look. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce there was no fucking way my wife could manage a dick tonight.
She shrugs, lazy and sexy all at once. “I’d probably fall asleep halfway through. Or die. And I really don’t want my legacy to be choking on your dick on our wedding night.”
Jesus fucking Christ, I love her.
“Good to know where I rank on the priority list.”
“Oh, you rank.” Her smile’s tired, crooked. “Just not above the nap I’m about to take in your shirt.”
She steps out of the dress and lets it fall to the floor without ceremony. Then, peels off her bra a second later and walks to the closet. My eyes track her like they always do. Hungry and possessive. Amelia doesn’t try to command attention. She just has it. Mine. Every damn time.
She pulls out the old shirt of mine that’s her favorite. It’s soft black cotton. Worn. And apparently, smells like me.
She drags it on and heads back to the bed without a word. Bare legs, messy hair, my shirt swallowing her whole.
And I’m fucking locked on the fact that when she wants comfort, she reaches for me. I never knew that could undo me more than lace ever could.
She’s halfway to the bed when she stops, hand clutching her stomach as she bends forward in pain.
“Fuck me,” she groans. “Honestly, if I survive tonight, I deserve a fucking crown.”
I’m immediately walking her way. “That sounded a hell of a lot like something Tim would say if he was having a period.”
“If Tim had a uterus, he’d have burned down the patriarchy by now,” she mutters. “Do you realize men don’t have to deal with this? You all just . . . exist. Freely. Uninterrupted. No one’s uterus ever decided to personally ruin your wedding night.”
“Not that I’m aware of, no” I say, sliding an arm around her waist and guiding her toward the bed.
“This is an injustice,” she continues, letting me lead her but still ranting. “If I die tonight, I want you to avenge me. Start a foundation. The Amelia Black Endowment for Suffering Women Everywhere.”
“I’ll draft the paperwork first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t humor me,” she says, glaring weakly as she climbs into bed. “I’m very serious. It’ll fund research. And snacks. Women need snacks to survive their uterus.”
“Got it. Snacks are essential.”
“They are.” She flops back, limbs spread dramatically. “I deserve cheese. And chocolate. And maybe a war crime against whoever invented period cramps.”
I grab the painkillers and her water from the nightstand, hand them over. “You good to sit up?”
She takes them, swallows, then sinks back down and closes her eyes. “Barely. I should be carried everywhere. I’m a wife now. I’ve earned that.”
“You want me to carry you to the bathroom too? And do your skincare for you?”
She cracks one eye open. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m loving you,” I correct. “Big difference.”
Her expression softens, even as she grumbles, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
I plug in the heat pad and tuck it against her stomach. “Better?”
She makes a noise that sounds like a dying cat and a prayer. “Keep doing that. The nurturing thing. It’s working.”
I lose the tux, pull on sweats, and climb in beside her, settling on my side so I can watch her. “So that’s all it takes? A heat pad and painkillers, and you’re ready to declare me husband of the year?”
She scoffs, eyes still closed. “Calm down. Let’s not hand out awards before the honeymoon.”
I grin. “Hell of a wedding night, Princess.”
“Please,” she mutters, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “This is your pretend wedding night. I already gave you the real one. And I distinctly remember there being a lot less clothing involved.”
I lean across and kiss her forehead.
She’s already half-asleep, breath slowing, curled up inside my shirt.
“You could give me this same night a thousand times, Amelia. I’d still want every one. As long as it ends with you beside me.”
She doesn’t answer. Just lets out a tiny sound that’s half sigh, half breath, and I think maybe she’s asleep. A couple of minutes pass, and then her voice breaks through the quiet, muffled by the pillow.
“You still haven’t told me where the honeymoon is.”
“We’re not doing this again.” I pull her into my arms.
She wiggles her body to find the exact right fit with mine. “You promised.”
“I promised to surprise you. You agreed.”
“I’ve been trying to get it out of you for days.”
“I know,” I say flatly. “My balls know too.”
Her grin curves against my chest.
“You said I could surprise you,” I remind her again.
“I lied.”
“Shocking.”
She yawns, then pushes her cold feet between mine in the way she does when she’s trying to fuck with me.
“I’m just saying,” she mumbles, “if someone were to accidentally whisper the location in my ear right now, I’d be too tired to tell a soul.”
“Princess.”
“Not even Sarah.”
“You’re fucking relentless.”
“I’m your wife,” she says, smug as hell. “It’s in the job description.”
I press my mouth to her hair. “You want to know where we’re going?”
She looks up at me. “Wait, seriously?”
I nod once. “Iceland.”
She just stares at me. Then, she finds a fuckload of energy and sits up. “Oh my god, Gage. It’s cold there. You know I hate being cold.”
“Exactly. You’ll have to stay inside the whole week. Preferably in bed. Preferably naked. Preferably with my face between your thighs.”
She looks unimpressed. “Have you forgotten I’m on my period?”
My gaze drops to her mouth, then her throat, then her fucking collar that’s peeking from under my shirt. And it takes every last scrap of my wedding-day self-control not to remind her who she married.
“Your period has an end date. And when it’s over, you won’t leave that bed unless I’m carrying you.”
“We’re not staying in Iceland forever.”
“We’re staying as long as we need.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You heard me. I’m not leaving that country until I’ve had you every way I want you.”
She reaches for my forearm, curling her fingers around it tightly. “Gage,” she starts, like she’s about to argue with me, but her voice tells me otherwise.
I sit up and search her eyes, my entire body feeling as intense as my heart.
“You think I can make it through days of not fucking you and then walk away without filling you full of me?” I rub my thumb over her lip.
“Not a fucking chance in hell that’s happening on our honeymoon.
We’re making memories that you won’t ever forget, Amelia. And then we’re making some more.”
I brush a rough kiss across her lips.
“You married a man who would have waited forever for you, Princess. And now that you’re mine, I won’t ever be rushed.”