“You like that, Stella?” I growl, hips slamming forward again. “Like being fucked where anyone could see? You like being uphere—put on display—so they can all watch the way I worshipevery inchof your perfect fucking body?”
My grip tightens around her throat as I lean in, voice nearly gone.
“You like showing everyone you’re my good fucking girl, Stella?” Her hands brace hard on the railing, white-knuckled and shaking, back arching, aching for more.
“You’d let them watch, wouldn’t you?” I whisper, hips driving deeper. “Watch me worship you—watch the way you take me, the way you ruin me.”
“Yes,” she chokes out. “Let them see how I take you—how I fall apart for you. I’m your good girl. Fuck, I love being your good girl.”
That’s all I need.
I drive into her again and again, every thrust harder, deeper, more desperate. Her body jolts against the rail with each stroke, gasping my name on every breath.
“You’remine, Stella. Every goddamn perfect part of you is mine.” I growl, my voice feral now, barely hanging on.
“You feel that? Every fucking inch belongs to you. Every inch I have—every inch I am—only everbelongs to you.”
She tries to nod—but my hand is still at her throat, my cock still buried so deep inside her I swear I can feel her heartbeat on my skin.
And mid-thrust, it breaks out of me—hoarse, wrecked, true confession:
“Damn it, Stella. You wanted me to fall—so I fucking jumped. No hesitation. Surrendered. Ruined. Feral.Yours.”
And then she starts to come—tightening around me, gasping out my name in a voice so wrecked I swear it brands me.
I don’t hold back.
I slam into her once more and come with her—groaning into her neck, body trembling.
This isn’t making love to my wife.
It’s possession.
It’s reckoning.
I hold her close as I empty into her, like I’m spilling my soul where it belongs—at her altar.
We collapse onto the balcony floor, breathing hard, tangled in sweat, love, and something much darker.
My hand eases from her throat, and I kiss her tenderly where my hand just was.
I pull her into my lap, holding her against my chest. Her head rests over my heart.
“You’re perfect, Stella,” I murmur, kissing the crown of her head. “So fucking perfect. I’m so fucking lucky I get to call you my wife.”
Stella and I didn’t take a honeymoon. It wasn’t something she wanted to rush, not with my job and her coursework hanging over us. She wanted time. Space. A moment to breathe instead of trying to celebrate on a ticking clock.
We eased back into our daily routine. I ride my motorcycle to school—the weather’s beautiful most days—and I leave the car here for Stella. That’s the one thing she missed most: having her own wheels.
She tried to be responsible about it. The school’s just a few blocks away, and everything else is within walking distance. She didn’t want to buy a car just to let it sit.
We spent the whole weekend curled up on the couch watching movies. Popcorn. Candy. Sodas. The whole nine yards. Ansel and Theo joined us for one or two before sneaking off into her room—again.
Theo’s been over nearly every night since the wedding, and I’ve never been more thankful for a split floor plan.
Monday rolls around. I kill my blaring alarm, stand, and stretch. Look over.
Stella’s still asleep on her stomach—hair tangled, lips parted slightly. She’s fucking magical.
