I find Olive in the bridal suite. And stop dead in my tracks.
She’s standing near the window, sunlight hitting her veil like a halo, the delicate lace of her dress skimming the curve of her belly, the soft swell of her breasts, the shoulders I’ve kissed a thousand times but suddenly feel like I’m seeing for the first time.
“My god,” I breathe.
She turns slowly, and I swear the breath leaves my lungs.
“You’re even more beautiful than the night we met.”
She smirks. “I’d hope so, considering I was soaked in cheap beer and wearing a wet t-shirt.”
I chuckle, stepping closer. “Fair point. But still.”
Her smile softens, and for a second, I think maybe she just wanted to see me. But then her expression shifts. Something unspoken flickers in her eyes.
“Phern said you needed to talk to me,” I say carefully.
She nods. “I do.” She hesitates. “I’ve been thinking…”
Immediately, tension pulls my shoulders tight. “What is it, honey?”
She takes a breath, dramatic and slow. “I’m not sure I can marry a man who doesn’t uphold tradition.”
My brain screeches to a halt. “Wait—what did I forget?”
I thought I nailed this. We planned every detail for months. The flowers. The colors. Sammi in our engagement shootwith the twins. I even gave in to the idea of personalized handkerchiefs. I didn’t forget anything. Did I?
She steps forward, closing the space between us. Her hand rests lightly on my chest. Her eyes gleam.
“According to Charlie,” she says, voice low and sultry, “the key to a long, happy marriage is to consummate itbeforethe ceremony.”
I blink, relief slamming into me like a freight train. Thank fuck. This is something I can handle.
“That sounds like Charlie.”
Olive leans in, lips grazing the edge of my jaw.
“So, husband,” she whispers, “lock that door and bang your wife.”
My entire body lights up like a live wire. I swear my knees go weak.
“Jesus, Olive.”
She pulls back, feigning innocence. “What? I’m just trying to honor tradition.”
I reach behind me without breaking eye contact and turn the lock.Click.
“Oh, honey,” I murmur, sweeping her up into my arms, “I’m all about honoring tradition.”
She grins, wicked and wild. “Then make sure you do it thoroughly.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I growl, already walking her backward toward the velvet chaise as she laughs, radiant and flushed, her veil sliding over one shoulder like the world’s most seductive challenge.
Because some vows can be whispered at an altar. And others? They’re written on skin.
She gasps as I lower her gently to the chaise, her gown pooling around her thighs like a tide I can’t wait to drown in. Herfingers are already in my hair, tugging me down to her, kissing me like she’s starving for it.
Her mouth is soft and wild, tasting of nerves and something sweeter. Her thighs shift beneath my hands as I push the hem of her dress higher, slowly, savoring every inch of her skin as it’s revealed to me.
