1
SEBASTIAN
Mad, looks mad as hell.
Get it? Madandmad.
It's what I like to call her because she looks perpetually pissed off at me … even at our own wedding.
Her forehead furrows, and her nose scrunches like she smells something bad. Is it me? Do I stink?
Then, I realize … nah, it's not me. It's just specifically due to whatever this entire situation is.
I know, I know. She's mortified she's here and forced to do this. But…
Is it wrong that I feel like the happiest man in the world right now? Luckiest, too?
It's like being handed the Stanley Cup without playing or winning the lottery without buying a ticket.
Well, well, well. The stars did align for me today.
Mad's fingers tremble against mine, and I try to tamp down the all-too-familiar longing. My trousers grow tighter as my cock strains against the zipper, and I dig my heels into the floor.
Not now, buddy. Don't embarrass me in front of her and over a hundred guests.
If my teammates ever see me getting hard with the simple act of hand-holding, I will never live that down.
The officiant drones on about commitment and partnership while I focus on the soft press of her palm. Three fucking years I've wanted to touch her like this. Three years of watching her storm into Anya's office after my media disasters, clipboard in hand, those big brown eyes narrowed at me like I'm the biggest problem in her life.
Now she's mine. On paper, anyway.
"Sebastian," she hisses under her breath. "You're crushing my hand."
I loosen my grip immediately. "Oh, sorry."
Someone's pinned up Mad's dark curls with tiny white flowers that match her simple dress. Nothing like the massive princess gowns most hockey wives choose. Mad's dress hugs every curve, stopping just above her knees. Professional enough for a business meeting, sexy enough to make my mouth dry.
Although, to be fair to her, she can wear a burlap sack, and my cock will roar to attention all the same.
Yep, I need help. And maybe some therapy, too.
She shifts her weight, all five feet four inches against my 6'6 frame. So much attitude in one short, curvy body. I fucking love every inch of it.
"Try to look less like you won the Stanley Cup," she says, smiling the fakest smile I've ever seen in my entire life. "This is supposed to be a reluctant arrangement."
"Nothing reluctant about my end of this deal, baby. You know me, I go big or go home. I'm all-in."
Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink I like so much. "I keep trying to convince myself I won't regret this, and you keep giving me reasons I should."
I smile at the frustration in her voice. "You're stuck with me now, wife."
"Don't call me that."
"Emergency contact?"
"I'm not."
"Tax write-off?"
