I don’t let him. Pull him down into another kiss while my fingers find buttons and closures andthere, finally, his barechest under my palms. He’s warm—he’s always warm—scales smooth and hot under my touch.
His hands find the clasps of my dress. More patient than me, more deliberate, like he’s unwrapping a gift. The fabric slithers down my body and pools at my feet, and he pulls back to look at me.
“Stars.” The word comes out reverent. His eyes trace over me—every curve, every imperfection, the mark on my throat that glows brighter as his attention focuses on it. “You’re—”
“Don’t say beautiful. That’s boring.”
“I was going to saymine.” His voice drops low, rough with want. “But beautiful works too.”
He backs me toward the bed. Slow, inexorable, giving me every chance to stop him.
I have no intention of stopping him.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I pull him down with me.
We’ve done this before—frantic, desperate, against walls and in bunks and wherever we could find five minutes alone. But this is different. This is a wedding night. This isours.
“I want to take my time,” he murmurs against my throat, lips brushing the mate mark. The touch sends lightning through my veins. “I want to make you feel—”
“Rynn.” I thread my fingers through his hair, pull him up to meet my eyes. “We have all night. We have the rest of our lives. Right now, I want you to stop talking andtouchme.”
His eyes blaze.
He touches me.
His hands trace down my body with deliberate purpose, learning every inch of skin like he’s mapping unknown territory. When his mouth follows—tracing the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breast, the sensitive spot below my ribs that makes me gasp—I arch into him like a plant seeking sunlight.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
I’m not quiet. Can’t be, not with his hands and his mouth and the bond blazing between us, letting me feel his pleasure layered over my own. When his fingers find the heat between my thighs, I cry out.
“Rynn—please—”
“Please what?” He’s watching me, golden eyes dark with hunger, pupils blown. His fingers stroke, tease, never quite giving enough.
“You know what.”
“Say it.” A command wrapped in velvet. Power exchange, but loving—not about control, about trust.
I’m going to combust. I’m going to die right here, in the nicest bed I’ve ever been in, because my husband is a tease.
“Touch me.” The words break from my throat. “I need—I need more—Rynn, please—”
He gives me more.
His fingers sink into me as his thumb finds the spot that makes me see stars. I shatter almost immediately—all the tension of the day, the ceremony, the waiting, crashing through me in waves that leave me gasping and shaking and utterly undone.
He works me through it, gentle now, watching my face like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“More,” I manage when I can breathe again.
His smile is pure trouble. “Demanding.”
“You love it.”
“I loveyou.”
He says it simply, without artifice, and my heart cracks open all over again.
