After Millie was finally tucked in, her dreams full of flower girl dresses and wedding cake, Nathaniel and I found ourselves back in the study. The champagne flutes were empty, the excitement settling into something warmer and deeper. He stood behind me at the window, his arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"Happy?" he murmured.
"Ridiculously."
"Good." He turned me in his arms, and the look in his eyes had shifted, darker, hungrier, full of a want that made my breath catch. "I have been waiting," he said, his voice a low rumble, "for what feels like a very long time."
He kissed me, and this was nothing like the joyful kiss after the proposal. This was slow and deep and deliberate, a claiming that sent heat cascading through my entire body. His handsslid from my waist to my hips, pulling me closer, and I went willingly, my fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt.
"Come upstairs," he breathed against my mouth.
I answered by taking his hand and leading him out of the study.
We climbed the stairs together, past Millie's closed door, past the guest room that was once mine, to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. His room. Our room, now.
The space was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows. He laid me back against cool sheets and followed me down, his weight a welcome anchor. For a moment, he just looked at me, really looked, like he was memorizing every detail.
"What?" I whispered.
"Just making sure this is real."
"It's real." I pulled him down to me. "I'm real. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed me again, slower this time, savoring. His lips trailed from my mouth to my neck, tracing its sides, finding the sensitive spot that made me arch into him. My hands explored the planes of his back, the warmth of his skin as clothing was carefully, reverently removed.
When we were skin to skin, the world narrowed to sensation, the solid warmth of his chest against mine, the gentle rasp of his breathing, the way his hands mapped my body like something precious. There was a moment of vulnerability, of openness, where I felt tears prick my eyes. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming reality of being seen, being wanted, being chosen.
"Hey," he said softly, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Stay with me."
"I'm here," I promised. "I'm right here."
The joining was slow, profound, a conversation without words, a promise made in movement and breath. We found ourrhythm together, unhurried, letting the pleasure build in waves rather than rushing toward release. His eyes never left mine, and in them I saw everything: the fear he'd conquered, the walls he'd torn down, the love he'd learned to give without control.
When the wave finally crested, it wasn't an ending. It felt like a beginning.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. The room was quiet except for our breathing, slowly returning to normal.
"So," I said eventually. "Still think we're taking things slow?"
He laughed, a rumble I felt against my cheek. "Glacially slow. This was the glacier finally reaching the ocean."
"That's a terrible metaphor."
"I'm a CEO, not a poet."
"Clearly." I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Do you remember the night we met?"
"I remember everything about that night."
"You offered me ten million dollars, and I thought you were insane."
"I was insane. I was also terrified and desperate and completely out of my depth." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You refused the money, and I didn't know what to do with you."
"And now?"
"Now I know exactly what to do with you." He pulled me down for a soft kiss. "Keep you. Love you. Marry you. Build a life with you."
"That's a good plan."
