"For all of it." I brush a strand of blonde hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "The cameras. The questions. Everything my life brings down on you."
"Nick." Her hand comes up to rest against my jaw, her touch warm and grounding. "That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" The question comes out rougher than I intended. "You didn't sign up for ambush journalism and shouted accusations when you agreed to marry me."
A faint smile curves her lips. "I knew what I was getting into."
But she didn't. Not really. I don't think either of us understood how relentless the scrutiny would become as the wedding approached. Every detail dissected, every piece of her past exhumed and examined for maximum damage. The thought of three hundred people watching her walk down that aisle while outside the church gossip rag cameras lurk in every cornerwaiting to capture every moment, makes something protective and fierce clench in my chest.
"We can scale it back," I hear myself say. "The wedding. Make it smaller, more private—"
"No." Her answer is immediate, certain. "We've planned this. Our friends are coming, your foundation donors, everyone who matters to us." She pauses, and I watch her gather herself, that quiet resilience I've always admired rising to the surface. "We can’t disappoint everyone. I won’t let a bunch of uncomfortable questions and ugly accusations ruin our plans. I just need a minute to... recalibrate."
Christ, this woman. Even shaken, even overwhelmed, she refuses to surrender ground.
"Whatever you need," I tell her. "More security. Different routes to avoid the press. Gabe and his team are already working on protocols for the next few weeks."
She nods slowly. "Okay. That helps."
"And if any of those bastards come near you again—"
"I know." Her thumb strokes along my jaw, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly at her touch. She smiles up at me. "You'll handle it. You always do."
We fall into comfortable silence. Her hand drifts down to rest over my heart, and I wonder if she can feel how it beats for her, how it's been beating for her since the moment I first saw her painting and decided she was going to be mine. I pulled her into my life, and she refused to be intimidated by anything I threw at her. Even the darkest parts of me.
My fingers trace idle patterns on her arm, and I'm acutely aware of every point where her body meets mine. The curve of her hip against my thigh. The warmth of her breath through my shirt. The memory of how she looked standing in that atelier, wrapped in a silk robe that gaped just enough to show me the lace beneath. Evelyn's handiwork clinging to every curve whilethat shimmering veil cascaded down her back like something out of a fantasy I didn't know I had.
My bride.
She shifts slightly, tilting her face up, and when our eyes meet, the air between us changes. A current that's always present, finally being acknowledged. Her lips part. I watch her pulse flutter at the base of her throat.
"Nick." My name slips off her tongue, soft and wanting.
I don't make her ask twice.
Our kiss starts gentle—a question, an offering—but she answers by fisting her hand in my shirt and pulling me closer. I love knowing that it’s me she reaches for whenever she needs comfort. It’s my kiss that soothes her, even as it inflames her.
Something primal unfurls inside me as our mouths grow hungrier. My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head exactly where I want it, and I kiss her like I've been starving for her, like those hours apart while she was at her fitting were years instead of minutes.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, and the need that's been coiling low in my gut since I saw her in that robe finally snaps its leash.
I pull her across my lap in one fluid motion, settling her thighs on either side of mine. She comes willingly, eagerly, her hands braced on my shoulders as she looks down at me with flushed cheeks and darkened eyes.
"There she is," I murmur, my hands gripping her hips. "There's my girl."
"I'm right here." She rocks against me, and I groan at the friction, at the heat of her even through layers of clothing. "Right where I need to be."
"I know." I drag her down for another kiss, biting at her lower lip before soothing it with my tongue. "I need to feel you, baby.Need to remind myself you're safe, you're mine, that you're exactly where you belong."
My hands find the hem of her blouse, sliding beneath the silk to touch bare skin. She shivers at the contact, arching into my palms as I trace up her rib cage, thumbs brushing the underwire of her bra. I decide to leave it on her, lowering my head to suck at the thin lace that covers her hardened nipples.
"This is what I wanted to do at that atelier," I tell her, my voice ragged. "When I saw you standing there looking like every fantasy I've ever had. I wanted to peel that robe off you right there. Make everyone in that room watch while I claimed what's mine."
"Nick—" Her breath catches as I cup her breasts through the lace, feeling her nipples harden against my palms.
"Wanted to spread you out on that fitting room platform. In front of all those mirrors. Let you see how wet you get for me." I pinch lightly, and she gasps. "Would've made you come with my name on your lips while they all watched. My bride. My wife."
She moans my name, grinding against me now, desperate little movements of her hips that tell me exactly how much my words are affecting her. My cock is aching, straining against my pants, but I'm not done with her yet. Not even close.
