To the outbuilding.
The shop.
He opened the door for her. The space glowed. They’d strung up lights earlier for the grand opening preview, but he hadn’t seen it like this. Soft light fell over the lifted bikes, the polished concrete, the framed paintings Bree hung along the main wall: Hank on the track. Colby at a fire call. Brian covered in paint and grease, holding a wrench like a trophy.
And along the far wall, next to the tool chests, were three framed photographs from the Copper Moon Cup. All of them captured moments he hadn’t known she’d seen.
“This is what we’re opening tomorrow,” she said quietly. “This is what we built.”
He stepped closer to her. “Feels like a beginning.”
“Feels like everything,” she said.
He reached for her hand, but she slid her arms around his waist and pulled him down into a kiss that felt different. Deeper. As if marriage had stripped away some final layer of hesitation, neither of them realized they’d kept.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Heat curled low in his spine.
“Bree,” he murmured.
She backed up slowly until her shoulders touched the workbench, pulling him with her. The lights cast a warm glow across her skin. Her wedding dress rustled softly as he set his hands on her hips.
“You look incredible,” he said, voice low.
She reached up, fingers slipping beneath his tie, tugging him closer. “I want my husband,” she said simply. “Right now.”
A bolt of want went through him so sharply, he had to steady himself with one hand on the bench.
“Here?” he asked, voice rough.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Here.”
He kissed her again, and this time it wasn’t soft. It was hungry. Weeks of pressure, fear, hope, triumph, all boiled down into a kiss that went straight through him.
He slid his hands along her waist, drawing her closer, feeling her melt against him. The room smelled like cedar, oil, and the faint sweetness of her perfume. She lifted his shirt from his waistband, fingers skimming under the fabric, nails dragging lightly across his skin. His breath caught.
“Hank,” she said, voice low and certain, “touch me.”
He did. Carefully. Reverently. Then, with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what made her breath stutter.
She tugged him closer, her dress whispering as she shifted. He lifted her effortlessly onto the workbench, her legs parting to draw him between them. Her hands slid over his shoulders, down his back, then under the hem of his shirt to feel the muscles along his spine.
Heat unfurled fast. Deep.
He kissed her throat, her shoulder, the soft place beneath her jaw that always made her gasp. Her fingers dug into his arms. The lights glowed overhead, painting her in gold as he lowered his forehead to hers.
“You sure?” he murmured.
Her smile was soft, full, devastating. “I married you today,” she said. “I’m sure.”
The intimacy that followed was slow and deliberate, guided by whispered wants and familiar rhythms. Her dress pooled around her waist. His shirt hit the floor. She wrapped around him, warm and certain, and he moved with her, each breath shared, each touch layering meaning into something already deep.
When release came, it came together, powerful and quiet, her breath catching against his neck, his grip tightening at her waist as the world narrowed to just this moment.
He kissed her gently as they came down, foreheads pressed. Breath mingled. Hearts steadied.
“Married,” she murmured again, voice hazy.
