He stops just short of touching me, as if waiting for permission.
“You can’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to forget this is a wedding.”
His mouth curves slightly. “It’s our wedding. Propriety died a long time ago between us.” He reaches for me then, slowly, giving me time to step back if I want to.
I don’t.
His hands settle at my waist, careful at first. Respectful of fabric, of hair, of makeup. “I am trying to behave, but for the life of me, I can’t remember why.”
“You’re not doing a great job.”
He exhales softly, leaning closer. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning. Ever since webanged one out.”
I giggle, and his mouth brushes mine, light at first. Testing. The kiss deepens without urgency, without chaos. It’s controlled, likehe’s memorizing me before he has to share me with a room full of guests.
“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” I whisper.
“I’ll pay for it.”
I laugh against his mouth.
His hands tighten slightly at my waist, pulling me closer. The structure of my gown presses between us, but the heat is undeniable.
“We should stop,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees. He doesn’t stop. The kiss shifts, deepens, becomes less careful. My fingers curl into his lapel. His breath roughens.
“Five minutes,” I murmur.
“Fewer now,” he replies. The edge between restraint and surrender thins. He breaks the kiss first, forehead resting against mine. “Marry me,” he says softly.
“I’m about to.”
He smiles. And for one reckless second, I consider locking the door. He straightens my veil himself. That’s what undoes me. Not the kiss. Not the way his hands felt at my waist. The tenderness of it. He smooths the lace along my shoulder like he’s calibrating something precious. Like he understands the weight of this fabric and the symbolism stitched into it. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “I can’t wait to boss Jason around as his stepmom.”
His head tilts back with a low laugh. “You are going to abuse that power.”
“Absolutely.”
He bends and kisses me again, softer this time. When he pulls back, his eyes sweep over me again. “You look like trouble.”
I remember the first time he said that to me. Heat coils up my spine at the callback. “I always look like trouble.”
“And I’m marrying you anyway.”
“You like trouble.”
“I like you.”
I run my hand down the front of his tux jacket, fingers trailing over the smooth fabric, memorizing the feel of it under my palm. “You clean up nice.”
“You don’t,” he replies.
