I move toward her slowly, the silence of the suite amplifying everything—the soft sound of her breathing, the faint rustle of fabric as she shifts her weight.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” I say.
The words come out low.
She goes still.
I step in behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest.
She fits perfectly.
Like she was meant to be here.
Her body relaxes into mine without hesitation, her head tipping back against my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of her everywhere, the softness, the quiet trust of the way she leans into me.
She turns her head slightly, her lips brushing the line of my jaw.
She smiles, tilting her head back to look at me. Her hair is a messy halo of blonde against my shoulder, strands catching in the neon glow from the window.
“Do you know you’re my husband?” she murmurs, her voice soft with wonder. “I never thought I’d end up married to Hercules. It’s like I’m living in some ridiculous fairy tale. I’m so lucky to have you as my husband. And Elvis was our witness.” She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Isn’t that kind of amazing?”
Her innocence in this moment destroys what little control I have left.
“Damn, wife,” I mutter, burying my face in the crook of her neck.
Her skin is warm and soft beneath my mouth. She smells like vanilla, strawberries, and something unmistakably her—something addictive.
She shivers in my arms.
I tighten my hold on her, my hands locking at her waist like I’m afraid she might slip away.
“You’re driving me crazy,” I confess against her skin.
Her heart is racing. I can feel it fluttering wildly beneath my forearms, matching the violent rhythm of my own.
“You’re my wife, Talia,” I murmur, the words tasting unreal and inevitable all at once. “You’re mine.”
She turns in my arms, slow and deliberate, until she’s facing me.
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, right over the scotch stain, her fingers splaying there like she’s claiming territory of her own.
“You’re very bossy,” she whispers, her lips curving, “for a guy who just met me four hours ago.”
I slide my hands down her sides, gripping her hips.
“Believe me,” I say quietly, leaning closer, “I know how to take charge.”
Her breath catches.
“Do you?” she whispers.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, tightening, pulling me closer until I can feel every inch of her pressed against me.
“Well, then,” she says softly, her voice dropping into something darker, something dangerous, “maybe you should stop talking about it… and show me what that means.”
That’s it.
Whatever fragile thread of restraint I was clinging to snaps completely.
