More times than I can count, he’s said my breasts were the perfect size. The perfect shape. That they must have been made for his hands, his mouth.
And now, with his breath ghosting across my skin, my nipples pebble through the thin fabric of my P.J.’s.
With hands that aren’t as steady as I’d like them to be, I start cutting.
A little here. A little more there.
This is good.
I become steadier as I go, watching the excess fabric fall away in soft, shimmery folds. It’s only a veil, and it won’t even be mine anymore after this, but for some reason it feels good. Letting go of what no longer works. Preserving, protecting the stuff that does.
Beckett’s gaze catches mine again.
“You look good in lace,” I mumble around the pins. “For a dude.”
He shifts, hands on my hips again, when I nearly lose my balance. And his touch, familiar but weirdly not, feels really, really good.
I stick the last pin in and step back. “I think that’s the right length,” I say, voice unsteady. “I just need to sew it.”
But he doesn’t let me get away.
“Ash.”
I look down at him—my husband, standing there in my wedding veil, and somehow still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
“You and me,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving mine. “We’re not over.”
My breath stutters.
My thoughts start to scramble. Not with rules or warnings—but with questions.
What does this mean? Does it have to mean anything?
Can it just be this—right here, right now—without turning into a promise I’m not ready to make?
But then again… what if it is something?
What if it’s everything?
Before I can decide, before I can breathe, he gives a gentle tug—and suddenly, I’m in his arms.
The veil slips from his head, floating to the floor behind him.
His mouth finds mine—not rushed, not desperate.
Slow.
So slow it almost hurts.
His lips brush mine in a careful sweep, impossibly gentle—like he’s waiting to see if I’ll stop him.
Like he’s giving me one last chance to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t.
But I don’t.
His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb grazing my cheekbone, and then the kiss deepens—hunger threading through the softness. He tastes like my wine, but also like mint. Like him. Beckett.
My favorite flavor.
