I guide him to my entrance. I sink down slowly.
We both moan at the stretch, the fullness, the perfect slide of him inside me.
For one long second we stay still, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
Then I start to move.
Slow rolls of my hips at first. I grind down until he hits deep. I rise until only the tip remains, then sink again, deliberate and teasing.
His hands grip my ass. He helps me ride him harder. Faster. His head falls back against the couch, throat working, low curses spilling from his lips. “You feel so good,” he rasps. “So fucking perfect. Mine, every inch of you.”
I lean forward. I brace my hands on his shoulders. I ride him with purpose now, sharp rolling thrusts that make us both gasp.
He surges up suddenly and flips us so I am beneath him on the couch. He hooks my legs over his arms. He opens me wide. He drives deep, hard, relentless.
The cushions creak beneath us. My nails rake down his back. His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking, marking.
“Beck, God, right there.”
He angles just right, hitting that spot over and over, until pleasure coils tight and snaps.
I come hard, crying out his name, pulsing around him, thighs shaking.
He follows seconds later, thrusting deep, burying himself, coming with a guttural groan that vibrates through both of us. Heat floods inside me; his arms tremble as he holds himself above me.
We stay like that, panting, tangled, hearts hammering against each other.
After a long minute he lowers himself carefully. He kisses me slow, lazy, tender, while we both come down.
When he finally pulls out he doesn’t go far. He just gathers me against his chest, pulls the throw blanket over us, and holds me close.
I trace the fresh red lines I left on his shoulders. “Sorry,” I murmur, half-smiling.
“Don’t be.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I like wearing your marks.”
I lift my hand. I look at the ring again, gold warm against my skin. “We’re really doing this,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. Certain. “We’re really doing this.”
I nestle closer and listen to his heartbeat slow.
The wedding will be small, just us, the sheriff, a fire on the porch, vows spoken under the stars. But right now, curled against himon the couch, ring glinting in the low light, body still humming from him, this moment feels like the real ceremony.
The promise already made.
The future already begun.
Forever already here.
NINETEEN
SABRINA
The porch smells of fresh-split cedar and woodsmoke.
We dragged two old Adirondack chairs out front this morning, scrubbed them down, and arranged them facing the ridge where the sun will set later. A small fire pit sits between them, already laid with kindling and logs Beck cut this afternoon. A bottle of good whiskey waits on the rail beside two low glasses. Nothing else. No guests. No music. No fuss.
Just us.
