Our eyes meet in the glass.
I see his hands at my shoulders.
The dark line of him in tuxedo black against the deep blue of my dress.
The way he’s watching my face more than the fabric because my reaction matters more than anything else in the room.
He slides the straps down slowly.
So slowly.
The silk loosens with a whisper, falling inch by inch, his knuckles skimming my skin as if even that contact means something holy to him.
And somehow, impossibly, it does.
I feel beautiful in a way I never have before.
Not because of the dress.
Not because of the room.
Because of the reverence in his hands.
Because Tristan—who once made me feel like a secret he didn’t know how to keep—now touches me like he is honored I let him.
My eyes sting again.
I laugh once, shaky and half breathless.
“You have to stop making me emotional.”
His mouth brushes my shoulder blade.
“Never.”
The dress pools at my feet.
His hands come to rest at my waist, bare skin now, warm and steady, and the contrast between his formal clothes and my near-nakedness sends a rush of heat through me so intense I have to grip the vanity to steady myself.
His eyes lift to mine in the mirror.
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
“Need anything?”
You.
Everything.
Forever.
Instead I whisper, “Kiss me again.”
That makes his eyes flare.
He turns me back toward him, gathers me in close, and kisses me as though I have asked for something precious.
