Just as I’m about to suggest we slip away from our own reception, Susan appears at the entrance of the room, wheeling in something that draws gasps from our guests. Alina’s eyes widen beside me, her hand gripping my arm in excitement.
The wedding cake she insisted on baking herself has arrived—a two-tier masterpiece that immediately captures everyone’s attention.
I feel an unexpected surge of pride watching the reactions. My wife created this. My wife has a talent that leaves people speechless. I guide her forward with my hand at the small of her back, feeling the subtle tremor that runs through her body as we approach the cake table.
“Thank you for helping me keep it a surprise, Susan,” Alina says, her eyes gleaming.
Susan merely nods, a smile softening her typically no-nonsense expression. I study the cake before us, taking in the details that Alina has poured herself into.
The bottom tier is covered in smooth ivory cream that matches her dress, delicate piping creating a pattern reminiscent of the lace she wears. But it’s the top tier that truly captures my attention.
It’s designed like a black-and-white checkered chessboard, complete with a white queen and black king positioned at its center.
The symbolism isn’t lost on me. Our relationship began with chess, with strategy and calculated moves. Each game revealed something new about her—her intelligence, her determination, her quiet strength.
And somehow, along the way, the collector became the collected.
“Do you like it?” Alina asks, her voice uncertain. Even now, after everything, she still doubts her own worth.
“It’s magnificent,” I tell her, meaning every word. “Just like its creator.”
Her cheeks flush pink, her eyes dropping to the floor in that shy gesture I’ve come to anticipate. I resist the urge to tilt her chin up, to force her to accept my praise. Instead, I squeeze her hip lightly where my hand rests against it.
Susan comes closer, presenting us with a silver cake knife, its handle wrapped in a white satin ribbon. “Traditional first cut?” she prompts.
Alina reaches for the knife, and I move behind her, my chest against her back, my hand covering hers on the handle. She fits perfectly against me, her soft curves molding to my harder planes. I guide our joined hands toward the top tier, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my fingers.
“Together,” I murmur against her ear, enjoying the shiver that runs through her in response. My other arm wraps around her waist, holding her flush against me as we press the knife into the cake.
The gathered family applauds as we complete the cut, and Alina turns in my arms, her blue eyes shining with an emotion that makes my chest tighten again. Susan quickly finishes the slice, placing it on a small plate that she hands to us.
Instead of doing it simultaneously, I patiently wait as Alina breaks off a small piece, her fingers trembling slightly as she raises it to my lips. I capture her wrist before she can complete the gesture, holding her gaze as I guide her hand the rest of the way.
Her fingertips brush against my mouth as I take the bite, and I deliberately let my tongue slide against her skin, tasting thefrosting and her. Her breath hitches, her pupils dilating with desire.
The cake is exquisite—vanilla and chocolate marbled together, the buttercream rich and not too sweet—but it’s the look on her face that I savor most.
Once I’m done chewing, I break off a piece for her, watching as she parts her lips in anticipation. When I place the cake in her mouth, she closes her eyes, a small moan escaping her as she tastes her own creation.
A dot of frosting clings to her lower lip, a temptation I have no intention of resisting. Leaning forward, I capture her mouth with mine, my tongue sweeping out to collect the sweetness. She responds instantly, her body melting against mine, her mouth opening beneath the gentle pressure.
When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for a moment longer, her lips slightly parted. The sight sends heat coiling through my gut, settling low and heavy. Soon, I remind myself. Soon she’ll be beneath me, around me, completely mine.
“Save some for us,” Matteo calls out, breaking the moment. The room fills with knowing laughter.
Susan takes over serving cake to the others while I lead Alina to a chair placed close to the center of the room. Another tradition awaits—one I’m particularly looking forward to.
“What are you doing?” Alina asks, her eyes widening as I guide her to sit.
“Something I’ve been thinking about all day,” I tell her, dropping to one knee before her. The room quiets as our guests gather in a loose circle around us, anticipation hanging in the air.
Her hands clutch nervously at the ivory fabric of her dress, and I place my palm on her knee to steady her. “Relax, Piccola,” I murmur, my voice pitched low for her ears only. “Let me have this.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes as I slowly begin to push the hem of her dress upward, revealing her pale skin inch by tantalizing inch. Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the fabric bunches around her thighs.
And there it is—the pale blue garter Raven gave her, nestled high on her right thigh. The delicate lace contrasts beautifully with her creamy skin, and I have to resist the urge to run my hands higher.
“Hold still,” I command, my voice rougher than intended. Her thighs tremble beneath my touch, but she obeys, her eyes locked on mine.
