There's no DJ, no string quartet. But there is a bluetooth speaker, which is infinitely better. We dance to The Luckiest by Ben Folds, and I weep through most of it. I chose the song, but Ryan says it fits both ways. And it does.
After dinner-- hot dogs, ribs, and burgers-- he takes my hand and leads me to one of the Adirondack chairs, then sits down andpulls me into his lap. I settle against him with my head on his shoulder taking it all in.
"Best day of my life," Ryan says softly, pressing a kiss to my temple.
"Perfect."
"Are you happy?"
I look around at our backyard—the home we've built together, the life we're creating, the people we love surrounding us. I think about how far I've come. How I survived something that could have destroyed me. How I found my way back to myself and, in the process, found him.
"I'm so happy," I say. "I've literally never been happier."
"Good," he says, wrapping his arms around me tighter. "Because I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you stay that way."
And I believe him. Completely.
The house is quiet when we finally slip inside, our small wedding party having left an hour ago with hugs and promises to call tomorrow. Ryan locks the door behind us, and I lean against it, suddenly aware of how surreal this all feels.
"Hi, Mrs. Callahan," he says, and there's a playfulness in his voice that makes my heart skip.
"Hi, Mr. Callahan," I say back, and then I'm laughing because it sounds so formal and so us at the same time.
He crosses the room and pulls me into his arms, spinning me around until I'm dizzy and breathless. When he sets me down, he's grinning like he's won the lottery.
"What?" I ask, still laughing.
"I married you. In our backyard. With flowers in your hair." He reaches up and gently touches one of the white roses still woven through my curls. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"I'm covered in dirt and my feet are filthy now. There's a spot of mustard on my dress too," I laugh.
"I know," he says, and there's something tender in his smile. "It’s perfect. I wouldn’t have said you could get more beautiful, but you did it."
He takes my hand and leads me upstairs to our bedroom. He leads me into the bathroom and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it's warm and perfect. He helps me out of my dress carefully, kissing my shoulders as the fabric falls away. Then he undresses and steps into the shower with me.
Under the warm water, he washes the dirt from my feet, his touch gentle. He plucks the flowers from my hair and sets them on the shower bench, then washes and conditions my hair. His hands move slowly over my skin—my shoulders, my back, my arms—and I do the same for him. There's an intimacy to it that goes beyond the physical. This is us, starting something sacred.
When we're dry, he tells me to wait. He leaves the room for a few minutes before calling my name. The candles flicker as I step into the bedroom, the honey-apricot scent of one my favorite blends filling the air. Ryan stands by the bed, looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world.
"Come here," he says, and his voice is rough with something that makes my whole body warm.
I cross to him, and he meets me halfway, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. He kisses me slow and deep, like we have all the time in the world, like he's memorizing the taste of me. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark.
"I'm going to take my time and worship you," he says, and the words send a shiver down my spine. "Every inch. Will you let me?"
I nod, unable to speak, and he guides me to the bed. He lays me down gently, the candlelight dancing across his skin as he helps me get comfortable. Then he's kissing down my body - my throat, my breasts, my stomach - until his mouth is between my thighs and I'm gasping, my fingers tangled in the sheets.
His tongue finds me, slow and deliberate, and I arch off the bed with a cry that sounds like his name. He doesn't rush. He builds me up with steady, devastating pressure, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still while he works me toward the edge.
"Ryan," I gasp, and I'm already close, already trembling. "Please make me-"
He lifts his head, his mouth wet, his eyes burning into mine. "Not yet. I want you sucking me while I make you come."
I crawl up his body and turn, positioning myself above him, my knees sinking into the pillows on either side of his head. His cock is right there, thick and hard and straining toward me, and I lower my mouth onto him just as his tongue finds me from below.
The sensation is overwhelming - his tongue working me from underneath, his cock filling my mouth, the intimacy of it almost too much. I brace my hands on his thighs and work him with my lips and tongue, feeling him groan against me, the vibration shooting through my whole body. I'm on top but he's in control, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me down onto his mouth, his tongue relentless.
I can feel him getting harder, can taste the salt of him, can feel my own orgasm building with every stroke of his tongue. He licks me slow and devastating, his hands spreading me openfor him, and I'm moaning around his cock, the sound muffled, desperate.
