“You deserve better than a candy ring.”
“I’ve got you, and you’re all I need.” I smile as I wrap my arms around his neck.
“I want to take my time tonight,” he says. “No rush. Just us.”
“Just us,” I whisper.
He kisses me slowly. His tongue slides against mine, and I melt into the mattress underneath him. His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, that spot behind my ear that makes me shiver. His hand traces down my body like he’s mapping me, memorizing me, every curve, dip, and scar. He kisses my collarbone, the swell of my breast, then my nipple. I arch into him, and he takes his time, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing, until I’m writhing underneath him.
“Justin. Please.”
“Patience, Mrs. Crawford.” He grins against my skin, and the name sends a shockwave through me that settles somewhere low and hot.
“Say that again,” I tell him.
“Mrs. Crawford.” He kisses lower over my ribs, along my stomach, and across the curve of my hip. “My Mrs. Crawford.” Lower still, the inside of my thigh. “Mine.” He kisses softly.
“Yours,” I breathe out.
His mouth finds me, and I stop thinking. His tongue is slow and deliberate, none of the urgency from earlier, just long, devastating strokes that build like a wave. My hand finds his hair, and my back arches off the bed as he slides two fingers inside me and curls them as my vision whites out.
“You taste like mine,” he murmurs against me, and the vibration of his voice makes me gasp.
“Didn’t know mine had a taste.”
“It does to me.” He works me higher, his tongue and his fingers in perfect rhythm, and when I come it’s slow and rolling and so intense that tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Hekisses his way back up my body and settles over me, wiping the tears from my cheeks with his thumb.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I just came so hard I’m crying. I think I’m better than okay.”
He laughs, that warm, easy laugh that I fell in love with in a corridor that smelled like sweat and ice. “I love you.”
“I love you. Now get inside me,” I demand.
“Bossy, even on your wedding night.”
“Especially on my wedding night.” I smirk.
“Condom?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
He bites his bottom lip. “Fuck!” he curses. “Are you sure?”
“We’re married, Justin. I want to feel you. All of you.”
And so he does, pushing into me bare, and the sound we both make fills the dark room. It’s different without the barrier. More intimate. Rawer. I can feel every inch of him, the heat, the stretch, and when he starts to move, it’s slow and deep, his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “You feel ...”
“I know.” Because I can feel it too. Everything, every nerve ending is alive and sparking.
He moves slowly, rolling his hips into mine, hitting deep with every thrust. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mixing, and our hands are laced together above my head, the ring between our fingers. This isn’t fucking. This is something else entirely. Something that makes my chest ache, my eyes sting, and my body feel like it’s dissolving into his.
“I love you,” he says with every thrust.
“Harder,” I whisper, and he gives me more. Not aggressive, just deeper, so I get more of him. His mouth is on my neck, my jaw, my lips. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and I feel the pressure building low in my belly.