I lean closer, eyes locked on his. “I’m not a prize you didn’t earn. I’m not a miracle you stole. I am a woman who survived hell and still chose love anyway. You do not get to disrespect my choice by pretending you’re unworthy,” I whisper. “I’m not stupid. I’m not naive. I see all of you. And I still want you,” I finish softly. “I still love you.”
Tiny’s mouth crashes into mine, the kiss breaking open something deep and desperate yet tender. His hand slides into my hair, holding me close. My body responds immediately, heat building again, not because I need more pleasure but because I need to feel him. I need to seal this. I need him to understand I am not afraid of the intensity.
I want it. I want him.
Tiny pulls back just enough to breathe. His forehead touches mine. “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life proving it,” he whispers. “Proving I can be the man you deserve.”
I smile. “Then start now.”
Tiny’s eyes darken again, hunger returning, but it is softer this time. Deeper. Emotional.
He rolls me beneath him slowly, careful not to squish Peanut, who promptly abandons his stomach with an offended meow and leaps to the pillow like she is supervising.
Tiny’s mouth moves down my throat, kisses trailing like promises. “You’re my wife,” he murmurs against my skin.
I thread my fingers through his hair. “And you’re my husband.”
Tiny groans, and the sound alone makes my stomach clench with need.
He looks up at me, expression full of love so intense it almost hurts. “Tell me what you want,” he says.
I pull him down into a kiss, slow and filthy and full of devotion. “I want you to love me,” I whisper. “I want you to take me again like a vow. I want you to remind me that this is real.”
Tiny’s eyes blaze. “Yes,” he rasps. “God, yes.”
When he moves with me again, it’s devotion turned into rhythm. It’s love spoken in the only language his body has ever trusted completely.
He holds me like a promise. He loves me like he’s finally allowed to keep something good. And I give myself to him with no fear, only choice.
Only love.
Only home.
28
TINY
Syvannah and I ride out the morning after the vows, the air sharp and clean against my face, the road still damp from the previous night. Just my bike, my wife wrapped around me, and Peanut deeply offended she’s been removed from her kingdom.
The club calls it a honeymoon. The word feels strange on my tongue. Soft. Domestic, like something men like me aren’t built for.
It takes a few miles for my shoulders to stop sitting so high, for my eyes to stop scanning every mirror, and for my body to understand that there is nothing chasing us right now.
Syvannah presses her cheek between my shoulders and says, “You can breathe.”
So I do.
The B&B sits just outside town, tucked among a line of trees where the noise thins and the world slows. It is simple. A wraparound porch. Rocking chairs worn smooth by years of use. Warm light spilling from the windows. The woman at the desk smiles without curiosity, hands us a key, and asks whether we want fresh cookies or coffee.
I nod and take both.
The room has a clean scent of wood polish, soap, and a floral aroma wafting in from the open window. Syvannah removes her boots and walks across the floor barefoot, her relaxed demeanor easing a weight in my chest.
She turns when she catches me staring. “You’re doing that thing,” she says.
“What thing?”
“The one where you forget to blink,” she replies, mouth tipping into a small smile.