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My sister couldn’t make it back in time because she’s still on tour, but she called to wish me well. She still isn’t entirely convinced about my decision to marry Q, but when she realized how happy I was, she gave in. She promised to visit as soon as she returned.
Everything is different, and so perfect, unlike my previous almost-wedding. It's beautiful and lavish, and most exciting of all, my groom wants me. Said groom, who’s glowering at me from under his thick eyebrows because he’s pissed at me. And who’s going to teach me a lesson, so I never defy him again. A lesson I can’t wait for. I squeeze my thighs together.
As I near Q, the tension in the air thickens. My footsteps slow, and Felix flinches next to me. He swallows, then relaxes his shoulders as we reach Quentin.
I hear Felix gulp audibly, then square his shoulders and hold out his hand. And when he shakes Felix’s hand, the breath I wasn't aware I was holding deflates my lungs. The two stare at each other, something unspoken passing between them.
"This doesn’t mean I condone your actions," Felix says in a low voice.
Symbolically it does, dude.
"This doesn’t mean I’m not pissed off at your actions," Quentin growls.
Umm, actually it does. I stifle a smile. Men and their posturing!
They continue to glare at each other, but all I can think of is how sexy angry Q is. And how that hard edge to his voice sparks off my nerve-endings. My nipples tighten in response; my clit throbs. How is it that the more he’s enraged, the more I’m turned on? The air crackles with the emotions vibrating off the three of us. The static in the space raises the hair on the back of my neck. The atmosphere is so heavy, it pushes down on my shoulders, pressing into my chest.
Fine, fine, guess I’ll have to urge these two to take that last step to making up. Also, I’m tired of them taking up all of my mind space. I want to get past this drama, so I can finally enjoy my wedding properly.
I loosen my hold on Felix's arm and hold my hand to out Quentin. Without hesitation, he takes it with his free one. He brings my fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. With his other hand, he’s holding Felix’s. For a few seconds, the three of us are joined.
Then Quentin releases his hold on Felix. “Thank you for walking her down the aisle.” Some of the anger fades from his face.
Felix’s Adam’s apple bobs. He jerks his chin. “If you do anything to make her unhappy, you’ll have me to contend with.”
Quentin barks out a laugh. Felix seems taken aback, then he chuckles, too. The tension dissolves. Finally! Once more, I feel giddy, this time with relief.
Felix steps back. Quentin draws me forward into his side.
Felix looks between us. The expression on his face is tinged with regret, but there’s also a thread of something else. Acceptance? Isn’t that the first step to moving on? Perhaps the three of us will get through this situation intact. I smile at Felix and mouth, “Thank you.” Any animosity I feel toward him is gone, replaced by an almost brotherly fondness.
He smiles back.
Then, Quentin urges me forward. I take my place next to him. For the second time in as many weeks, I’m standing at my own wedding. This time, with the man I’m going to marry squeezing my hand in reassurance. And oh god, I’m so ready for this. I should feel nervous, but I’m not. I feel like I’m at the right place, at the right time, with the right man.
My fingers feel small and delicate and cold in comparison to his thicker, stronger, warm grasp. Reassurance bleeds from his fingertips to mine. The solidness of his bulk, the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth from his body—all of it surrounds me, grounds me, and holds me in place.
I try to focus on the words the officiant—one of Quentin’s nephews—is saying. I see his lips move, but don’t hear the words, because of the excitement that fills me. All I’m aware of is that I’m marrying a man I’m wildly attracted to and have feelings for. That I have more money in the bank than I know what to do with. That my father is watching—I met with him briefly when he popped by the room I used to get dressed. That I have a circle of supportive girlfriends who I’d never have met, but for him. Zoey is here, as is Imelda, who’s, apparently, dating Arthur—that’s news I’m trying to get my head around.
Then there’s Summer, who delivered the wedding dress designed by her sister Karma—who had rushed her team to put the finishing touches to the wedding dress. I'm so touched by how this group of women has folded me into their circle as one of their own.
Along with Zoey, Grace also made it to the wedding. Harper messaged to congratulate me. She also sent her regrets that she couldn’t make it at such short notice. All in all, I feel like I’ve found my tribe. I couldn’t be happier, but for the fact I don’t know where I stand with my new husband. Yep, he’s my husband, for the officiant is pronouncing us husband and wife. My head reels.
My husband turns to me. I look up into his face and my lungs seize. Indigo-colored whirlpools eddy in his eyes. There’s something carnal, something unholy, something very intent-filled, something salacious and yet, also, worshipful—an expression that signals he’s both the saint and the sinner in this relationship, and he’s not waiting anymore.
He’s not going to hold back. This is the moment he’s been waiting for since he met me. This is when he makes me his, in every sense of the word.
He slides his arm under my arm and flattens his palm over the curve of where my waist meets my hip. The next second, I’m flush against his chest. I gasp. And he must have been waiting for that reaction, for he closes his mouth around mine, and kisses me.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel it all the way down to my toes, and my fingertips, and the roots of my hair, through every cell in my body, and my individual eyelashes. Heat flushes my blood, bathes my skin, and fills my chest with a deep, needy want, the kind I’ve never experienced before. There’s lust and possessiveness, and all of it is tinged with a desperation that speaks to something inside of me. Something that makes me lean into the kiss and return it.
I lock my arms about his shoulders, tilt my head, and bite down on his lower lip. A growl vibrates up his chest, turning my breasts into heaving globes. I feel something hard against my lower belly, and that fire in my body turns into an inferno. Every part of me is filled with a ravenous, aching craving that only he can fill.
He must sense my desperation, for the next moment, he’s torn his lips from mine. He stares into my eyes, his own the color of burned cobalt embers. The next moment, I cry out, for he’s thrown me over his shoulder.
31
Quentin
