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“Mine,” I growl, fisting her hair and tipping her head back until I can take her lips with mine.
I don’t let her out of bed again until both of our stomachs are rumbling and it’s after noon.
“Let’s get dressed and go into town for lunch. You never even got a chance to look around before I brought you up here,” I suggest, lifting a towel from the rack and wrapping her in it.
“Really?” she asks enthusiastically, like she thought I planned to keep her up on the mountain forever.
“Let’s go, I’ll show you the sights,” I say with a smile.
Her excitement is infectious, and after she slips on the panties, bra, and dress I picked for her from the closet, we drive down the mountain and straight to the Peak Bistro for a late lunch. She orders a mushroom risotto and a pink-looking cocktail from the impressive menu of drinks, most of which I’ve never heard of.
Watching her eat makes a warm sense of satisfaction glow inside my chest. She barely makes a dent in the food before she declares herself full, but knowing that I’d provided for her fulfills some sense of male pride I didn’t even realize I had.
An hour later, I watch with an amused grin as she slurps the last drops of her third cocktail—this time a Long Island Iced Tea—through a straw while we wait for our desserts. Something new I learned about my future wife this afternoon is that she really can’t take her liquor. She’s not sloppy drunk, but she’s definitely tipsy. I hadn’t planned to get her drunk, but if the alcohol lowers her inhibitions and makes her a little more agreeable, then that’s only going to help with our next stop of the day.
We end up sharing her dessert, and by the time I help her back into my truck, she’s rubbing at her belly and smiling sweetly at me.
“Thank you for lunch,” she says, rolling her head to the side to look at me.
“You’re welcome.”
“I want you to take me home and fuck me,” she whispers like she’s saying something scandalous.
“I promise I’ll fuck you as many times as you want soon, but first we have an appointment.”
“An appointment? Did you make me an appointment to see the doctor to get on birth control?”
“No, Little One. We’re getting married,” I tell her, watching her expression as she tries to process my words.
“No, we’re not.” Her brow furrows, her lips purse, and she looks freaking adorable.
“Yes, we are. I got a license on Monday, and the judge is waiting for us. I want you to have my name.”
“But you hate me,” she mumbles.
“I could never hate you. I’m in love with you, Etta, and I need you to do this. Can you be my good girl and do this for me?” I coax, using the praise that I know she finds so intoxicating to encourage her.
“No, we can’t. That’s not…” She trails off as I start the engine and pull out of the restaurant’s parking lot and onto the street.
Placing my palm on her thigh, I squeeze, pulling her attention over to me.
“We’re not really getting married, are we?” she asks, blinking like she’s trying to clear her vision.
“Yes, Little One, we are.”
“We can’t,” she whispers.
“We are,” I tell her, not allowing her a chance to argue.
“No.”
“Yes,” I say, tightening my hold on her thigh.
“This is crazy.” Her eyes look a little clearer, like reality is pushing its way through the haze of alcohol.
“Completely insane,” I agree with a smile.
“I’m not dressed for a wedding,” she says, glancing down at the pretty green dress I picked out for her.
