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26
I don’t waitfor permission to kiss her.
Since the second she walked toward me in that dress, looking as if she’d stepped out of my own personal fantasy—not a sexual one, though I could make a million of those by fading out the crowd and taking her right here on the sand—but one that belongs to my heart.
For a long time, I was too afraid to want those things because I knew I’d never get them.
But I have.
And I won’t ever forget how lucky I am for her. For us. I’ll never lose sight of what it means to not only have her in my life, but to share my life with her. The good and the bad, the triumphs and the failures, the choices and the uncertainties.
We can’t know what will happen. If we’re lucky, we know who we want it to happen with.
I span her waist with my hands, her ribs expanding under my touch as I bend my lips to hers. She’s open and eager when I press my tongue against the seam of her mouth.
I dully register the cheer and applause going up from our guests.
“Get a room,” someone shouts.
I’ve been waiting a long fucking time for this.
I’m not the kid I was when I stumbled into Wicked.
I wanted to save that place for the future kids like me, but I also wanted to save it for us. As a testament to our past.
I don’t need to. Even if I’m not destined to have a place in its future, I have a place in hers.
Her welcoming warmth, along with the feel of the ring heavy on my finger, is everything in this moment. Her hips are flush with mine, and I want her so fucking badly.
Not because I can’t control myself.
Because she’s my wife.
I could grace a thousand stages, record a million songs, and none of it would compare to a smile, a breath, a night with her.
Any man who thinks he loves a woman less once he’s married needs his head checked.
“When’s dinner?” Beck hollers, and I finally pull back.
“This isn’t over,” I murmur against Annie’s swollen lips.
She arches a brow. “I hope not. It’s only the start.”
I grin because it’s true.
* * *
Later we’re gatheredaround a long table on the beach.
Nearby, Finn and the others are set up with their instruments. Beck’s getting his own footage, zooming in on Finn singing.
At a break, Finn crooks a finger at me, and I excuse myself from my wife long enough to head over.
“Well, never thought I’d be playing your wedding,” he says.
“You and me both.”
He nods slowly. “I’m putting in a word for you. The other artists are too.” He holds up his phone, showing the page with the video Beck shot, the comments piling on it.
