Page 31 of A Wedding in a Week

He trusts me to have what it takes to make dreams come true for strangers, and that’s what I want for him to know about himself too. That he’s got what it takes. I don’t need him to make a presentation to believe that. If I wasn’t the world’s worst at public speaking, I’d even stand up and make it for him—that’s how much I mean it because I’d rather hang over a cliff than ask strangers for what I want and get told no all over again.

I can still feel that officiant’s rope looping my wrist. Wanting good things for him loops me too as our kiss deepens and his lips part.

His tongue slides against mine, slick, somehow electric, and my arm doesn’t ache at all now. That old ache in my chest is also absent. I break off to haul in a deep breath—a whole one—and it feels like the first time I’ve been able to do that in years, let alone the last month.

Getting to breathe again in this vehicle where I thought I’d take my last breath is incredible. Now I haul in another while his mouth finds my throat, and teeth that I’ve watched worry at his lip now graze my skin for better reasons. His hands are flat on my chest and moving, greedy for touch like I’m greedy for air now I can breathe freely for the first time in forever.

Marc’s hands roam, fingers splayed, his mouth slightly salty when it finds mine again, and even though us kissing means no more of that deep inhaling and exhaling, extra space still opens deep inside me, and I almost purr at how good it feels.

Marc smiles mid-kiss. I feel it against my lips. I also get to see it the moment he pulls back, and him having the height advantage while on my lap does something for me that he must also notice. His smile is only a hair away from feral, and damn but I like that glimpse of scarcely reined-in wildness more than I know what to do with.

His next kiss isn’t only hot. He’s also hard against me, from his chest to where he shifts against my pelvis. I ache in a whole new way then, more with each bitten-off sound and with each stuttering roll of his hips that tells me how he’d react if we fucked instead of dry humped with our clothes on.

I want that with him. Need it so much that I move in counterpoint to him, meeting each roll of his hips with a thrust up, and he likes that—he must do, even though he stops. That’s only to reach between us.

He barely touches the outline of where I’m hardening. His touch is featherlight—too light. I hardly feel him map my cock’s growth. I still suck in a shaky breath at the way he watches like I’m something he’s starved for.

I’ve seen hawks do the same above the moor, hanging in the air, intent on the next meal they’ll swoop on, and I’ll be that for him, no problem—be his breakfast, lunch, and dinner as long as he keeps his focus on me.

He wets his lips and swallows, and I’ve never wanted anyone’s mouth on me more.

His gaze also rises, showing me something even better than the view of this land I’m tied to. Marc ropes me with lips that shine, wetting them again as if he’s so much more than hungry. He knots me to him with a bottomless look, his pupils huge and so black I’m surprised they don’t hold constellations. I can’t look away from a pure want that could be my mirror until he touches my belt, his next pause asking an unvoiced question. Or at least it’s unvoiced until he says, “Your right arm’s been out of action for a while, hasn’t it?”

It’s been weeks, and he has to know that.

I flex my fingers, still unable to make a fist, and he sees that too.

“Could you get yourself off with your left hand, Stef?”

“Now?”

He smiles, and I catch up a beat too late, although yes, I’d get myself off right here and now as long as that’s what he wanted. I’d do it slow or fast, with his help or without it, if that’s what he asked for, but in truth, he’s wondering if I’ve been able to get myself off while injured.

I didn’t want to, not while everything hurt. I shake my head and he stops breathing, his eventual exhale a warm rush.

“No? Not even once?” He touches my belt again, and I don’t stop him. I shove up my shirt and then hold him as he shifts to unfasten my belt buckle, pulling it tighter before it releases.

I shift next, only so I can lift myself, and he gets busy pushing down what I wear just enough for access. Raising my hips raises him too, his head brushing the ceiling, knocking free some of those petals and surprising a laugh from him as they scatter. He also brushes a few of them from me, and I’ve never been harder.

My breathing hasn’t either.

Marc’s equally affected. He touches me again—my crown, my shaft—and it’s firmer, his hold the exact tight ring I need now, and sensation slams through me. It’s overwhelming, as if he pulls a hidden trigger. There’s nothing hidden on his face. He’s flushed, focussed, and happy, and I love this glimpse of joy on him. He’s also chatty.

“Knew you’d be big.” He rubs his thumb over where those petals landed. “Really want to suck you.”

I think I nod.

I definitely start to say yes.

Him touching my slit and then licking his shining finger dries my throat before the word slips out. Maybe that’s just as well. It means I get to see him licking the rest of his fingers, ringing me again, and squeezing, the movement slick and easy. Too easy.

It’s so good.

I arch under him, and his head bumps the ceiling hard enough this time that he almost loses balance.

“Steady,” he warns me.

I do my best, but it’s tough while that trigger is only a hair’s breadth from firing. My breath catches. So do my hands on his hips, both of them now, clutching tighter, or trying to, and I groan like he’s killing me, not bringing me back to life with every rise and fall of his fist.

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