Page 45 of A Wedding in a Week

“Don’t.” I can’t let him see what I’ve kept a lid on for years—that telling him no was one of the worst days of my life, wedged between losing Dad, worrying history would repeat for Lukas, and hanging over a steep cliff. I can’t add another worst day to that list if this goes wrong between us.

Marc’s hand lowers from the light switch.

Mine rises at the same time, only to land on my chest.

Marc covers it a beat later. He says, “Stop second-guessing.” He must also stand on tiptoe. His breath strokes the shell of my ear again, only now I can lean in for more as he continues. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this? No, not this. You, Stef. You.” He curls his fingers around mine, pulling, taking the lead again.

This time, I follow him upstairs, only stopping in the hallway outside my bedroom when he pauses. “Remember when I used to share a bedroom with Lukas every summer?”

I nod. He nods too. “That final summer, the first one you ran the farm instead of Richard, I’d stop here sometimes on the way to bed, wondering what you’d do if I knocked.” He does just that, his knuckles striking the wood. “Would you have let me in, back then?”

I have to shake my head.

He knocks again, softer this time, and I don’t like the hint of wariness I hear next, maybe his turn to overthink what we’re doing. “How about now?”

Now is different. We aren’t the same people, and he was right downstairs—there’s no point second-guessing the future. Marc must see that acceptance clearly enough to believe it.

He kisses me, and even though we’ve done plenty of that this week, this kiss feels new between us—like a belated gift, not a potential way to fuck up again. He opens his mouth to me, and I sink into what he offers, his arms looping around my neck in a way that feels so natural I can’t believe it’s still new between us.

It’s new, but we aren’t, are we? There’s nothing new about how I feel about him.

It’s easy then for me to back into my bedroom and bring him with me, only Marc isn’t done with taking care of me like he promised just yet. He takes over, his hands sure with my shirt buttons for a second time this evening. They’re also careful with my elbow, and he murmurs a quiet, “Sorry,” as the fabric tugs there. He doesn’t need to be, not while every nerve in my body flicks from pain to pleasure the moment he gets my trousers unfastened.

He kneels, and I have to see him.

The bedside light rocks as I fumble for it, but not before I find the switch, every fiery strand in his hair igniting.

I also ignite the moment he takes hold of my cock. There’s nothing slow and smouldering about how he ruins me for ever doing this again with strangers—it’s him I’ve wanted, his kiss to the head of my cock I’ve pictured. Now I’m burning up at him doing it for real, flicking my slit with his tongue tip. It’s a small touch—tiny—there and gone in a wet and warm split second, but I see his eyelids lower and I lock the moment away as perfect.

Then he looks up and I was wrong.

This is my new version of perfection.

Marc’s eyes are on me, as wide as ever, but now there’s nothing wary in them. They’re full of the warmth I saw earlier. His hold is warm too. I feel it as he grasps my hand—one I hadn’t realised I’d clutched his hair with until he urges me to hold him tighter. I get the message, using both hands to keep him where I never thought I’d get to have him.

He wants me to fuck into what he offers, his mouth opening wider. I do, slowly at first, as careful with him as he’s been with me, and he sucks in counterpoint to my thrusts. Then he shuffles even closer, and something shifts between us.

I’m in him so deep that a shudder rocks me followed by another. The sensation ebbs and flows, stutters and stops, Marc fighting a tide of his own. He almost gags, and I’d pull back if he didn’t clutch me. Then he’s up from his knees, and I’m the one sinking lower, only my knees don’t hit the floor.

Marc pushes me down onto my bed, tugging my clothes all the way off before doing the same with his own until we’re both naked.

He’s so much more than perfect.

I must say that aloud.

He laughs, his voice raspy and rough. “Thanks but look who’s talking.”

Then he straddles me again, and I’m voiceless, no way to speak with his tongue deep in my mouth, and salty.

I groan, my cock straining underneath him, and he rocks, his weight a torture I’d happily sign up to more of. His hands splay on my chest, and I’d take that weight on me for longer as well if I didn’t need him underneath me.

He laughs again as I grab his arse and roll us. Then he says, “Hey, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hurt me?

I slam an internal door shut on the thought of how I did that to myself once already. All that can hurt me now is him leaving Cornwall. I can’t let myself feel that pain before it happens, not while I still have a chance to work hard enough to keep him.

That’s the deal I make with myself again and again as he links his arms around my neck, his heels bumping the backs of my thighs as I get to do what I’ve wanted. I cover him with my body, and we rock, our cocks brushing, nudging, pressing, and it isn’t easy but I brace with my good arm to reach between us.

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