Page 54 of Owned In Misty Mountain

The kind I feel.

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The vows are short.

The kiss is long.

His hand grips my hip when I lean in, just a little harder than he should in front of a crowd.

And when Clara declares, “You may kiss the bride,” he doesn’t just kiss me.

He claims me.

All over again.

And I let him.

Because I’m his.

Forever.

Twenty Three

Mike

The second I open the door to our suite, I know I’m not going to last the night.

It’s all too much.

The view—floor-to-ceiling windows facing the snow-covered peaks.

The bed—massive, high-thread-count, soft as sin.

The woman—mine, in every way now, standing barefoot in the center of the room with that little smile that wrecks me.

She turns slowly. One hand still on the doorframe, curls loose, makeup faded, lips pink from where I kissed her stupid all afternoon.

My wife.

Fuck.

I drop our bags. Walk to her.

She doesn’t move. Just watches me, eyes wide, lips parting.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she whispers. “You’re gonna rip this dress off.”

“I’m already planning it.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“Married,” I correct, my voice gravel.

She laughs.

I grab her face with both hands and kiss her like I need her to breathe.

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