Page 67 of The Founder's Power

There’s a corner where one of Isabelle’s friends is sketching portraits for guests, another with a guestbook made of handmade paper and dried flowers.

Our first dance isn’t choreographed. We just dance, holding each other, slowly, wrapped in each other.

The world fades. She’s all I’ll ever need.

At the end of the night, someone hands us sparklers, and our friends form a tunnel of flickering light. We run through it, hand in hand, laughing like kids, like the world is wide open and ours.

We’ve already built something indestructible.

Not a kingdom.

Not an empire.

A life.

* * *

Finally,it’s time for our wedding night. Enough time has passed that we leave our guests to enjoy the rest of the reception themselves, and we sneak off to our house. Again, it’s quiet. Still no photographers and no press.

Isabelle steps barefoot across the hardwood, her fingers trailing along the edge of the entry table as she slips out of her heels. The hem of her gown gathers in one hand, the other still clasped in mine.

She turns to look at me, and there’s something in her eyes that’s both new and achingly familiar.

“Now what, Mr. Kincaid?” she teases.

I smile, slow and reverent. “Now I spend the rest of my life showing you what ‘ours’ really means, Mrs. Kincaid.”

She laughs, quiet and breathless, but when I scoop her into my arms and carry her toward the bedroom, she goes still against me.

Our bedroom glows with soft amber light from the sconces I left on before we left intentionally. The bed is already turned down. The sheets are crisp and white, tucked the way I know she likes them. On the bedside table, a single vase holds a sprig of wild rosemary and soft lilac.

She notices it and smiles. “You remembered.”

“I never forget anything you love.”

I set her down beside the bed and reach for the zipper at the back of her gown.

Her breath catches as I slowly pull it down, the sound loud in the hush between us. The silk slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stands there in soft lace—nothing else—and looks at me like I’m her favorite painting.

I move closer and trail my hands along her bare arms, her waist, her hips.

“I want to take my time with you,” I murmur. “I want to feel every inch of our beginning.”

She leans into me. “Then take it.”

I undress slowly, letting her help, letting her kiss each new place she reveals. When we’re both bare, I lift her onto the bed and cover her body with mine, bracing on my forearms so I can watch her face as I kiss her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her belly.

Her fingers slide into my hair. “Damian…”

“I love you,” I say, not as a vow but as a truth already written in our bones.

And then I sink into her. Deeply. Slowly. Completely.

She gasps, her legs winding around my waist, her hands gripping my back, her breath warm against my cheek as I start to move.

I make love to her like she’s sacred.

Every thrust is deep and controlled, my body pressed flush to hers, our mouths constantly finding each other. I want to hear her moan. I want to feel her nails in my skin. I want her to know that this isn’t about lust.

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