Page 25 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
When we part, the sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving us in the soft twilight that blurs edges and softens scars. I lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, and carry her toward the house.
"Traditionally, we'd cross a threshold," she says, arms looped around my neck.
"We've never been traditional," I remind her, but I pause at the door anyway, letting the moment stretch between us—the symbolic passage from our separate lives into our shared future.
I carry her through the house, up the stairs, to the master bedroom—my room that will now be ours. The space has been transformed for tonight. Candles flicker on every surface, casting golden light that makes the shadows dance. Rose petals scatter across the bed, their scent mingling with the beeswax of the candles.
"You planned this," she says as I set her on her feet beside the bed.
"Of course I did." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I've been planning this night for years."
Her smile is knowing, a touch wicked at the edges. "Show me, then. Show me what you've imagined."
The invitation breaks something loose inside me—the last vestiges of restraint, of uncertainty. She is my wife now. Mine legally, emotionally, spiritually. Mine to claim in every way possible.
I reach for the delicate zipper at the back of her dress, drawing it down with deliberate slowness. The white fabric parts, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, the elegant curve of her spine. I press my lips to the nape of her neck, breathing in her scent—lavender and something uniquely her, a fragrance I could identify blindfolded among thousands.
The dress slips from her shoulders with gentle encouragement, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric. Beneath, she wears white lace that makes my breath catch—a bridal set she must have purchased for this moment, knowing exactly what the sight of her in virginal white would do to me.
"Beautiful," I murmur, circling her, drinking in the vision of her. "So beautiful it hurts to look at you."
Her cheeks flush with pleasure at the praise. "Your turn," she says, reaching for the buttons of my shirt. "I want to see my husband."
My husband. The words send heat coursing through me. I let her undress me, her fingers working the buttons, sliding the shirt from my shoulders, moving to my belt with growing urgency. When we're both naked, I pull her against me, skin to skin, the contrast of our bodies—her softness against my hardness, her smoothness against my scars—creating a perfect harmony.
I lift her onto the bed, following her down, covering her body with mine. Our kisses grow deeper, more desperate, hands exploring with the familiarity of lovers who know each other's bodies but the excitement of this new beginning.
"Mine," I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "My wife. My Iris."
"Yours," she agrees, arching beneath me, offering herself. "And you're mine, Beast. All mine."
The name—her private name for me—ignites something primal. I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding between her thighs to find her already wet, ready for me. I stroke her, watching her face as pleasure washes through her, memorizing each expression, each small gasp and moan.
"I want to paint you like this," I tell her, working her toward the edge with practiced touches. "Flushed and wanting, wearing nothing but my rings."
"Later," she gasps, hips rising to meet my hand. "Right now I need you inside me. Need to feel my husband claim me."
The word—husband—breaks the last of my control. I position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. Our eyes lock as I push forward, joining our bodies in the most intimate way possible.
"Perfect," I breathe as I fill her completely. "Made for me."
"For you," she agrees, legs wrapping around my waist, urging me deeper. "Only for you."
I begin to move, setting a rhythm that's neither gentle nor rough but something in between—passionate, consuming, but with an underlying tenderness that's new to us. This isn't just sex, not even just lovemaking. This is consummation in the truest sense—the completion of a union that began five years ago in a park when I first saw her reading, eating an apple, unaware that her life's path had just crossed with mine.
Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging into my skin as our pace increases. I kiss her deeply, swallowing her moans, giving her my breath, taking hers in return. Every thrust, every touch is both possession and surrender—I claim her even as I give myself to her completely.
"Guy," she cries, her inner muscles beginning to tighten around me. "I'm close. So close."
"Look at me," I command softly, needing to see her eyes as she comes apart. "Let me see you, wife."
She obeys, dark eyes locking with mine as her orgasm washes through her, her body clenching around me in waves that trigger my own release. I come with her name on my lips, emptying myself deep inside her, marking her in the most primitive way.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, heartbeats gradually slowing to normal. I hold her close, one hand idly stroking her hair, the other resting on her hip, thumb brushing over the indentation my fingers left in her soft flesh.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, pressing a kiss to my chest, right over my heart.
"That I never thought I'd have this," I admit. "You. Here. As my wife. It seemed like an impossible fantasy."
