Page 99 of Slots & Sticks
He grins, eyes warm and mischievous. “Carrying my fiancée over the threshold.”
I blink at him. “We’re not married yet.”
“Practice makes perfect,” he says, completely deadpan, and starts walking toward the building like he’s been planning this moment all his life.
I smack his chest lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love that about me.”
I sigh dramatically against his shoulder. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He carries me all the way up the stairs to the front door. I can’t stop giggling, half from nerves, half from joy. My heels dangle from my fingers, and his jacket hangs crooked from where I tried to fix his tie in the car. We must look completely unhinged, and I don’t care.
When we reach his door, he shifts me just enough to punch in the code. The door swings open. Soot meows from the cat tree, announcing our arrival.
Cam steps over the threshold, careful not to bump my head, and spins us in a slow circle before setting me down. “There,” he says softly. “Home.”
I glance around the room—the cozy glow of the lamps, the faint scent of his cologne, the evidence of our two lives already tangled together in every corner. “It’s weird,” I whisper. “It already feels like that.”
He brushes his knuckles along my jaw, eyes steady on mine. “That’s because it is.”
God. I spent so long waiting for the other shoe to drop that I never let myself land. But this? Him? This is mine now. Not a fluke. Not a borrowed dream. Mine.
Something flutters in my chest—the same something that started when we were kids at that lemonade stand and never really stopped. “You know, I think I could get used to this.”
Camden’s smile curves slow and certain. “Good. Because next time, I’m not putting you down.”
He kisses me then, deep and sure, and somewhere behind us, Soot lets out a long, unimpressed mrrrrow.
I break the kiss, laughing against his lips. “Even the cat knows we’re disgustingly in love.”
Cam presses his forehead to mine. “Let her judge. I’m keeping you anyway.”
It’s just him and me. Fiancé and fiancée. God, that word makes my chest do somersaults.
He doesn’t let go.
His hands linger at my waist, thumbs brushing slow circles above my hips, eyes locked on mine. My heels dangle from one hand, the hem of my dress brushing my calves. I should feel self-conscious—my makeup smudged, hair tousled, breath uneven—but he’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“You’re staring.” I swallow around the emotion in my throat.
“I know.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. Not nerves—hunger. It’s the ache in my belly, the pulse between my thighs, the clench that hits every time I remember what he sounds like when he’s inside me. Tension builds under my skin, sweet and heavy. That low, aching need that comes from knowing exactly what his hands can do.
He leans in, brushes his lips over mine, once, twice—enough to tease. “Still want that celebratory wine, Mrs. Beck-in-training?”
“You’re stalling,” I whisper against his mouth.
His grin turns wolfish. “You saying you don’t want me to wine and dine you first?”
“I want you to fuck me like I belong to you. Like I’ve got your name in my mouth and your ring on my hand and your cum inside me. Like I said yes for the rest of my life.”
He stills. Just for a second. Then—God. That look. All hunger and reverence and the tiniest bit feral. I feel it between my legs instantly, a pulse of wet heat that has me shifting closer, thighs pressing tight together.
Camden lowers his head and kisses me deeper this time, hand sliding up my spine, over the zipper of my dress. His tongue traces the seam of my lips until I open for him, and then it’s just heat—his breath, his mouth, the faint rasp of stubble on my chin. My hands fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him.
He walks me backward toward the couch, slow and steady. Like he’s not in a rush, even though I’m half a second from begging.
