Page 96 of A Love Song for Dreamers

Epilogue

“It’s gone.It’s actually gone,” Annie mutters, lifting pillows to search the couch in our livingroom.

I roll up the cuffs on my dress shirt as I cross the bright, airy apartment from the master bedroom. “Six, tell me you haven’t lost yourring.”

She crosses to me, her face a mask ofshock.

Then she pulls her hand out to show me the diamond glinting on herfinger.

Relief slams into me, along withpleasure.

Every time I see it on her hand, I feel that way. Even though we’ve been engaged for three months, I haven’t gotten over knowing she’smine.

Beck teases that it won’t go away until she’s signed the certificate and she can’t backout.

The truth is I know it won’t go away even afterthat.

“Why do you look so happy?” Annie asks, planting a hand on herhip.

I tear my gaze away from her teasing face to take her in, from her purple-painted toenails to her long legs to the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, and the valley between her breasts, all outlined by the tidy blackdress.

It should becute.

It’s not. It makes me want to drag her against me and do unspeakable things toher.

“Because you’re marryingme.”

Her eyes darken, and she tucks a piece of the hair she finished curling in our huge en suite bathroom an hour ago behind her ear. “But I can’t find my phone, and how the hell am I supposed to buzz peopleup?”

“I’ll call it in a second. We’ll findit.”

I back her toward the windows, and her eyes widen. “Tyler, we have guests arriving anyminute.”

“You already lost the phone. Can’t buzz them up. Let’s call itoff.”

Her back meets the window, and she sucks in abreath.

I drop my mouth to her neck, loving her soft floral scent and the way she arches, offering up more of her—all ofher.

I’ll devour everyinch.

“We can’t call it off,” she pants even though her fingers thread into my hair. “It’s our engagement-previews-housewarmingparty.”

“Fuck it. They’ll just bring booze and say how happy they are for us. I can tell you how happy I am forus.”

My hand sneaks under the hem of her dress and under the scrap of lace she callspanties.

“You’re so wet,” I tell her as if she doesn’t know. “How long have you been likethis?”

“Since you walked out wearing that shirt I boughtyou.”

“Why’sthat?”

“Because I like knowing I get to dress you. You’re like my own broody rock star Kendoll.”

I sink two fingers into her in retaliation, and she moans,squirming.

“We’ll have lots of time for that when we’re married,” Annie protests, but I know she’s joking because her hips lift to meet every stroke of myhand.

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