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“It’s way better than an average wedding. We basically cut out all of the bullshit and made it about us, which is the way it should be.”
“Lie back on the bed. I want to look at you in that dress one last time before I take it off.”
Lying back against the plush down pillows on a bed of roses, I watched as my gorgeous husband kneeled at the foot of the bed while he gazed at me for several minutes.
“Alright. I’m done looking. It’s burned into memory. Now I need to put those slits to good use.”
Damien slowly undid his tie; there was something so sexy about that simple act. He then crawled over to me. “Let’s give new meaning to tying the knot,” he said as he took my hands and wrapped the tie around my wrists, pinning them over my head.
He took off his vest and shirt, throwing them aside before lowering his warm chest onto me. I wanted to touch him, but my hands were tied. He knew I loved this kind of torture, though.
Damien feasted on my body, starting with my neck and eventually making his way downward.
Burying his face under the material of my dress, he used his tongue to fuck my bare pussy as he bore down on my clit with his thumb. I wriggled beneath him, desperate to hold the back of his head as he did it.
When he sensed I was going to come, he suddenly got up to quickly untie my wrists before he undid his pants. He pushed my dress up, and within seconds, he was inside of me. Rocking his hips in a rhythmic motion, he penetrated me slowly and deeply. It was unlike his usual pace. With his eyes closed, he was cherishing every single movement. What it lacked in speed, it made up for in intensity. We’d fucked in just about every which way since we’d gotten together. Every time was somewhat different from the last. But this time felt different from all of the other times.
This definitely felt like a husband making love to his wife.CHAPTER TWENTY-THREETHE FIGHTERAs magical as our wedding night in Santa Cruz was, it wasn’t powerful enough to slow down time.
The day of Damien’s surgery came faster than I’d hoped. Well, if I’d had my way, it wouldn’t have come at all.
He didn’t let go of my hand once as we drove to Stanford in the wee hours of the morning. We were both eerily quiet.
After parking his truck in the hospital garage, we lingered after Damien turned off the ignition. Understandably, neither of us was ready for what faced us inside. He looked over at me. I could no longer mask my fear.
“It’s okay to be scared, Chelsea. You’ve forgotten I can see right through you.”
“I want to be strong for you.”
Squeezing my hand tighter, he said, “Everything’s gonna be alright, baby. It’s okay to show your fear, though.”
Once inside, I likely wouldn’t be able to tell him everything I wanted to say. The words I couldn’t form felt like they were choking me.
I was breaking down and could hardly talk. I managed to say, “You’d better be okay, because I can’t live without you.”
Blinding tears filled my eyes. I had one job—to be strong for him—and I had totally failed.
“When I’m in there, I want you to think about all the things we have to look forward to this year, like planning our other wedding. Just focus on the good and then every hour that passes, we’ll be closer to having this behind us.”
I nodded as if it were really possible to look forward to anything in this moment.
He went on, “Nothing is gonna happen, okay? But God forbid, if something did, I need you to know that what I said that one time about not wanting you to ever move on, that was irresponsible. I would want you to move on and be happy.”
I shook my head profusely. “I can’t have this conversation, Damien.”
“Yes, you can, because nothing’s gonna happen, but I just need to say this. Please.”
“Alright.”
“I don’t want you to stay alone or feel guilty for moving on someday if something ever does happen to me.”
I nodded just to make him feel better, but I knew deep in my heart, that there would be no moving on if something ever happened to Damien. It was that kind of love. The once-in-a-lifetime kind. The kind that his mother and father had. The kind that I couldn’t have with Elec or anyone else, because it would have only been possible with Damien.
“You’re my soulmate, Damien. My fighter. Have you ever heard that song, The Fighter? The Keith Urban one?”
“I’ve heard it come on the radio. It reminds me of us,” he said.
It shouldn’t have surprised me that he’d picked up on that, too. We were connected that way.
