Page 104 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

“Fuuuuuck,” he groans, spilling into me. My pussy ripples around him as I ride out my second orgasm, leaving me twitching in the letdown.

He rolls off but takes me with him, so I’m sprawled across his chest. We lay together, our labored breaths the perfect soundtrack to this day.

“So, there was no horse emergency at the ranch?” I joke.

His laugh rumbles beneath my palm. “No there wasn’t. Reid was a great wingman and doesn’t expect us back until after the weekend. I’ve got you all to myself in this hotel for two more days. I know it’s not much of a honeymoon but⁠—”

I cut him off. “This is everything, Connor. This is more than I ever dreamed of. Everything was perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I’m so glad you’re happy, doll. It’s been a rollercoaster to get us here.” He chuckles.

“Fess up, mister. I want to know how you pulled all this off,” I say, impressed and still in disbelief this is real.

“I promise I’ll answer every single question you’ve got, but first, let’s order some room service and take a shower.” He squeezes my ass and slaps it with a loud pop, making me squeal and squirm off him, racing me to the shower.

Soft cotton billows around me as I nestle in to the comforter, reveling in post-consummation bliss. Connor’s fine ass waltzes across the suite to get the room service menu and I drool over his half-hard cock hanging heavy between his legs as he returns.

“Breakfast or lunch?” he asks.

It’s not even eight a.m., but we ate breakfast in the middle of the night.

“Both.” I happily reply.

And together, we cuddle in bed, order enough food to feed an army, and enjoy each other’s bodies until we pass out in each other’s arms—as husband and wife.

44

“You did not!” my new wife exclaims, her uncontrollable giggling shaking the bed.

“I did. I tripped James when he was carrying the French toast to the table.”

Delilah’s laughter makes me feel a hundred feet tall.

“CJ wouldn’t stop texting me wedding dress pictures and when I told him we were having breakfast, he said if I ignored him, he’d choose for me. He has good taste, but I wanted to pick the choices you’d have. I panicked. I needed to get away from the group for a decent amount of time. So, when James came out carrying a plate loaded with French toast drenched in syrup in one hand, and the powdered sugar duster in the other, I took my chance.”

Delilah slaps my chest, and I hold her hand against me, admiring her wedding rings.

“It took us an hour to get that mess cleaned up, Connor! Mr. and Mrs. Andersen played it cool, but I overheard her squealing about their star property being infested with ants because of the sugar,” she explains.

It was an impulsive decision, but 100 percent worth it, because during that hour, I hid in the walk-in closet of our suite, carefully examining dress after dress CJ was sending me. I know more about the differences between tulle, organza, and chiffon than I’ll ever admit.

Did you know there’s a heated debate over whether a wedding dress should be pure white, off-white, or ivory? They all look the fucking same to me.

I turn to my beautiful wife—I can’t believe she’s finally my wife—radiating with joy.

“You’re not kidding are you?” she asks. “You handpicked every detail?”

“Down to the size of the icing rosettes on the wedding cake.” I groan internally, because licking lemon frosting off my new wife’s bare tits not even an hour after we said “I do” was fucking unbelievable.

Lemon’s always been her favorite, and because I love anything to do with Delilah, it quickly became a favorite of mine as well. I can’t see, smell, or taste lemon without thinking of her smiling face.

She snuggles closer into my side, tracing the patterns of my tattoos with her fingertip.

“I assumed CJ had more creative control of everything,” she says.

“CJ was a great wingman, but they were my ideas and decisions. He took care of the phone calls, emails, rental agreements, payments, reservations—all the things that would take time and privacy I didn’t have.”

My stomach dips when she traces over my abs, an enticing tickle drawing to my center.