Page 96 of Reluctant Bride

“Working on it.” His hand fists gently in my hair, tipping my head just enough that I feel his breath against my ear. “Tell me what you want tonight, wife.”

My heart pounds so hard I feel it slam in my throat, my hips already rolling back against nothing, desperate for him to fill me up. His hand stays fisted in my hair, waiting.

“Please, Dawson.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me, husband.” I say it too fast, too needy, barely recognizing my own voice.

He notches the head of his cock at my entrance, barely inside, and holds there, one hand still flat against my spine like he needs to feel exactly what that first inch does to my whole body.

“How do you want it?” he asks, his voice gone dangerous and rough, the rasp of it vibrating straight to my core.

I’m pleading now, “Slow first. So I feel every inch of you.”

“And then what, Sage?” He’s making me paint the whole dream I’ve imagined for my wedding night.

“Then hard and deep. Deeper than ever before.” I swallow, all walls I ever erected now crumbled to the ground in dust. “I want to forget where I start and you begin. I want you to make me forget my own name.”

I feel him tremble with barely contained lust and my hips push back for more of him.

He sinks into me one inch at a time, giving me exactly that, filling me slow enough that I feel every ridge of him, every second of it a promise, like he’s making sure neither of us ever forgets this first time as husband and wife.

“More,” I say, when he’s fully seated, my back arching to take him deeper. “Don’t hold back from me tonight.”

He doesn’t.

He drives into me hard, what I asked for, his hips slapping against mine, his hand fisting tighter in my hair, his other gripping my hip and pulling me back into every thrust until there’s no space left between us at all. I clench around him and he groans my name like it’s being torn out of him.

I feel the tremor start low in my spine, building, cresting, until it breaks loose and drags him over with me, both of us shouting into the dark at the exact same second, slick with sweat and shaking.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He gathers me back against his chest instead, both of us kneeling on the mattress, his forehead against my shoulder, hands wrapped around my breasts, heaving like we ran the whole mountain trail instead of just made love.

“Mine,” he says, quiet, reverent.

“Yours,” I say back. “Always.”

He lays us both down after, still tangled, and doesn’t let go, one hand possessively placed over my swollen, deliciously satisfied pussy. My eyes go heavy against his chest, the whole valley finally, blessedly quiet around us.

Morning comes late and full of sun, and I wake up laughing before I even know why, Dawson’s mouth already at my ticklish neck and Cricket scratching at the door.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan,” he carefully places kisses down my arm until he’s got my hand in his. He plants the last kiss on the sage-colored gem.

“Good morning, Mr. Sullivan. What a lovely night sleep.” I smile.

Dawson makes eggs, sausage, and sourdough toast, and we eat at the kitchen table, his phone buzzing with a group text from Finn that just says PROOF OF LIFE REQUIRED, WERE YOU BOTH EATEN BY THE HONEYMOON, and a string of photos from West that somehow already has more likes than either of us can count before either of us is dressed.

It’s easy, domestic, the kind of ordinary morning I’d stopped believing either of us was allowed to have.

Mackenzie shows up a little after noon, and I know before she’s fully through the door that the bill’s finally come due.

“The camera pull,” she says, not sitting down. “I had Tate run the full forensic package overnight instead of waiting for Monday. It’s worse than an anomaly, Sage. Whoever accessed that feed didn’t just watch the vows. They used the same access window to plant transaction metadata inside Sullivan Transport’s federal filing system. Timestamped during the ceremony, while four hundred witnesses can vouch Dawson never left the altar.”

Dawson goes very still beside me.

“Vouch for what,” he says.

“For an alibi you’re going to need.” Mackenzie doesn’t soften it, though something genuinely sorry moves behind her eyes before she buries it and keeps going. “The Bureau’s federal division is treating the new filing as evidence, not fabrication, until somebody proves otherwise. You’ve got days, not weeks, before this turns into an indictment with your name on it.”