Page 113 of Book of Love


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“Interesting.” Grace scratched her chin. “Is that the only reason you’re showing it to me?”

“No.”

“Why else is it important?”

“It’s where I want to marry you.”

Grace gasped. Her heart almost leapt right out of her chest.

Lincoln put the photo down and took a small box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal an utterly perfect, simple ring—two budding, entwined roses clasped a diamond that seemed to radiate light. She couldn’t speak.

“In addition to wanting to be with you for the rest of our lives,” Lincoln continued, his voice slightly rough, “I want to show you some incredible parts of the world. Starting with the places where Shakespeare lived and worked. I’ll get tickets for your father, and Sam and Brooke, and whomever else you want to invite to the wedding. Then we can go to London, and there’s an Aphra Behn tour where you can visit her birthplace…and we can go to the British Library, and the Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, and the Globe Theater, of course…okay, this all sounded a lot more romantic in my head.”

He took a breath and went down on one knee. “Grace, will you marry me?”

“Oh, Lincoln.” She gulped back a sob, determined not to cry yet again, and took his hands in hers. “I love you. And I would be utterly honored and delighted to marry you. There’s nothing I want more.”

Relief and happiness filled his eyes. He rose to slip the ring on her finger and tugged her to her feet. He cupped her face in his hands and lowered his head. Their lips met in a deep, intense kiss filled with passion.

Together they made their way to the bedroom while somehow managing not to break the contact of their bodies. A hot, powerful tenderness infused their lovemaking, as they stripped slowly and took their time touching and exploring each other, almost as if it were the first time all over again.

Maybe it was, Grace thought hazily as Lincoln pressed his lips against her throat. Maybe every time you unwrapped another layer of each other, you found another first. Maybe that was part of being in love—discovering that you had endlessfirststogether.

She threaded her hands in his hair. Their breath came in sighs and rasps. Their union was powerfully intense, his body in hers, their eyes locked, their skin rubbing with sweaty friction. She fell into the exquisite spiral first, and he followed swiftly, her name rumbling from his chest on a heavy groan.

As they sank onto the pillows, he pulled her on top of him so she was splayed over his muscular body. At first, their hearts thumped in an erratic rhythm, one after the other, tuneless and out of sync. Then, all at once, the rhythms slowed and began to beat in unison. A harmonious symphony.

He tightened his arms around her. She tucked her head under his chin. It was no wonder that poets and writers waxed so rhapsodic about this simple, complex, and glorious feeling.

Love truly was extraordinary.

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