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As we're sneaking off in the farm truck, a voice behind us says, "You better marry that girl, or it ain't proper."
I whirl around and I see Sam and Wren.
"Knock it off, Sam," Wren says, elbowing her groom before turning to me. "I saw you leaving and I just wanted to say thank you. I would never have put a wedding together myself and this was better than anything I could have thought up."
She hugs me, Sam hugs me, and they insist that we drop any memory of mistakes that were made today.
"I'll check back in the morning to make sure the caterers and other vendors have left nothing behind, and I reminded my assistant that you all get to keep the centerpieces if you want, and…"
Sam and Wren but cut me off simultaneously, waving me off to continue sneaking off with Smitty. They shout, "Go!" as I wave goodbye and Smitty helps me into the truck.
I'm not sure what Smitty has planned but when we park down by the creek, away from the prying eyes of the wedding guests, but he's got blankets and pillows, a cooler, and a duffel bag in the bed of his truck.
"I thought we could sleep under the stars, if you're up for it," he says. "I grabbed your overnight bag from your car so you can change into something more comfortable for sleeping in. And I brought wedding cake and grabbed some beers from the open bar."
I'm not much in the mood for beer, though. And the wedding cake can wait until after I've said what I have to say.
"I love you so much, Smitty."
One swift move, and he lifts me into the bed of his truck, kissing me hungrily.
"Marry me."
It's a statement, not a question.
"Are you sure? I'm kind of a handful," I say.
Unexpectedly, he is not in the mood for banter. He puts about one inch of distance between us, just enough to lift the hem of my dress and slide his hand under my slip. "You're not a handful, Ally. This," he says, cupping my heat, "this is the only handful from what I can tell."
I gasp and feel the heat rise in my belly and spread across my skin, even through my industrial-strength wedding undergarments. "Oh."
He rubs me up and down. "Marry me, Ally."
"You don't think it's kind of fast?" I say, a smirk teasing the corner of my mouth. I can't help but tease him. I am loving the keyed up Smitty. He's normally so laid back, but when he's done with banter, he's done.
"Fuck that, lady," he rumbles. He pulls at my body-shaping garment under my dress and grunts. "Guess I can't rip these like I want to."
I bite his bottom lip playfully then say, "Let me help you out." When two people love each other, it's not so uncomfortable shimmying out of one's reinforced underthings. I discard the godawful thing over the side of the pickup bed with a flourish. "There you go—oh!" I barely have the words out before Smitty has my lacy panties ripped off and stuffed into his pocket. I yelp in delight and surprise.
"I need you now. And I need you to tell me the truth. Do you want to marry me?"
The truth is, of course I want to marry this man. And I need to get the words out as soon as possible. His caresses are so gorgeous and have me feeling so dreamily foggy, though, that that I've nearly forgotten what words are.
"Y…yes," I exhale. Taffeta rustles all around, my legs writhing to climb him, begging to get my whole body closer to him.
He lays me down on the blankets in the bed of the truck and nests himself between my legs, pressing into me with his hips.
"Good," he says, his voice uncharacteristically husky. "Because I was going to keep asking until you said yes."
I wrap my legs around him and pull him close, reaching my hands down to help him unfasten and unzip his pants.
"Not so fast, little lady," he whispers, planting a kiss on my lips and trailing a warm, wet path with his mouth down my neck and across my chest. "Help me get this dress off of you."
With a little bit of shimmying and unzipping and awkward giggling, we work my dress off over my head, and he makes quick work of my bra.
He sucks one nipple and then the other into his mouth while I watch his eyes nearly roll back into his head. "I've been staring at these things for a week. You wear too many layers over them, you know that?"
"Five days," I say. "You've only been staring at my melons for five days."
