Page 98 of Forbidden French


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Already, I’m scared of tomorrow. What if she changes her mind about me?

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

How can I admit the truth?

I’m not okay; I’m in love.

The excruciating torture of having exactly what you want, knowing it could be lost at any moment…does it get easier?

Will I take her for granted one day? In five years? Ten? When I wake up and prepare to leave for work while she rocks our child, will it all just seem so normal? Will I still contemplate the sheer improbability of getting to live every day alongside Lainey?

All I can do now is grasp her hand tighter and look out the window. It’s only a ten-minute drive back to my house.

There’s no lightness. It’s like we’re both too weighted down with emotion to make small talk. When we arrive, I open her door and take her hand again. We walk up the stoop and I lead her inside.

“Beautiful,” she tells me, looking around the foyer as I continue tugging her deeper inside.

Tours will come. She’ll know every nook and cranny of this house eventually. She’ll know the back door sticks if you don’t lift up slightly as you open it. The kitchen sink takes forever to get hot water, but in the bathrooms, the water gets too hot too fast. She’ll notice the way the morning light streams in through the kitchen window. She’ll cover the walls with art she loves, line the shelves with our shared library. Her favorite coffee mugs will fill the cabinets and her favorite coffee grounds will fill the air.

We’ll argue about what to do with the spare bedrooms.

A nursery. We’ll need at least one.

An office for her if she wants it. Whatever she wants.

She’s happy to let me lead her down the hall, and if I’m moving too fast, she doesn’t complain. This isn’t about getting to the finish line; it’s about the excitement, the heady rush.

At the threshold of my bedroom, I flip on the light and let go of her hand. I walk in, just to the edge of my bed, and turn back.

She stands in the doorframe in her white gown, and I can see what she’ll look like on our wedding day. Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly mine.

She sweeps her gaze around the room, and I wish she’d tell me her thoughts.

It’s just a room. If she doesn’t like it, we’ll change it together.

The only thing I care about is the frame on my bedside table, the one with the white rose.

I watch her go still as she notices it, her expression slowly crumbling as she blinks back tears, her forehead crinkling as she comprehends what it is.

I told her I saved it.

I will always save it.

“It’s all right,” I reassure her.

We can’t save each other this pain. The tightness in my chest is in hers too. Love isn’t always a gift; it’s a burden, and right now, all I want to do is lighten her load. So, I hold my hand out, asking her to trust me.

She comes, and as soon as I have her, I wrap her up so tightly in a bear hug. Her scent fills my lungs, and I wonder if I’ll have to travel with a bottle of her perfume from now on.

The hug changes, a calm reassurance tightening into overwhelming need. Her breath hitches as she lifts her hands up and turns slowly in my arms. She bends her neck forward, and I understand what she wants as I start to tug her zipper down.

Sweet silence accompanies the slow peel of that zipper. My gaze roves over her slender neck, down to her shoulder blades and bare back. I trace my palm along the length of her spine, my pointer finger running along every ridge.

She shivers, and I lean in to kiss the nape of her neck.

I love you. I love every part of you.

Her dress slips off her shoulders, the sheer beaded neckline falling away. My hands work up underneath the material and I start to push it down further. Lainey helps, stepping out of the full skirt, and then it’s just her and the pink silk panties at her hips.

Oh Lainey.

She moves away from me, fearlessly turning back, all that raw emotion plain to see.

This is all I am, she seems to say, this skin and bones, and if you give me love, I’ll give it back to you tenfold.

There’s almost a smile on her lips, but I can’t return it.

I can’t seem to do anything but stare.

She reaches up to her hair, slipping the pins from her intricate up-do. They clink down on the wood floor, the only sound in the room as she lets her long hair loose. The rich dark strands are wavy and messy. I fist my hands, a way of placating myself for the time being. I’ll touch her soon. I’ll touch every fucking inch of her if it takes me a lifetime.

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