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And as I taste the mushroom cap, I’m so glad.
“Uhmagawd, thish is ahg-some,” I mumble with my mouth full.
“Not nearly as awesome as you are, wife,” Carter says, leaning over and placing a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. I feel his tongue flick over my skin there and realize I must’ve had a dab of sauce on my lip. Rather than feel embarrassed, I consider painting myself in the stuff so Carter will kiss and lick me all over.
My dirty thoughts must be written all over my face because Carter smirks, raising one brow. “Whatever you’re thinking . . . yes.”
Later, in the same bed in the same guest room from our first night together at Elena’s house, I don’t need any help with kitchen-made cream. I’ve got plenty for Carter and he’s got plenty for me.
There is one difference from last time, though.
“Shh,” Carter hisses quietly in my ear. “Don’t let anyone hear you. Those are my noises. No one gets those from you but me.”
He’s behind me, my butt lifted high in the air and my chest pressed to the bed. But to whisper in my ear, he leans over me, his front to my back, and I feel caged in the best, sexiest way.
“Ah!” I fight to stay quiet and resort to covering my mouth with my own hand as Carter rolls his hips, driving me wild with his slow thrusts. His fingers grip my hips, digging in. I bet I’ll have little pink and purple marks tomorrow when we go on our honeymoon. Carter probably wants it that way considering he’s already told me how sexy my tiny bikini is on my whiplash curves.
“Good girl. Can you be quiet when you come?”
I can’t risk speaking, so I nod my head furiously, not caring that the pillow is probably knotting my hair. Carter grunts and pulls out of me, leaving me feeling empty without him. He guides me to flip over, pulling my legs over his shoulders so he can get deeper.
“I want to see you.”
Carter resumes his punishing pace, slowly rolling his hips until he hits a spot deep inside me that borders on being too much. I feel like I can’t breathe with him so far inside me, like he’s literally forcing the air out of my lungs.
But I don’t need oxygen. I need Carter.
When I fall apart, I keep my eyes locked on his. The blue orbs promise a future I can’t wait to experience. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Luna.” Carter grits out my name as he comes, and his eyes flutter, but he forces them to stay open, pinning me in place with his gaze.
I never would’ve thought it could be like this. With anyone, but certainly not with Carter Harrington, my brother’s best friend. My husband. But I’m so glad someone wise told me to never say never because you might end up regretting those words.
EPILOGUE
CARTER
The museum is abuzz tonight with people coming in from all over the world for this exhibition opening. The pieces contained in it are special, some not being seen for decades.
Together, the women in charge of tonight walk to the podium. Elena and Luna stand together, holding hands as Maeve introduces the lineup.
“To my left, I’d like to introduce Dr. Alice Standford. She’s been integral in curating the pieces you’ll have the opportunity to see tonight,” she says, indicating the woman in a suit.
“To my right is Luna Harrington. This exhibition is a passion project for her, one she designed with Thomas Cartwright’s heart in mind. Next to her is Mrs. Elena Cartwright, whose generous loan of Mr. Cartwright’s collection made this exhibit possible.”
Yeah, Luna isn’t in charge of the overall exhibit, but she’s not upset about it. Rather, she’s been excited to learn about how to curate, design, and see an exhibition from concept to completion. Dr. Standford has been more than willing to teach Luna too, and they’ve developed a mutual respect for one another.
Luna’s still hopeful Alphena takes off and becomes a major graphic novel, or even an anime show, but she’s quite happy bouncing between both sides of her art love—digital to paintings, and back again.
The four women move to a ceremonial ribbon set up on the stage, with Maeve as the museum director and Elena as the donor getting center placement. Together, they cut the ribbon with huge gold-plated scissors, officially opening the Thomas Cartwright Collection exhibition.
Inside, Luna leads me through the pieces. I still have no idea what she’s talking about most of the time, not able to tell a Rembrandt from a Renoir, but I happily listen to her chatter away about the thing she loves most—art.
Well, other than me.
I hum agreeably as she dissects the subtle nuances between someone’s darker period of painting, having already lost the thread of who she’s talking about because all I can focus on is her. She’s in her element here, with people coming up to shake her hand and ask her thoughts on different pieces. There are no nerves, no scripts, just Luna and her heart, and it shines for everyone to see. What seems like hours later, we walk around a final corner in the exhibition, and Luna gasps.
