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When I’m done with his chain, I pull back and reach into the box to take out my set. “I still got rings, of course. They symbolize our marriage—that whole never-ending circle thing that most other married couples go for.” Slipping my band onto the necklace, I reach back and work the clip. “But the chains make it so they rest by our hearts. Do you knowwhyit’s tradition to wear a wedding band on your left annular finger?”
Finishing with my necklace, I release it to rest on my chest and stare deep into my husband’s eyes. “Because the Romans believed thevena amoris, translated to ‘the vein of love,’ ran from that finger to our hearts.”
“Is that not…” His eyes flicker with curiosity. “Not true?”
“It’s not. But the belief remains. The ring is worn on our fourth finger, because tradition says it’s a direct connect to the heart.”
“Which you’ve already said isn’t true.”
“But since we’re not going to wear these on our fingers,” I continue, “why not do better than the Romans? We’ll wear them directly over our hearts and create our ownvena amoris.”
“You’re a romantic.”
A deep laugh bursts along my throat. “You’rea romantic, and I married you knowing that. So when I was deciding what to wear to symbolize our marriage, and then later, where to wear it, I knew this would appeal to your romantic side.”
Extending my hand and hooking my finger around his chain, I tug him just a little closer, until his breath scorches along my throat. “I want us to wear these directly above our hearts. Forever. Because it’s romantic, and it means something special. And I swear to god, Archer, if you think it’s dumb—”
“It’s not dumb.” Moving forward swifter than I figured his injured shoulder would allow, he presses his lips over mine, and pushes until I topple backwards to the bed.
He moves quickly, taking his legs from beneath mine and crawling over top so his chain dangles with gravity, and the cold band makes my skin chill, then he takes my lips with his and drags my legs up to circle his hips.
“I love what you did.” Breathing heavier, he nibbles on my bottom lip. “And I think this might be the single most romantic gesture you’ve ever made.” His tongue comes out to tap against mine. “The fact you spent that gesture onmemeans something. It meanseverything. So I’m gonna wear my wedding band every single day for the rest of my life. Because I’m gonna love you every single day for the rest of my life. I’m gonna wear it on the chain you selected, because that’s how the ring will rest on my heart.”
Burying his face against my throat, he bites just hard enough to make me whimper. But then he follows it with a soothing tongue, because he’s incapable of bringing me pain.
“Fuck, Minka. I love you.”
I angle my head back and stare up at the ceiling to give him room to work. To kiss, to bite, to taste and savor. And while he does that, his hardened length crushes my hip, making me moan. “I love you.”
“Thank you for my gift.” Working his way down my chest, he takes my pebbled nipple between his teeth and brings me closer to oblivion. “I’ll never take it off.”
“I’ll wear mine too.” My body turns taut, eager for more as he kisses lower, lower along my torso. “I’ll never take it off.”
He nips the sensitive flesh around my navel, and groans when a squeak of pleasure and pain rockets along my throat.
As my thighs burn and my stomach roils with slick want, I tangle my hands in his hair and grab on in a feeble attempt to control his movements. Push him lower. Pull him higher.
“Ya know what I love more than the taste of coffee in the morning?” Crawling down my body, he settles his shoulders beneath my thighs and glances up with a grin. “You.”
“Oh god.” I cry out when he buries his tongue deep inside my warm core, and whimper as he lifts my legs, bringing my ass off the bed and my pussy closer for his inspection. I yank his hair and writhe under his touch, but I’m lost to a world of sensations. Of feeling. Of doing. “Archer.”
“Taste so good,” he moans. “So fucking good.”
“Archer!”
He swaps his tongue for two thick fingers and sends fireworks exploding in my blood. My release rockets to the edge of oblivion, dragging me with it and demanding I step over the ledge.
“Archer,” I cry with pleasure. With pain. With desperation to have him deep inside me. “God.”
“Come for me, babe.” He takes my clit between his lips and steals the breath from my lungs. “You can come.”
“Knock, knock!” Fletcher’s voice on the other side of my apartment sends me into a tailspin. His heavy hand on my door, then his playful tone, like he knows what he’s interrupted.
Archer bounds off me the way a cat jumps from fright, slamming his back to the wall and grabbing the bedroom door in his fist. His chest, warm from want, heaves as he works to catch his breath, and his muscles bulge from adrenaline as I skitter along the bed and search for my towel.
He slams the door shut so hard that the wood rattles in the frame, then he drops his head back and groans.Bang, he hits his head on the wall.Bang.Bang.“I hate him.”
“He stole my orgasm,” I curl up on my bed and grieve what was so close. “Oh my god, Archer. He stole it.”
