again.
I close my eyes, letting the sensations flow through and around me. It is magical, this feeling. Being so open to Damien. Being so joined with Damien.
Joined
. In sex, in life, in marriage.
A shiver runs through me, and I hear Damien moan as the muscles of my vagina tighten around him, drawing him deeper and deeper into me.
“That’s it, baby. Open your eyes.”
I do, and see him looking not at me, but at the juncture of our bodies. I am watching his face—watching the passion build—and when he moves his gaze and meets my eyes, the storm I see building there nearly does me in. I am breathing hard in time with the waves of pleasure that crash through me. The same pleasure I see on his face, driven by the same heat I see burning in his eyes.
A heat that is melting me.
That is ripping me apart.
That is going to shatter us both, I think, as the climax breaks over me and I arch back, held in place by Damien’s body and hand as my sex clenches tighter and tighter around him, milking him to his own fantastical release.
Reality returns slowly, like stars appearing in a newly dark sky.
For a moment I have to wonder if I have melted, but it is only the limbless feeling that comes with a release born of pure pleasure.
Damien pulls out, and I mourn the loss of our connection, at least until he lies beside me, our arms and legs a tangle, our faces close. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?
“For distracting me. From my nightmare.”
He laughs. “I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”
“Only to me. Like you said, we know each other.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”
I nod, but the truth is that he is wrong. I realize it now. I want this wedding to be a reflection to the world. An outward manifestation of what he and I are together. Beauty and grace and something special and unique. I want it for him. For us. And for the whole damn world.
And so yes, I am nervous.
“I want the wedding to be perfect,” I confess.
“It will be,” he assures me. “How can it be anything else? Because no matter what happens, the wedding will end with you being my wife. And that, my darling Nikki, is the only thing that matters.”
I brush a kiss over his lips, because he’s right. I mean, I know that he’s right.
But I also know that he’s forgetting about the cake and the dress and the band and the photographer and the tents and the tables and the champagne and on and on and on.
Men,
I think, and then snuggle close, reluctantly acknowledging that for tonight, at least, he’s distracted me.
For tonight, I care only about this man who will soon be my husband—and who already is my life.
Chapter Three
I awake to an empty bed and the smell of frying bacon. I roll over to find my phone on the bedside table, then glance at the time. Not yet six.
I groan and fall back among the pillows, but I don’t really want to go back to sleep. What I want is Damien.
I slide out of bed, then grab the tank top and yoga pants I’d left draped across a nearby armchair. I head barefoot out of the bedroom and move the short distance down the hall to the third-floor kitchen.
We’re in Damien’s Malibu house, and the wall of windows that faces the ocean is wide open, the glass panels having been thrust aside to let in the breeze. The smell of the ocean mingles with the scent of breakfast and I breathe deep, realizing that I am content. Whatever demons had poked at me during the night, Damien effectively banished them.
I glance toward the windows and out at the darkened Pacific. Waves glow white in the fading moonlight as they break upon the shore. There is beauty there, and part of me wants to walk to the balcony and stare out at the roiling, frothing water. But the siren call of the ocean is nothing compared to my desire to see Damien, and so I turn away from the windows and head straight to the kitchen. It is larger than the one in the condo I used to share with my best
I close my eyes, letting the sensations flow through and around me. It is magical, this feeling. Being so open to Damien. Being so joined with Damien.
Joined
. In sex, in life, in marriage.
A shiver runs through me, and I hear Damien moan as the muscles of my vagina tighten around him, drawing him deeper and deeper into me.
“That’s it, baby. Open your eyes.”
I do, and see him looking not at me, but at the juncture of our bodies. I am watching his face—watching the passion build—and when he moves his gaze and meets my eyes, the storm I see building there nearly does me in. I am breathing hard in time with the waves of pleasure that crash through me. The same pleasure I see on his face, driven by the same heat I see burning in his eyes.
A heat that is melting me.
That is ripping me apart.
That is going to shatter us both, I think, as the climax breaks over me and I arch back, held in place by Damien’s body and hand as my sex clenches tighter and tighter around him, milking him to his own fantastical release.
Reality returns slowly, like stars appearing in a newly dark sky.
For a moment I have to wonder if I have melted, but it is only the limbless feeling that comes with a release born of pure pleasure.
Damien pulls out, and I mourn the loss of our connection, at least until he lies beside me, our arms and legs a tangle, our faces close. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?
“For distracting me. From my nightmare.”
He laughs. “I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”
“Only to me. Like you said, we know each other.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”
I nod, but the truth is that he is wrong. I realize it now. I want this wedding to be a reflection to the world. An outward manifestation of what he and I are together. Beauty and grace and something special and unique. I want it for him. For us. And for the whole damn world.
And so yes, I am nervous.
“I want the wedding to be perfect,” I confess.
“It will be,” he assures me. “How can it be anything else? Because no matter what happens, the wedding will end with you being my wife. And that, my darling Nikki, is the only thing that matters.”
I brush a kiss over his lips, because he’s right. I mean, I know that he’s right.
But I also know that he’s forgetting about the cake and the dress and the band and the photographer and the tents and the tables and the champagne and on and on and on.
Men,
I think, and then snuggle close, reluctantly acknowledging that for tonight, at least, he’s distracted me.
For tonight, I care only about this man who will soon be my husband—and who already is my life.
Chapter Three
I awake to an empty bed and the smell of frying bacon. I roll over to find my phone on the bedside table, then glance at the time. Not yet six.
I groan and fall back among the pillows, but I don’t really want to go back to sleep. What I want is Damien.
I slide out of bed, then grab the tank top and yoga pants I’d left draped across a nearby armchair. I head barefoot out of the bedroom and move the short distance down the hall to the third-floor kitchen.
We’re in Damien’s Malibu house, and the wall of windows that faces the ocean is wide open, the glass panels having been thrust aside to let in the breeze. The smell of the ocean mingles with the scent of breakfast and I breathe deep, realizing that I am content. Whatever demons had poked at me during the night, Damien effectively banished them.
I glance toward the windows and out at the darkened Pacific. Waves glow white in the fading moonlight as they break upon the shore. There is beauty there, and part of me wants to walk to the balcony and stare out at the roiling, frothing water. But the siren call of the ocean is nothing compared to my desire to see Damien, and so I turn away from the windows and head straight to the kitchen. It is larger than the one in the condo I used to share with my best
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