“Harder, Wes,” she whispers.
“I thought you were sore.”
She presses fingers to her clit. “Not anymore.”
I give her what she’s asking for—harder thrusts, faster. She groans, loudly, and I clap a hand over her mouth. “Hush, my love.”
“Why? This is our house, we’re home alone.”
I love that she’s taken ownership, that this is our home.
“We’re not actually alone,” I say.
She whimpers, and then, as I continue to crush hard thrusts into her, making her whole body shake, she crams her pillow against her face, bites down on it to muffle her cries as her fingers fly against her sex and I fill her with myself in wild, desperate thrusts.
Her cries become screams, and even the pillow can’t entirely muffle the sound of her screams as she reaches climax, taking me with her.
Finally, after I’ve emptied myself into her and we’ve caught our breath, she twists to face me. “What did you mean, we’re not alone?”
“The surprise,” I say. “It requires some…set up. So there’s people out in the backyard, setting up.”
Her eyes go wide as she catches the implication. “Wes?”
I grin, caress her flushed cheeks. “My love?”
“Are we getting married today?” She asks.
I just grin.
She scrambles to her knees and clutches my hand in both of hers, excitement energizing her. “Wes? Are we?”
It’s too freaking adorable. “I mean. We could. If you wanted to.” I’m teasing her.
She rolls on top of me and pins my hands over my head. “Answer me, Westley Britton!”
I can’t help laughing. “Do you want to?”
She growls in a weird mixture of laughter and frustration. “I asked you to marry me months ago! Quit teasing me and answer my question, you big brute. Are—we—getting—married?” She shakes me to punctuate each word.
I sit up, easily dislodging her, and stand up with her cradled in my arms. I walk over to the doorwall and pull the curtains aside a couple inches, showing her a glimpse of the backyard. Which is bustling with activity.
An archway is being set up, wreathed in white roses and climbing ivy, with rows of white wood folding chairs facing it, cushions being tied to the seat of each chair and a cluster of white roses and baby’s breath fastened to the side of the backrest of the chairs on the aisle. In another area more people are setting up clusters of large round tables, draping them with tablecloths and setting places and arranging centerpieces. There’s a bar, a stage for the band, and a small square of parquet flooring for dancing.
Overseeing it all is Jen, working in coordination with a wedding planner.
Jolene squeals, kicks her feet, and clings to my neck, burying the end of her squeal of excitement in my neck. “Today? How? How could you have arranged this?”
“We’ve been planning it since I put the ring on your finger. I spoke to Dr. Miller and got a pretty firm idea as to when they’d officially, finally release you, and we planned the wedding for today.”
“But just the other day you were talking about me making decisions.”
I grin at her. “A dodge, to throw you off the scent. I knew the only thing that mattered to you was actually getting married, and I wanted you to be able to focus on recovering, not having to deal with the stress of planning a wedding.”
She sniffles, her face still nuzzling my neck. “Oh, Wes.”
“Did I get it right, babe?” It’s hard to tell if she’s happy crying or upset crying.
She nods. “Yes, my love, you got it right.” A hiccup, and a sniffle. “I’m so happy. God, I’m so happy. This is real? This is my life?” She pulls away and searches my eyes. “I really get to marry Westley Freaking Britton? Today?”
“In just a few hours, I get to marry Jolene Freaking Park.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me, sir. I unofficially already changed my last name to Britton.”
“Well, today, you officially become Mrs. Jolene Britton,” I say. “I have the paperwork ready for you to sign.”
She squeals and kicks her feet again, and then abruptly straightens. “Ohmygod. I need to get in the shower.”
I laugh. “You have time, honey. Here’s how I have things planned out, although you can change it if you want. Right now, I have a chef ready to make us a big breakfast. You get cleaned up while that’s being prepared. Then Chloe, whom I’m sure you remember from our date, for glam. There’s also Frederick, your dressmaker. He’s got a rack of dresses crafted to the fit from the last dress he tailored for you. You pick your favorite, and he’ll tweak the fit so it’s perfect.” I carry her to the bed and sit with her on my lap. “That will happen in here, while I get ready in the guest room. Your mom, Grandma, Macy, and Beth will be here to help you pick your dress, so it’ll feel like a real wedding dress-shopping experience.”
“And then we get married, and I finally get to become your wife,” she finishes.
I cup her cheeks in my hands. “And then we get married, and I finally get to become your husband.”
“I know it’s ridiculous, but it feels like I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
“And yet, it’s only been a few months since I showed up at your door unannounced.” I kiss her, quickly, softly.
She shakes her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. “It’s hard to even remember my life without you in it. It’s weird.”
“Same.” I pass a thumb across her cheek. “Now. You go get in the shower. I’ll get Chef Maribel working on our breakfast.”
She grabs my wrist, holds my hand as it rests cupped against her cheek. “Thank you, Wes.”
“For what?” I ask, laughing. “What if I’m doing all this just for myself?”
She sniffs a laugh. “You’re absurd.” Her lips touch mine. “Thank you. For being brave enough to love me. You took a chance on me, and you…you were there through the scariest time in my whole hard, scary life.” Another kiss. “I won’t ever be able to express how grateful I am to you. For you. I can just promise that I’ll spend the rest of our lives together loving you as hard as I possibly can.”
I’m tempted to make a joke about how she already gave me a taste of that last night—and this morning. But she’s being honest and vulnerable, and it’s not the right moment for that humor. Instead, I kiss her back, as softly and tenderly as I know how.
“I love you, Jolene.”
For a moment, we just hold each other, breathing together.
Then, after a while, she pulls away and stands up. Heads into the bathroom and turns on the shower.
I watch her for a moment, greedy for every glimpse of her naked beauty that I can get, but then I have to get things moving.
We have a wedding to get ready for.
Jolene
Breakfast is the last bit of slow, lazy, leisure of the day.
Westley’s first wedding day gift to me is a knee-length silk bathrobe with an embroidered monogram—featuring my married initials. I put that on, and he ushers in Frederick, the dressmaker and tailor who did my dress for our date. Behind him is my family, and there’s a chaotic reunion. I’ve seen them all every day over the past few weeks before my release from the hospital, of course. But we’re all excited, eager, happy. There’s sparkling juice and coffee and a charcuterie board, and Frederick sets up a three-panel, free-standing privacy screen, behind which I try on dress after dress, emerging to varying reactions from the women in my life. For a while, it’s just fun, the processs of trying on dresses and laughing and joking and telling stories.