She's tight as my finger pushes inside her. Tight and hot and soaking wet.

"Donovan," she scolds, pressing her thighs together, as if that will keep me out. Her cheeks flush and beneath the thin cotton of her sundress, her nipples turn into hard beads. She glances up at our driver in the front seat, but I think she'd rather find he's looking than that he's not.

Her pink tongue flicks along her bottom lip and her lids have fluttered closed as I rub against the wall of her pussy.

Fuck, I want to suck on that tongue. Then I want to wrench her hands behind her back and shove her to her knees in front of me and make her use that tongue on my cock.

"How am I supposed to finish looking over Tom's report when you distract me like this?" Her hands are shaking as they continue to try to hold the tablet up.

"Do you want me to stop?" I should stop. We only have ten minutes or so before we’ll arrive at Pinnacle House, which is not nearly enough time to satiate either of our needs. I shouldn't have even started this. But I'm antsy. Eager. And it's always hard to keep my hands off her.

"No!" She grows more coy. "I mean, your hand is already down there." She spreads her thighs, making room for me to explore, sighing as I do.

"Put down the iPad," I coax, nibbling along her jawline. "We're on vacation now. Tom has things covered at the office."

She mumbles something that I assume is acquiescence since she drops the tablet and succumbs to my ministrations.

It's different to love her like this.

Near her. In her space.

It's not harder, but it's not easier. It's different.

I can no longer move pieces on a board without feeling the consequence of their shift. Before, I could send her to LA. I could give her a new job. I could deliver her an opportunity. And then I could sit back in my chair with a cigar and a drink and feel good about the decisions I had made. For her.

There was no living in those moments with her. I was an emperor who ruled her, and though I was pleased when she yielded, though it fulfilled me, my love for her wasn't directly attached to her.

But now, there are times she sits next to me, and I can feel her breathe. Or when she's trying to work out a problem, she gets moody and short and her words are brusque and I feel the brunt of her agitation. I never felt those details when I loved her from afar. Then when she figures out her solution, her glow is nuclear. She could solve a small country's energy crisis with that fucking smile.

These are all details I never got to know before. They are precious. The touch of her hair, the smell of her, the feel of her skin. How her body feels when it bucks against mine. The sounds she makes when she laughs, when she cries, when she's mad. When she comes. Her heartbeat as it drums against my fingers when I run them along her neck. The weight of her in my arms. The taste of her mouth, of her cunt. The way she's sometimes fragile and sometimes strong and sometimes both at once.

She rarely surprises me. I learned her in that decade, like a man studying for the final exam that comes before a dream job. She is my dream, and now I'm living. With her.

Which is somehow a whole hell of a lot better than living for her, and that was pretty incredible already.

I manage to bring her to climax just as we turn down the driveway of my parents’ country house. Good. She's relaxed. Soft and affectionate. I adore her like this. She always seems so pure and vulnerable when she's just come, and it makes me want to treat her very, very badly. I want to fuck her in fifty filthy ways.

I'm uncomfortably hard thinking about it.

But it will have to wait.

We’ve visited my parents a few times in the nine months since our first visit together here. She was right when she said I'd never tried with them. Nothing can make up for the relationship we had when I was growing up, but I'm an adult now. I can accept responsibility for my part going forward. I can't say that we've grown close, but we're definitely closer. We talk about mundane things—business, the weather. Scientific advancements. Safe topics. My mother, it turns out, is very fond of Italy, and enjoys talking to Sabrina about her heritage. It's not much. But it's a start.

They are roots that Sabrina and I have begun to plant. It’s exciting. Different. Not what I ever imagined for us, but I’m only looking forward now.

Especially after today.

Today.

I can’t believe it’s happening.

I’m suddenly nervous as the car stops in front of the house. My knee bounces with wound-up energy, and Sabrina notices.

“Make a beeline for the bedroom, and I’ll take care of you,” she whispers as we climb out of the car, thinking my agitation is due to my raging hard-on.

“Let’s go into the front room,” I say, trying to remain vague so I don’t give any of my plans away.

“Oooh. This sounds exciting.” The blush in her cheeks says she’s thinking I have something dirty in mind.

She’s going to be surprised. Pleasantly surprised, I hope.

She walks into the house ahead of me, greeting Edward as she enters, then strolls into the front room. I don’t have to wait for her to notice the crowd outside. The windows are large and the backyard is the main focal point. They’re impossible to miss as they mill about drinking champagne and punch, and talking in the late summer afternoon sun.

“Is there a party going on?” she asks innocently. She scans the scene more closely as I walk up tentatively behind her, and I can feel it when she realizes. Her breath catches audibly. It’s obvious. The chairs are set up in rows facing an archway decorated in flowers. All our friends are in the yard—Weston and Elizabeth, Nathan and his girlfriend, Trish. Some employees from work have been invited. Roxie is here with Frank and Tom Burns has brought his wife. Dylan flew in from London, but, since he’s such a Scrooge about love, and because he can’t stop sneaking glances at Audrey, I gather she’s the real reason he’s here.

And if nothing else gives it away, it’s her presence that must. Sabrina’s sister wouldn’t be here if this was anything else.

My girl—the love of my life—turns to me, visibly trembling. “Donovan…?” Even her voice is shaking.

I’ve already pulled the ring out of my pocket where it’s been burning against my hip the whole ride up. “I’m not asking you,” I say, stepping toward her. “That’s not how we do things.”

Her eyes are tearing up despite the smile that won’t budge from her gorgeous lips. “That’s okay. I have a safe word.”

She does. And that’s why I knew I could do this—could pull off a surprise wedding without ever having talked about marriage and know it wasn’t a huge mistake.

Still, I’ll give her the chance to call this off. “Are you going to use it?”

I hold my breath even as I begin to slip the platinum diamond ring on her finger. I’m not wrong about thinking she wants this—I know I’m not—but I’ve been wrong before.

“No,” she says softly, and I can tell she’s too choked up to say anything else.

“Most men want to hear the word ‘yes’ when they’re slipping a ring on a woman’s finger.” I slide the band past her knuckle and into place, and then bring her hand up my mouth to kiss her palm.

A tear falls down her cheek. “Thank God you aren’t most men.”

“Thank fucking God.” I pull her to me and kiss the hell out of her. There’s a hair technician and a makeup artist waiting upstairs for her as well as several wedding dresses for her to choose from. Audrey will come in to help her sister get ready. Weston brought a tux for me and I’ll need to change as well. Our guests haven’t been waiting long, but they’ll grow antsy soon, so we need to get hustling.

But not right now.

Right now, I’m kissing her. I’m holding her. I’m loving her. These aren’t moments to be rushed. These are the moments I want to live in.

* * *

Weston and Elizabeth have a story of their own. Book one in their duet, , is available for preorder now.