I wake up on saturated sheets, feeling like I have been completely and utterly battered in the most amazing fashion.

He told me he loves me, more than loves me.

I have been told that by so many men, so … so many. I have felt it for them, too … until it was gone. I realize now, it was because I wanted it so badly. But when he said it, I felt it, heard it, saw it, and I swear I could even taste and smell it. It was … It is beautiful.

With a smile on my face, I open my eyes to see the entire bed covered in my favorite flowers. Dwarf iris violets in every beautiful shade of purple you can imagine. I hold my hand to my heart that literally feels like it’s going to explode because of the emotional orgasm it’s having.

When I feel something—a necklace around my neck—I look down to see it. But I see something else.

A ring. A huge diamond ring. A sparkling, princess-cut diamond, with an amethyst on each side.

I look around for him, finding a cup of tea beside the bed. Against the tea is a small piece of paper with “ginger tea” written on it.

Nikki.

I sigh. Ginger tea helped settle the nausea yesterday morning.

I look down at the necklace again. The chain is long, and the amethyst matches the color and cut of the ones on my finger, sitting just between my breasts. It’s exquisite.

I grab the tea and take a sip. It’s cold, making me wonder what time it is.

I reach for the note.

Paige,

Your fiancé told Abraham and me that he could and would handle whatever it is you need. I insisted on making you tea, and yes, it was a fight.

Now might not be the right time to say it, but the four of us have never held back, you being the most opinionated and vocal. I love you because of it. So, good luck being engaged and spending your life with a control freak. I think he may be even more so than Abe, and that’s hard to imagine, let alone deal with. It’s a good damn thing that you’re one, too, said with love of course, because if anyone can handle him, it’s you.

Call me when you need me, with whatever … whenever.

XOXO

Nikki

I want to call her and thank her, but I would really like to find the man who just told me and apparently everyone else I am his fiancée more. It’s insane. Even more insane is that I love it, I love him, and I love the fact that this overshadows any childhood fairy tale proposal I could, and have imagined … even though it’s wasn’t a proposal at all.

Leaving the door to the bathroom open, I shower, because as sore as I am, I want more of him … always. When I finish alone, I put on a pair of purple panties and a matching bra, and then I stand in the mirror, blow drying my hair and looking at myself like I always do. But for the first time, I’m not criticizing my belly bulge, or the fact that my arms aren’t perfect, or wanting to reduce the size of my breasts because Vincent, he crowned them with the most beautiful gem. And my thighs are no longer my enemy when I think about how he kisses and rubs them, making me feel sexy, making them feel sexy.

I set down the hair dryer and turn to look at my ass. Instead of getting angry that it isn’t smaller, I think of what Mel said, that he looks at it like he’s angry. I think of the way he licks, touches, and squeezes my ass, and I laugh, thinking I should get a tattoo on the small of my back, one of a red flag like they wave at bulls to entice them to come and get it.

I smile as I rub moisturizer on my skin, and for the first time, growing old isn’t as scary as it used to be as a single woman, almost thirty-three years old. I truly feel like thirty is the new eighteen and wish I had met Vincent at college, he would have been my first, instead of … Nope, he doesn’t get to be here.

As I rub cocoa butter over my pouch and thighs, I think that, as much as growing older doesn’t frighten me, the thought of stretch marks does.

I jerk my head up and look in the mirror, giving myself a dirty look because, as the test said, I’m not pregnant.

I push away the fears I had about it never being possible and the possibility of not being enough for this man, this mix of everything perfect about Marlon Teixeira, Jon Kortajarena, Sean Opry, David Gandy, Matthew Perry, and as Tammy with a Y pointed out, Christian Williams, but so much more.

I feel the heat between my legs begin to build at just the thought of him and wonder if my panties will ever be dry again. Secretly, I hope not.

I pick up my nightshirt that I tossed on the countertop and see a purple velvet jewelry box that I didn’t see when I came in. I grab it so quickly that I would be embarrassed if anyone witnessed it and open it.

Earrings. Dainty platinum chains hold amethysts, and yes, they match. Of course they match.

My emotions again take over. I have never been so happy to not have applied makeup yet as tears, unashamed, uncaring, big, fat, confident, happy tears roll down my cheeks.

He has fought for me, against me, for my family, against my family, my friends, and no one, no man, has ever done that for me. None have been stronger, and sometimes we truly need someone stronger … if even for just a few moments.

I wipe away my tears, swipe on some mascara, lip gloss, and pat a bit of powder on my face. I always do more, but I’ve realized he’s seen me at my worst and still looks at me the same. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to spend another minute without him.

I walk out of the bedroom and see his white button-up hanging on the doorknob. On the floor next to them are a pair of superb purple stilettos that I know he left there for a reason.

After sliding my arms in the shirt and my feet in the shoes, I walk out the bedroom door and see a cup on the floor. Looking down the hall, I see several, almost like a path leading me to him.

I bend and pick it up, reading the script on it.

I love her butt.

I hurry to the next one.

She loves the cook.

But half of the second O has been covered by white out or something, making cook, cock.

The next says: His.

The next, I assume will say hers. It doesn’t. It says his just like the last.

The next says: Best Husband Ever.

The next: Mr Right.

The next: Mrs. Always Right.

The next: Boss Lady.

The next is a white mug, and in purple marker, it says: Except in Bed.

I cover my mouth and laugh while thinking, fine by me.

The next: Be Mine.

The next, again white and written in marker, says: It wasn’t a question.

The next: It is what it is.

And the last: It was always you.

I hurry into Valentina’s old office to get to him and nearly fall when I see the back of another man, clearly one of the Steel brothers.

Vincent’s face drops. “You turn around, Cyrus, and I’m going to hurt you,” he snarls.

“Your fiancée missing some clothes?” Cyrus Steel laughs.

“She’s exactly how I envisioned.” Vincent stands, eyes locked on me, completely dismissing the fact that he has company as he starts walking toward me.

Cyrus laughs again. “I’ll let myself out.”

“Thank you,” Vincent says, black eyes burning … for me.

He’s in a white tee-shirt that fits snug enough to showcase every beautiful ripple underneath it, and dark gray jogging pants that don’t hide that Vincent is hung, so beautifully hung, and his feet are bare. I’ve never seen him quite so casual. It’s a look I may now insist on.

He has me pinned against the wall in the kitchen, eyes never leaving mine, when we hear the front door shut.

“Morning,” I say, trying not to sound too hot and bothered already, but I am.

“It’s afternoon,” he comments, stepping back.

I reach for him, and he takes my hand, leading me to the kitchen island where breakfast sits waiting.

“Have a seat. I’ll get you some more tea and make you some fresh eggs.”

After clearing the plates, he grabs some eggs out of the fridge and sets them on the island. Then he walks to the sink, grabs a whisk, and rinses it off before coming back and standing across from me to begin cracking them.

“Would you like some help?” I ask when he cracks the first one.

“No.” He sets the shell back into the carton then reaches over and pushes the shirt aside, exposing me even more.

I reach up and take the necklace in my hand. “Thank you.”

His lips curl up as he cracks another egg. “You’re welcome.”

I touch the earrings. “For these, too.”

Looking at them, he nods. Then his eyes slowly move down my neck, across my chest, and land on the necklace.

“And this.” I hold up my hand and smile. “It’s beautiful. They all are.”

“We’ll get married the weekend after Labor Day.” He shrugs and looks back down at the bowl where the eggs are floating around. “Your father said that’s when business slows down.”

“You told my dad?”

“I asked Babička”—he looks up and then back down as he cracks another—“and then your father.”

“Before or after he kidnapped you?”

“Before,” he says as he turns and walks to the cabinet to grab a glass. He walks back over and cracks two eggs in it then drinks them down.

Immediately, I am sick to my stomach.

I stand up. “Excuse me for just a minute.”

I walk slowly out of the kitchen—I am in heels after all—but then I kick them off and sprint to the nearest bathroom where I make it to the sink just in time.

He doesn’t say a word, but I can imagine the smug look on his face, that look of I told you so. However, I don’t want to fight with him … so I won’t.

When I’m done throwing up and have finished dry heaving, I rest my head against my arm as I reach up to turn the water on, needing to rinse out the sink.

He beats me to it.

I feel his hand on my back. He begins rubbing it gently with one hand, then turns off the faucet.

Keeping my head on my arm, I rest it on the side and look up at his reflection in the mirror.

I want to laugh at the “angry” look he’s giving my ass, because if I didn’t know the looks Vincent gives when he’s fucking, I might confuse it with angry. This, this is not angry.

Panties, soaked.

How does that even happen after I have just thrown up?

I reach for the toothbrush in plastic wrap—Valentina always has extras—and purposely lean back so my ass brushes against him as I peel the plastic off. I watch him lick his sexy, full, red lips, still looking at my ass. I reach to turn on the faucet and for the toothpaste, squirting it on the brush, and again lean back to brush my ass against him before standing and brushing my teeth.

He now has his hands on my hips, while my back is against his chest. He releases one of my hips and pulls the shirt back again as he looks me over in the mirror. I lean down to spit the paste out of my mouth and rinse with water I cup in my hands.

When I have rinsed well enough, I bend again, this time rubbing against his now hard erection, and open the cabinet below the sink to toss out the toothbrush. Then I reach up and pull at the string of my panties, wiggling as I pull them down and step out of one side.

I stand up and lean against him again. Lifting my arm, I reach back and run my hand up his neck, through his thick, dark waves as I lift my leg and rest my foot on the counter.

I love the way he watches me, with sinful intent in his dark eyes.

He gently pushes me forward and strips me of my shirt—his shirt—before removing the one he’s wearing then sliding his jogging pants down. His cock falls out, hitting me in the ass.

Self-realization at that moment: I may have just came a little.

I reach between my legs and grab him, guiding him to my waiting pussy, and rub it against my slick folds as he reaches around me, pulling me back against him. He then unhooks my front clasp and grabs my tits, squeezing them.

It hurts. Dear God, it hurts. At the same time, I don’t want him to stop. But when I see his reflection as he watches me, his eyes smiling, his touch becomes just a little bit gentler.

I arch my back as I press against him, taking him slowly inside me.

He removes one of his hands from my breast and reaches down, pushing my hand away to begin rubbing my clit as we both watch his cock now slide more easily in and out of me the more wet I become.

When we are both near the edge, I take his hand and put it on my hip as I lean over and grab the counter’s edge. “Vincent.”

He looks away from our connection and into my eyes, moving in and out at a painfully slow pace.

“Fuck me like I’m yours.”

“I’m trying to hold back,” he hisses between his teeth.

I narrow my eyes and tell him, “Don’t you dare.”

He slams into me, and I fall apart within seconds, and so does he. He doesn’t stop, though. He keeps fucking me until he comes … again.

Later, we lie in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, and he tells me that he had Cyrus look into Warren Black, and that there is enough to send him and possibly several others to prison for fraud. He also tells me that he wants to look into it further to see if the others had any clue what they got involved in before he ruined people who he used for his own personal vendetta.

I tell him that I still can’t and won’t believe I am pregnant so I don’t want to talk about it again. He tells me that he read only twenty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage before the first trimester ends, and he’ll be just fine not knowing until then, as long as I take vitamins and stay away from things that could be harmful if I am.

I don’t tell him I’m already being cautious, but I’m sure he knows.

* * *

We spent two days fucking, talking, and boxing up Valentina’s and the girls’ belongings. They won’t be coming back to the states anytime soon, and when they do, they want to find a place together.

While doing the girls’ room, they Facetime him. Watching him with them is almost awe-inspiring. They clearly look to him for answers, are comfortable enough to rib him, and he’s comfortable enough to allow it. When they tell him that they love him at the end of the conversation, and he says it back, they are speechless. Then Francesca starts doing her nervous giggle, and then they all end up laughing, even Vincent.

He tells me he wants them in the wedding. It’s the first we have talked about it. I tell him it may cause problems with my other friends’ children, and he says they can all be in it, but the twins will stand with him, Franco, and Dominic. If not for them, he would never have been able to open up to the idea of trusting. And if not for me, he would never have allowed himself to utter words that still don’t seem strong enough, but he will say them anyway, because he likes the way I look at him when he does.

When the house is packed, we leave in my car, him driving, which is fine by me. There is never a lull in conversation, and we easily and effortlessly talk about everything under the sun.

I tell him I don’t want to be mayor, that planning a wedding and ensuring he makes returns on his investments by doing what I do best and … whatever else comes along will be too much. He understands, but suggests maybe giving the information he got from Cyrus and whatever he finds out on the other business owners to crush Warren on all fronts, and I quote, “Because murdering him would put me in jail for too fucking long, and life is just starting to get good.”

Swoon.

He tells me he has an idea. Immediately, I know he’s talking about Pace.

I tell him my fears about Pace knowing everything I hid, coupled with the fact that Pace has become the biggest manwhore on the entire island and surrounding areas. Add that to my fear that he is drinking too much, and I’m not sure he could handle it or that he would even want it.

He reassures me that I could not have caused any of Warren Black’s behaviors any more than he could have his parents. I got it. I truly got it. And for him to be able to talk me through it, through the pain and guilt I have had since returning home, I love him even more.

But, because he’s Vincent, he pushes and says he thinks we should work on Pace, help him see that he is more than what he cannot control. Then maybe, just maybe, Pace will someday be as happy as we are at this very moment. And we are. We are blissfully happy.

I sleep and talk as he drives and talks, and as we come to the “Welcome to Savannah” sign, he pulls off the highway.

He puts the car in park and turns to me. “Tell me what you think when you see this sign,” he requests sincerely. “Because after your father and I talked, he mentioned that he believed you left to make your mark, and that you never wanted to be like your mother, like Babička; that he knew you weren’t like them, that you had different dreams. He thought maybe this wasn’t enough for you. Tell me, Paige; is this enough?”

“It’s more than enough.”

“Does this feel like a place you want to call home again?”

I nod.

“Are you sure?”

“I never wanted to be a housewife. I wanted to be more.”

“Your dad said you wanted to be a Viking warrior princess.” He laughs. “Said that you used to get in so much trouble for running away, but after the first time, they knew where you’d end up. Do you remember where you ended up, Paige?”

I nod and laugh. “Hiding on one of the boats.”

His eyebrow raises, again sitting high above me, casting down judgment. “But you get seasick.”

It takes me a minute to realize just how odd that is.

“I think you need to give boating another chance.”

“Are you kidding me?” I laugh. “Now isn’t really the time to figure it out.”

“Now meaning when you’re not pregnant?”

I smack him in the arm, and he laughs.

“Fine, just promise me that you’ll give it a shot, when you’re not not having morning sickness.”

I nod. “As long as you promise to not be angry or leave me if I can’t get over it.”

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, then sighs. “Fine.” He points back to the sign. “Is this enough for a woman like you?”

“Honestly, when I was younger, I never thought they had been given the opportunity to realize they could have it all. Until I left, until all those years of feeling like I was missing something. I now realize they did have it all. They had everything they wanted. I also left remembering all the bad things, but this past week, with you, seeing Joe and Caroline, it brought back all that was perfect about the place I called home.”

“And?”

“This is home.” Tears fill my eyes again. “This is our home.”

My words cause him to take in a quick, deep breath and to squeeze my hand instantly.

When he relaxes, he leans forward and kisses my forehead, whispering against it, “Our home. I more than love you, Paige.”

“I more than know.”

“You always will, lady.” He kisses my head again. “Always.”