Now she’s officially mine.
“Uh, yeah…” my mom says from my tuxedo pocket. “By the way, we’re still here.”
21
S A M
We’re running down the hall to our hotel room and my cheap, poorly fitted shoes are gone. I have no clue when exactly they fell off, but I’m barefoot now and the floor is lava. It’s burning our feet and we both know without saying—only the hotel bed will be safe.
“Hold on,” Ian says, and before I can ask him what he’s doing, he yanks me to the side, crashes us up against the wall, and kisses me, hard. That elevator ride sparked something. We can’t get enough of each other. Good thing he hung up on his parents or I’d never be able to make eye contact with them again.
His hips press forward, pinning me in place. His hand curves around my neck and I’m fisting his tuxedo jacket like I’m trying to rip it in two. I’ve never kissed someone while this worked up. We have to break apart every few seconds to gulp in air or we’ll die, but then we go right back to it. He takes my lower lip in his mouth and bites down. Tingles ZING down my body until they settle right between my legs. I’m warm and turned on and anxious to make it to our room.
Actually, any room.
“Where do you think they keep the ice machine?”
“Why?”
“I think we should just try to make it there. It should be secluded enough.”
“No, we’re almost to the room.”
He says this while nuzzling my neck and fingering the zipper of my dress. Dear god, I think he’s going to strip me down right here.
A door opens down the hall. Voices filter in our direction and we take off running again.
“What’s our room number?”
“419. C’mon!”
And we’re off. Ian is sixteen times my size and has legs that go on for miles, so he does the running and I am mostly just along for the ride. I’m a small teddy bear flailing in the wind behind him.
There’s no danger. The security guards gave up the chase as soon as we left the museum, but I don’t think Ian and I are running from danger anymore; we’re running toward it.
“412!” he shouts, picking up the pace.
“Agh! I have a cramp! Go on without me!”
He doubles back and hooks his arm under my legs so he can swing me up against his chest. He runs the last few yards carrying me against him, and for the first time all day, we’re the stereotypical image of a bride and groom. He’s about to carry me over the threshold.
We reach the room and he holds me with one arm as he extracts the key with the other.
“Mrs. Fletcher, would you do the honors?”
The name chokes me up, but I don’t let him see my reaction. I focus instead on trying to turn that little red light green. It takes 45 years. I’m too impatient.
“Hold it there for longer,” Ian instructs.
“I am!”
Of course I’m not. I tap it, jerk the knob, and curse when we’re still locked out.
“Here, gimme.”
Ian yanks it out of my hand, opens the door, and sweeps me inside. I don’t touch the lava even once. He tosses the key and my rose in the general direction of the desk then hauls me up against the back of the door. My lace wedding dress gets shoved up somewhere near my thighs, not because we’re there yet, but because it’s the only way to wrap my legs around him without tearing the delicate fabric. Still, it tears a little.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Ian says, breaking our kiss to glance down.
“I DON’T CARE—KISS ME!” I jerk his face back to mine and kiss him senseless. His tongue sweeps into my mouth as I tilt my head, and we’re kissing like someone’s about to grab ahold of each of us and drop us on boats sailing to opposite ends of the world.
“I…I think I need water.”
I really do. I’m parched, and if we’re going to do this all night (which we are) I need proper hydration. Ian sets me down on the ground very carefully while also taking hold of my hand. He leads me into the bathroom and fills two glasses with water. We drink them while staring at each other in the mirror. We swallow the last of it and drop them to the counter at the same time. Our reflections breathe heavily, eyes locked. The tile in the bathroom matches his eyes. I feel like I’m surrounded by Ian on all sides.
He steps behind me and drops his hands to my shoulders. It’s a perfect fit with me nestling snugly under his chin. I meet my own reflection and realize how wild I look. My waves have gone mad. My chest and neck and cheeks are flushed. My eyes are bright, wide, and rimmed with coal black mascara. I wore red lipstick to the museum, but it’s been completely kissed away.
“Do you have your cell phone? Mine didn’t go with my dress.”
He nods and tugs it out of his pocket. I hold it up and capture us just like that, with his hands on my shoulders and our mouths beet red. It’s the only photo we’ll have of our wedding day—well, other than the grainy museum footage of us they’ll show on the local news, and probably America’s Most Wanted—so I take three more just in case.
“I can’t believe we actually went through with it,” I say, setting his phone on the counter.
Ian toys with the straps on my dress, brushing his fingers underneath so his knuckles rub against my skin. I shiver and shift my gaze to his reflection. He’s staring down at me, watching his hands at work. He’s concentrating hard, brows furrowed deep in thought.
“How do you feel?” he asks. “Any regrets?”
“None.”
In a flash, his eyes meet mine and any remaining resolve burns away.
He unzips my lace dress in one quick tug and it pools at my feet. I’m wearing a matching bra and panty set in the palest shade of blue—Ian blue. Like my dress, they’re lace. Unlike my dress, they’re brand new. I picked them up yesterday at a lingerie shop. I rubbed the silky fabric between my fingers and imagined Ian looking at me while I wore it. Reality is better. His eyes devour my newly revealed skin: my delicate collarbones, the soft swell of my breasts above the lace cups, my quivering stomach. There’s a tiny bow at the top of my panties, in the very center, and that’s where Ian’s eyes stop for a short eternity.
“Sam…” He exhales, sounding pained.
“I’m not Sam—I’m the Queen of France, remember?”
He reaches one arm around my stomach and tugs me back against him. My butt hits the front of his tuxedo pants and I feel his hard length press against me. His fingers dip beneath my panties and my stomach swoops.
Not so fast. I turn and push him away so I have room to turn and hop up on the counter.
“You have to undress too. Bareness is fairness.”
“Want to do it for me?”
“No. I want to watch.”
He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. If I had a radio handy, I’d tune it to slow jams, something he can sway his hips to. I want a show.
First, he bends down and picks up my wedding dress so he can hang it on the back of the door. I’m about to call him out for stalling, but it’s a sweet gesture, so I let it slide. When that’s done, I lean forward and wait. If this were a cartoon, I’d have a cloth napkin tied around my neck and a knife and fork clenched in my fisted hands.
“You sure you don’t want to move to the bed?”
“Ian.”
He relents, tugs his bowtie loose, tosses it onto the counter beside me. I reach for it and loop it around my neck. Now, I look like I’m all wrapped up, a present just for him. Clearly, he likes the idea, because he pauses and moves forward to kiss me, brushing his hands around the curve of each breast. I tsk and push him back to the task at hand.
“You’ve got a long way to go, buddy boy.”
His shirt goes next, and there is no chest more perfectly toned than Ian’s. He takes his workouts very seriously, and I applaud his efforts. Next, he reaches for his pants.
“No, wait. Come closer,” I beg.
He steps within reach and my hands feast on his chest and shoulders. I pick a favorite part—his biceps—and then immediately change my mind—his abs.
“Are you flexing?”
“No.”