Page 113 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

His scent wrapped around the room—magnolia heavy and sweet, cracked black pepper sharp enough to wake every nerve, and underneath it all that aged bourbon warmth that made my pulse stumble.

I had asked him to show me.

Two words.

The bravest ones I had managed in five years.

Now they hung between us, alive and humming.

He shifted closer, one broad hand settling on the quilt near my knee without quite touching.

“You sure about this, Blooming Apricot?” His voice came low, rough at the edges but steady. “We can stop the second you say. I’m not here to rush you through anything.”

My cheeks burned.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of how thin my sleep shirt felt, how the flannel had ridden up my thighs.

“I’m used to… fast,” I admitted, the words slipping out shy and small. “That’s how it always was with them. Efficient. Like checking items off a list before the ceremony started.” I met his eyes, forcing myself to hold the gaze. “But I want to try something different. I want to be open-minded tonight.”

A slow chuckle rolled out of him, warm and delighted, the sound vibrating through the mattress.

“I can do both, sweetheart. Fast when you need it. Slow when you deserve it.” He leaned in until our foreheads nearly touched, his breath brushing my lips. “Right now I’m thinking you deserve to be appreciated. Let me show you what that looks like.”

He didn’t kiss me right away.

Instead, his fingers traced the line of my jaw, feather-light, as if mapping territory he intended to memorize. When his mouth finally found mine it was gentle, exploratory—less a claim and more an invitation.

I sighed into it, tasting red wine and the faint salt of the night air still clinging to his skin. His hand slid to the nape of my neck, thumb stroking slow circles that melted tension I hadn’t realized I still carried.

We stayed like that for long minutes, just kissing, learning the shape of each other’s mouths. When he pulled back his eyes had gone darker, pupils wide. “Touch is my language,” he murmured against my cheek. “Always has been. Words areeasy. Hands tell the truth.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another just below my ear. “Tell me what feels good.”

The words sent heat spiraling low in my belly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet.

His lips trailed down the side of my neck, slow and deliberate.

Each press lingered, warm and open-mouthed, until my skin tingled.

“You ever wonder,” he said between kisses, voice vibrating against my pulse, “if the Mona Lisa knew she’d be admired for centuries? Painted into permanence, acrylics locking her in time. Would she have felt so alone in the world before someone decided her beauty was worth keeping?”

I laughed softly, the sound catching when his teeth grazed my collarbone.

“You’re comparing me to the Mona Lisa while you’re kissing my neck?”

“Seemed fitting.” Another kiss, lower this time, right where my shoulder met my throat. “You’ve been hanging in galleries of other people’s expectations long enough. Time somebody looked at you properly.”

His fingers found the thin string tie at the neckline of my pajama top. He tugged it loose with one gentle pull, the fabric parting like it had been waiting for permission.

Cool air brushed my skin as he eased the top down my shoulders. The bra underneath was simple cotton, nothing special, but his gaze made it feel like silk.

“Aren’t these uncomfortable to wear at night?” he asked, tracing the strap with one fingertip.

I blushed hard, heat flooding my face and chest.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But you’re here.”

“And?” He arched a brow, that playful challenge sparking in his eyes.