Page 79 of Stolen Vows

I squeeze her hand and lean in slightly. “Okay?”

A slow breath. Then a small, confident nod. “Okay.”

She holds my gaze for a second longer, and my stomach pulls tight. Something about the way she looks at me, like she trusts me, like she means this. It undoes me a little.

The judge clears his throat, pulling us back to reality.

We move through the ceremony quickly. Too quickly.

The judge’s voice is a monotone hum in the background as we exchange the legal vows, his words devoid of sentiment or flourish. There are no dramatic pauses, no heartfelt speeches. Just the cold precision of legality.

Except none of this feels cold.

Not when Francesca’s voice catches slightly as she repeats the words. Not when my pulse hammers in my ears as I slide her wedding band onto her finger. Not when she looks up at me with something unreadable in her gaze. Something that makes my throat feel too damn tight.

The moment should feel transactional. It should be clean and simple, nothing more than a signature and a formality.

But then the officiant says, “You may kiss the bride.”

And everything shifts.

Francesca tilts her head up, just slightly. I can see the way her breath catches, the way her fingers flex against my wrist. She expects me to keep it light, quick. A formality.

But when my eyes meet hers, something inside me hesitates.

“Ready, sunshine?” I murmur, my voice too low for anyone else to hear.

She grins, the apples of her cheeks pink as he teases, “Ready,husband.”

I close the space between us, my lips pressing to hers in a kiss that’s supposed to be simple. Quick. A peck for show, to seal the vows.

But then her lips part and my brain catches up with the fact that she just called me husband. And it fucks me up a little. I take it as a sign to do something spontaneous. It’s out of character, and if I had even sixty more seconds to consider it, I’d talk myself out of it.

But Francesca Carter brings out the recklessness inside of me.

So in front of my entire family, I palm the sides of her neck, using my thumbs to angle her chin toward me and kiss her like I’m a man starved and she’s my salvation. Like I’ve been wandering the desert for years and her lips are the first taste of water. Like I’m drowning and she’s my only source of air.

I kiss her like she’s my goddamn wife.

Her lips are soft and pliant beneath mine, parting on a surprised gasp. I take advantage, my tongue delving into her mouth to stroke along hers. She tastes like honey and lemons. Like something warm and bright, something that makes my ribs go tight. She’s soft, so goddamn soft, and her breath stutters against my lips.

And I’m so fucked, because I’m already addicted.

I feel her fingers tighten in my suit jacket. The faintest tremble in her frame, so slight I almost miss it. I should pull back. Ishould.

Hoots and hollers erupt behind us, and I pull back, resting my forehead against hers.

She looks up at me through the dark fringe of her lashes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Jesus, Graham. That was?—”

“Perfect.” My thumb grazes the hollow of her throat. And in that moment, something becomes painfully clear.

Francesca Ashburn is my wife. And in a year, I have to let her go.

But as she looks up at me, lips swollen from my kiss, breath shaky against my skin, I realize something that makes my chest go tight.

I don’t know if I can.

I don’t know if I want to.

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