Page 19 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
"Promise," I assure her, turning her face toward mine for a kiss as my fingers continue their relentless rhythm. "And I always keep my promises."
She comes apart moments later, her body shuddering against mine, her cries echoing across the mountain ridge. I hold her through it, whispering praise and promises against her hair as she gradually returns to herself.
As we gather our things for the hike back, the ring catches the sunlight on her finger, sending prisms dancing across the blanket. The sight fills me with a possessive satisfaction I've never experienced before. She's mine now. Not just in the heated moments between us, but publicly. Officially. The knowledge settles something restless in my soul.
Wynonna Crow, soon to be Wynonna Stone, crosses to stand beside me at the edge of the ridge, her hand finding mine as naturally as breathing.
"Our mountain," she says, gaze sweeping across the land below. "Our legacy."
"Ours," I agree, the word carrying the weight of generations past and future. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against my side. "One more day. Then forever."
Her smile is both promise and challenge. "I'm going to hold you to that, Stone."
As we start down the trail toward home, I find myself already counting the hours until tomorrow, when I can finally call her my wife. Twenty-four hours suddenly seems an eternity.
But after waiting a lifetime to find the right woman, I suppose I can manage one more day. Even if she does her best to test my resolve every minute until then.
ten
Wynonna
"Mrs.Stone."
Josiah's voice wraps around the name like a caress as he helps me from his truck, his hand steady and warm against mine. I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face—probably the hundredth one today. Mrs. Stone. Wynonna Stone. After all this time, it's finally real.
"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" I tease, gathering the simple ivory skirt of my wedding dress to keep it from dragging in the dirt driveway.
"Better than nice," he agrees, his eyes never leaving mine as he closes the truck door.
The dress was a lucky find, discovered just yesterday in Silver Ridge's lone second-hand boutique. A vintage lace creation with cap sleeves and a modest neckline that somehow feels both traditional and timeless.
When I stepped out of the back room at the town hall wearing it, Josiah's expression made every penny worth it. I've neverseen that particular look on his face before, like he'd been struck speechless, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
Now, as we approach our cabin that same look returns, intensified by the knowledge of what comes next.
Six days of exquisite torture since he first claimed my body but denied himself the same pleasure. Six days of his hands, his mouth on my body, bringing me to the edge and over it countless times, but always stopping short of what we both truly wanted. Each time he pulled back, each time he denied both of us, the anticipation built higher.
By yesterday, when he proposed on the ridge overlook, I was ready to scream with frustration. And when he told me we could be married the very next day, I nearly cried with relief. Now, as his hand rests possessively at the small of my back, guiding me up the porch steps, anticipation thrums through me like electricity. The underwear beneath my wedding dress is already damp with desire.
"Wait," he says as we reach the door.
Before I can question him, he sweeps me into his arms with startling ease, one arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back. I squeal, throwing my arms around his neck to steady myself.
"Josiah! What are you doing?"
"Carrying my wife across the threshold," he says with such matter-of-fact seriousness that I can't help but laugh. "It's tradition."
The cabin looks different somehow. Not in any tangible way, but in the knowledge that it's truly ours now. Our shared space. Our future.
Josiah sets me gently on my feet in the middle of the living room, but doesn't release me. His hands remain on my waist, thumbs tracing gentle circles through the delicate fabric of mydress. The fire he must have lit before we left for town hall still burns low in the hearth, casting the room in a warm golden glow.
"Happy?" he asks, his gray eyes searching mine.
"Happier than I ever thought possible," I admit, the honest words coming easily. "Are you?"
"More than happy," he says, his voice dropping to that lower register that never fails to send heat pooling low in my belly. "Satisfied. Complete."
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture both tender and possessive. "My wife," he says again, testing the words like they're something precious and new. "Mine."
