Page 60 of Fire Me Up
Everyone except Dylan’s parents decided to join us, the whole group spilling out onto the strip and making our way to the club like some kind of parade. I kept my arm firmly around Dylan’swaist, unable to stop touching him, unable to believe this was real.
Inside the club, the music pulsed through us as we claimed a section of the dance floor. Dylan wrapped his arms around my neck, pressing close as we moved together.
“My husband,” he said, testing the word. “My fucking husband.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” I spun him around, pulling his back against my chest as we danced.
The night blurred into a haze of music and laughter and stolen kisses. Hours later, sweaty and exhausted but too happy to care, I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tall guy with perfect teeth and expensive cologne leaned in.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he shouted over the music.
I grinned, wrapping my arm tighter around Dylan and holding up my left hand, the new ring catching the light. “Sorry, just got married. To this guy.”
The man’s face fell, but I barely noticed. I was too busy watching Dylan’s expression transform into pure, unguarded joy.
“That’s right,” Dylan said, grabbing my face and pulling me down for a kiss that left me breathless. “He’s officially mine now.”
I laughed against his lips, knowing I’d been his from the start.
Epilogue
Gael
Something soft but insistent slapped against my cheek, dragging me from the depths of sleep. I groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the warm cocoon of blankets and Dylan’s arms wrapped around my waist. The slapping continued, more determined now, a tiny paw batting at my face with increasing irritation. I cracked one eye open to find Bacon’s orange face inches from mine, his pupils huge in the dim hotel room. Another slap, this one with claws slightly extended—a warning shot.
“I’m up, I’m up,” I muttered, wincing as I shifted. Every muscle in my body protested, deliciously sore from the wedding night’s activities. My ass ached in ways that reminded me of exactly how many times Dylan had claimed me as his husband. His husband. The thought still sent sparks of joy through my chest.
Bacon meowed loudly, his paw now insistently pushing at my nose.
“Fuck off, cat,” I grumbled without heat. “I’m trying to have a romantic morning after.”
Bacon was unmoved by my plea, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to escalate his attack. With a sigh, I carefully extricated myself from Dylan’s arms. My naked body immediately prickled with goosebumps in the over-air-conditioned room. I grabbed the first piece of clothing I found—Dylan’s discarded tank top from the night before—and pulled it on. It barely covered my ass, but it would do for a quick cat-feeding mission.
I padded to the other side of the hotel room where we’d set up Bacon’s travel food and water dishes. I opened several cans, whistling happily as I prepared Bacon’s bowl with his special mix, muttering curses as he weaved between my legs, nearly tripping me. “You’d better be happy with duck and salmon, picky eater.”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“I’m not opening a third can! You’re ruining my morning-after glow,” I told him as he dived face-first into the food. “I should be waking up to soft kisses and whispered declarations of love, not your furry paw slapping me in the face.”
“What the fuck are you doing over there, cooking a full meal?” Dylan asked.
I turned to find him propped up on one elbow, hair sticking up in every direction, sheets pooled around his waist. The morning light filtering through the curtains caught on his new wedding ring, sending a small flash across the wall. My heart squeezed painfully at the sight.
“He likes a specific blend,” I said. “You may as well learn about this now, because he’s quite demanding, and he’s about to be the boss of you.”
“He’s getting dry kibble from me.”
I gasped. “I can’t believe I married you! Dry kibble? Bacon would never!”
“Uh huh. Anyway, let’s get started on those kisses,” Dylan licked his teeth and frowned. “But maybe after we brush our teeth?”
“Sure thing, husband,” I said, loving how the word felt in my mouth.
Dylan’s face split into a grin so bright it rivaled the Vegas sun. “Husband. Holy shit, we actually did it.”
“We did.” I crossed back to the bed, crawling in beside him, not caring that the movement made Bacon look up from his food in judgment. “And now that I’ve fed our demanding overlord, I’m ready for married sex.”
“After teeth brushing,” Dylan reminded me, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “Morning breath plus tequila residue is not sexy.”
