Page 102 of Yours, Now and Always
I cross to her in two strides and slide the zipper down slowly. Halfway down her back, it catches.
I tug gently. Nothing.
“Is it stuck?” she asks.
“Give me a second.” I try again, carefully working the fabric. The zipper moves another inch, then catches again. “What the hell is this thing made of?”
“Spite,” she says, twisting to try and see what I’m doing. “Don’t rip it. Tim will have a breakdown.”
“I’m not going to rip it.” I finally get it free and pull it the rest of the way down, revealing the smooth line of her back. My hands linger there, thumb brushing her spine.
She turns to me, eyes half-lidded. “If you were planning on getting your dick sucked tonight, you might want to lower your expectations.”
I just give her an amused look. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce there was no fucking way my wife could manage a dick tonight.
She shrugs, lazy and sexy all at once. “I’d probably fall asleep halfway through. Or die. And I really don’t want my legacy to be choking on your dick on our wedding night.”
Jesus fucking Christ, I love her.
“Good to know where I rank on the priority list.”
“Oh, you rank.” Her smile’s tired, crooked. “Just not above the nap I’m about to take in your shirt.”
She steps out of the dress and lets it fall to the floor without ceremony. Then, peels off her bra a second later and walks to the closet. My eyes track her like they always do. Hungry and possessive. Amelia doesn’t try to command attention. She just has it.Mine. Every damn time.
She pulls out the old shirt of mine that’s her favorite. It’s soft black cotton. Worn. And apparently, smells like me.
She drags it on and heads back to the bed without a word. Bare legs, messy hair, my shirt swallowing her whole.
And I’m fucking locked on the fact that when she wants comfort, she reaches for me. I never knew that could undo me more than lace ever could.
She’s halfway to the bed when she stops, hand clutching her stomach as she bends forward in pain.
“Fuck me,” she groans. “Honestly, if I survive tonight, I deserve a fucking crown.”
I’m immediately walking her way. “That sounded a hell of a lot like something Tim would say if he was having a period.”
“If Tim had a uterus, he’d have burned down the patriarchy by now,” she mutters. “Do you realize men don’t have to deal with this? You all just...exist. Freely. Uninterrupted. No one’s uterus ever decided to personally ruinyourwedding night.”
“Not that I’m aware of, no” I say, sliding an arm around her waist and guiding her toward the bed.
“This is an injustice,” she continues, letting me lead her but still ranting. “If I die tonight, I want you to avenge me. Start a foundation. The Amelia Black Endowment for Suffering Women Everywhere.”
“I’ll draft the paperwork first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t humor me,” she says, glaring weakly as she climbs into bed. “I’m very serious. It’ll fund research. And snacks. Women need snacks to survive their uterus.”
“Got it. Snacks are essential.”
“They are.” She flops back, limbs spread dramatically. “I deserve cheese. And chocolate. And maybe a war crime against whoever invented period cramps.”
I grab the painkillers and her water from the nightstand, hand them over. “You good to sit up?”
She takes them, swallows, then sinks back down and closes her eyes. “Barely. I should be carried everywhere. I’m a wife now. I’ve earned that.”
“You want me to carry you to the bathroom too? And do your skincare for you?”
She cracks one eye open. “You’re mocking me.”
