Page 28 of Taken in the Tree Farm
"Can we explore today?" I ask. "I want to see everything I ran through. See it properly."
"Of course. That's part of the plan." He shifts, and I feel him hardening against my thigh. "But first..."
"Again?" I laugh. "Luke, I'm sore."
"I'll be gentle." His hand slides down my body, cupping between my legs. "So gentle. Promise."
And despite the soreness and exhaustion, I feel myself respond. Because this is different. This isn't the predator and prey. This isus. Luke and Seraphina Morrison. Newly husband and wife. Partners who trust each other with our darkest desires.
"Show me how gentle you can be, then," I grin, pulling him closer.
He rolls me onto my back, settling between my thighs, and this time when he enters me, it's slow. Tender. His eyes stay locked on mine, and there's no game. Just us.
"I love you," he says, moving with careful rhythm. "God, Seraphina, I love you so much."
"I love you too." My hands cradle his face, no longer bound, free to touch him however I want. "Thank you for this. For giving me exactly what I needed."
"Always." He leans down, kissing me softly. "Whatever you need, however dark it is, I'll give it to you. That's the promise."
We make love slowly, the morning light painting us in gold, the low fire's embers providing just enough warmth. There's no urgency, no desperate chase to the finish. Just connection and our love.
When I come this time, it's gentle. Rolling through me like waves on a shore instead of crashing like a storm. Luke follows moments later, and we stay connected afterward, neither of us ready to separate.
"Best wedding present ever," I smile against his shoulder.
"Just wait until you see what I have planned for Valentine's Day."
I pull back to look at him. "What?"
His smile is mysterious, secretive. "You'll see in February."
"Luke Morrison, don't you dare tease me."
"Too late." He rolls off me and stands, gloriously naked in the morning light, and extends a hand. "Come on. Let's shower, eat breakfast, and then I'll give you the grand tour of your Christmas tree farm."
"My Christmas tree farm?"
"Built it for you, didn't I? Makes it yours."
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, immediately aware of how sore I am. Worth it. Absolutely worth it.
We shower together in the attached bathroom I didn't even see last night—another perfectly planned detail. The hot water soothes aching muscles, and Luke washes me carefully, tenderly, his hands gentle where they were rough only a few hours ago.
"You know," I say as he works shampoo through my hair, "my book club is going to lose their minds when I tell them about this."
"You're going to tell them?"
"Not everything. But enough." I grin. "They're going to be so jealous."
"Good. Let them know what they're missing by not having husbands willing to build elaborate fantasy scenarios."
After the shower, we dress in warm clothes Luke had stashed in another chest—jeans, thick sweaters, winter boots. So different from the sugarplum costume. Looking at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the woman from last night.
We eat breakfast in the workshop—pastries and coffee Luke had kept in an insulated container, still fresh. Then he takes my hand and leads me outside.
The tree farm is breathtaking in daylight.
Rows and rows of evergreens stretch in every direction, branches heavy with fresh snow. The candy cane stakes I ran past in terror now look whimsical and charming. The gingerbread houses are works of art, painted and decorated with incredible detail. The candy sculptures are playful and bright.
