Page 37 of A Week To Wed
“Lincoln. Why are we going to the hayloft?”
He doesn’t answer.
All I can do is be thankful that this man is strong and pray that we don’t plummet to our death. Strong or not, this has to be cumbersome for him, climbing a ladder while carrying one’s bride.
Once we reach the top of the ladder, he sets me down on my feet.
I gasp when I scan my surroundings.
“What did you do now?” I breathe.
He chuckles, “You said you had a fantasy about doing it in a hayloft.”
I turn to him in shock, my palm covering my heart. “You said that’s not a real thing that people do.” My heart is beating as fast as it did the first time Lincoln kissed me.
He shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “What have I been put on this earth for if not to make your wishes come true?”
I blink at him, just staring at this man who came into my life barely a week ago. He was grizzled and short with me, almost ready to send me back home.
I came here to prove something—I don’t know if it was that I’m not a princess or that I can have what I want on my terms. And Lincoln keeps showing up to prove that I might not be a princess but deserve to be treated like one.
Maybe I finally believe it.
The hayloft has been scrubbed clean, furnished, and decorated to look like something that’s anything but a hayloft. There’s a series of oriental rugs covering the planks, and on it is a huge mattress fitted with high thread count sheets, a dozen pillows, and plush blankets. Surrounding the space is a series of posh draperies. From the ceiling, dozens of strings of lights must hang down, illuminating everything with a romantic glow. The only indicator that this is a hayloft is the straw bales stacked behind the mattresses like a makeshift headboard.
“I can’t believe you did all this for me,” I say, turning back to my husband and running my hand up the front of his shirt, tugging his loosened tie to bring him down for a kiss.
I lick into his mouth while my hands roam that broad chest and pull the tails of his shirt out of his trousers.
“Wait.” Lincoln pulls back from the kiss. “Turn around.”
My body thrills, wondering what he might do next. Will he shove my dress up and tell me to hold on to a pole while he ravishes me?
But no. Not at first. All I feel at first is his hands, sweetly working loose the hidden zippers and buttons down my back until the dress begins to slip from my body. He holds it while I step out of it, then commences untying the ribbons at the back of my bodice, slipping the satin fabric through the grommets one by one. Once the bodice falls away, I’m in nothing but my white thong and garters. I run my hands over my stomach. “Ugh, I should have taken that off before I ate anything today.”
I feel his hands run over the dented skin on my back.
“Baby? What’s all this?”
Lincoln turns me to face him. His brow furrows. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
Those creases in his forehead grow deeper. “Lie down for me on the mattress, Maisy.”
“Really, it doesn’t hurt.”
“Lie down and let me take care of you.”
I cannot describe what it is like to have this rugged, rough cowboy oh-so-gently run his hands over the raw edges imprinted on my skin from all the special wedding undergarments. His face creased, his mouth set in concentration, his hands caress so sweetly you’d never know those hands are the same ones that slap my bottom.
“Is it tender? Do you need something? Do you need me to get your moisturizer?” Lincoln asks, sliding his fingertips over each breast’s soft, yielding skin.
I could float for a week on the fact that this cowboy had a single thought about moisturizer. I chuckle and scrape my fingertips through his freshly shorn hair. “I can lotion up later…after we shower.”
All that I’m implying sparks a growl from deep in Lincoln’s chest. But he still doesn’t attack me.
Instead, he’s still caressing, fondling, his face looking both concerned and fascinated.
