We move together like a rolling, endless wave, and while he rocks against me, Farrow clutches my jaw, and I turn my head a bit. We kiss until I have to breathe.

He lets go of my hand, his arm curving around my hip, and he jerks me off in a perfect grip.

I hold the back of his head behind me. Fingers clenching his black hair.

This is a slow-burn fuck. Undoing me at an aching, lagging speed. No single concern tenses me. No fear.

Just vulnerable and bare. He presses his lips to my jaw, to my shoulder, to the ink on my bicep—the heart around our initials. He rakes his teeth over my skin and bites, and my eyes roll.

Lost in love and so much damn feeling.

His lips brush against my ear, and deeply, Farrow whispers, “I love you.”

It takes a while for us to move after we release, and then we hop in the shower and fuck again. Dried off, I change into sweats, and he raises his black drawstring pants to his waist.

We leave the candles lit for a while longer, wax dripping and wicks blackened.

I climb back into bed. Leftover cake fills a container on my lap. Farrow holds a to-go carton of eggs and bacon. We were so busy tonight we barely ate at the reception. But I think I like this better.

I buy a pay-per-view movie, a pretty new action film that neither of us have seen, the volume low, and Farrow scoots closer to me. He eyes my cake. “What is that one?” He points to the slice I’m avoiding.

“Lemon, I think.”

He scoops the largest bite, and I make a face. He’s laughing at me mid-chew. “You concerned about me?”

“More like concerned about your taste buds. Mixing cake and scrambled eggs is disgusting.”

“Eh, I’ve had worse.” He wraps an arm over my shoulder and focuses a bit on the movie. I take it all in. Roses, candles, epic physical and emotional sex, eating leftover wedding cake in bed afterwards, showering together—watching a movie.

Ordinary.

Romantic.

And timeless. It’s always been the little things.

48

FARROW HALE

Nostalgia is a creature that I meet every now and then. It stuns me that a while back, the only thing that had ever really terrified me was being conditioned to love medicine from birth. To be bred to follow a familial legacy of pretentious assholes.

Since then, I’ve been tested a lot more. Met more fears. Been afraid to lose what I love most. Shit, I’m still afraid of that, but that fear is how I know I’m completely, unfailingly in love with Maximoff and the life we’re building together.

Because losing him or our son would be a change that I couldn’t stomach or bear.

I heave two giant cases of water out of the trunk and into my arms. Shirtless, the mountain air cools my inked skin, the morning sun slowly rising above the rocky peaks and rustling maple trees. I’m sure it’ll be scorching hot this afternoon.

It’s still July.

Not even thirty minutes ago, Maximoff and I rolled up to our honeymoon destination, and we could’ve flown anywhere. But after all the international traveling, we decided on a familiar, tranquil place off the beaten path.

The lake house in the Smoky Mountains.

No paparazzi, media, fans or hecklers can bug the shit out of us here.

Carrying water towards the mammoth house, my boots crunch gravel, then soft grass.

Arkham bounds out of the opened front door and vaults off the wooden porch. Tail wagging spastically, he circles my feet.

“Watch it, furball.” I pop a bubblegum bubble.

He barks and hops in zigzagging lines. Cute puppy. Needs more training. Will work on it.

A cardinal hops across the yard, and Arkham scuttles backwards, letting out a meek bark. I’ve never seen a dog who’s more afraid of water and birds than this brown teddy bear.

I grin, continuing my trek.

And a six-foot-two force of nature emerges from the lake house. Dark-brown hair thick and disheveled, sharp jaw clean-shaven, and eyes as tough and green as the surrounding trees, Maximoff has an unbending stride.

And he’s smiling.

Empty-handed, he hikes down the porch stairs to unpack more shit from the car. We come closer, and I give my husband a blatant once-over.

Maximoff pretends not to notice or care, but his smile grows.

We pass each other, and I tell him, “Nice ass.”

“I know.” His voice is pure confidence.

I let out a laugh and glance back at him. “Still cocky.”

He looks over his shoulder at me. And he must have a retort, but his eyes fall to the cases of water in my arms. “You need help?”

Still precious. I’m not even breaking a sweat. Something burrows in my heart, and fuck, I live for these moments with him. I laugh into a wider smile.

Maximoff promptly gives me a middle finger. “I retract my offer, by the way.”

I raise my brows. “But my offer for you stands if you need help with the big ones.”

Tags: Krista Ritchie Like Us Romance
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