Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I have no choice but to break the kiss, because I have to arch back simply from the weight of the pleasure that is shooting through me.
When I do, his mouth closes over my breast, and his teeth nip at me, the pain sending hot wires of pleasure down through my body to my cunt, to that deep place inside me that he’s touching, thrusting against with every stroke, building a delicious pressure that grows and grows until finally we explode together, sending water flying out of the tub and me collapsing back against Damien’s chest in utter satisfaction and release.
We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.
“You haven’t told me what you’re doing about your dress,” Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.
“I went back inside after Mother left,” I tell him. “It’s not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back.”
“Do you like it?”
I shrug. The truth is that it’s a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it’s not my dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my bare shoulder.
“It’s okay, really. I promise you’ll think I’m stunning.”
“I always do.”
I smile, and I’m still smiling as I start to drift off. I’m just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. “You still awake? I have a brilliant idea.”
“I’m always awake for brilliance,” he says.
“I got the idea from those tweets of us from Raven.”
“Us?”
“Us girls,” I clarify.
“Uh-huh. If this is about inviting the Raven men to the wedding, I’m going to exercise my veto power.”
“Very funny. No, I was thinking about our photographer problem. I know I told you I wanted to make sure we had wedding portraits, but we can sit for a portrait anytime. Besides, I want to remember the day, not a pose. And I was thinking that we could do the same thing all those folks did in tweets.”
“Which is?”
“Candid shots. We give each guest a camera as a wedding souvenir. And then we have them drop the memory cards in a bowl before they leave. We’ll get a ton of fabulous pictures of our friends, us, dancing, eating. They won’t be professional, but they’ll be fun. And they’ll be us. And not the kind of tacky pictures that the paparazzi will snap from the beach. What do you think?”
“I think you’re brilliant,” he says. “Brilliant and beautiful. And I cannot wait to be your husband.”
I smile in contentment and love. “Me, either,” I say, and then, finally, I close my eyes, snuggle closer to Damien, and let sleep tug me under.
Damien is already gone when I wake up on Friday. He’s left word with Grayson that he has some business to attend to before we leave on our honeymoon and that he will either be at the office or looking at various properties with Mr. Black.
I put a waffle in the toaster—which pretty much sums up my culinary skills—and eat it without syrup on the patio while I make some morning phone calls. The first one is to Sylvia, and I explain my plan about the cameras. She thinks it’s brilliant, and swears that she has plenty of time to handle it.
“I’ll make sure they’re delivered by morning. Seriously, Nikki, don’t worry about it. Rest a little today. You deserve it. And you’ll need it for your honeymoon.”
I roll my eyes, but since she’s right, I don’t argue. Instead, I actually do the delegation thing and email her the names of three bands I auditioned, liked, but rejected. It’s not a perfect solution, but it is a low-stress one. She promises to call them, see who’s still available, and to pick the best one.