Page 28

Magnolia Sebring

The reception is still humming—champagne fizzing, candles flickering, floral fragrance heavy in the warm Sydney night—but it’s winding down.

A soft landing after the high.

Alex’s hand finds mine as we make our final rounds, saying goodbye to friends and family.

Smiles are brighter with the blur of wine.

Hugs linger longer. His mother pulls me in tight and whispers something in Samoan that I don’t catch all the words of, but I don’t need to. The kiss to my face says it all.

My cheeks are flushed—not from the champagne but from this beautiful emotion. This joy is overwhelming, a reward for surviving all the storms we didn’t think we could.

Violet catches me by the wrist before we slip away, still holding the bouquet I made sure she caught. Her eyes are dewy, her lipstick faded. “I made sure it’s perfect,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Everything you asked for.”

Gratitude snags in my throat. “Thank you.”

She winks. “Now go ruin that lingerie in the best way possible.”

Outside, our guests form two lines beneath an archway of soft golden lights strung between the courtyard hedges. In their hands: lit sparklers, golden and fizzing, casting warm trails of light into the night.

Violet wraps her arms around Elias and mouths something into his ear, and his smile spreads.

The air crackles as we step into the path together, fingers laced. The sparklers hiss and glow, framing us in firelight and joy.

The photos will be stunning.

Alex leans in, voice low. “Promise me we’ll still light things up this way when we’re old and gray.”

I smile. “Only if you promise to still chase me to the bedroom.”

“Never doubt it.”

Laughter and cheers swell around us. Someone shouts “Kiss her!”—and he does. Quick but charged, a small preview of what’s to come when we get upstairs.

We pause at the edge, kiss once for the crowd—quick but full of heat—and break into a soft jog through the glowing, glistening tunnel of sparkles.

We slip through the side door into the quieter wing of the hotel, where the carpet softens our steps and everything slows to a hush. The private elevator waits. Alex steps in first, turns, and offers me his hand.

“Mrs. Sebring.”

“Such a gentleman,” I say, and he tugs me to him before the doors glide shut.

The elevator hums to life, and I lean into him, voice low, sweetened with memory. “You remember the first time we took this ride?”

His brow lifts, a slow grin curving. “Seems like only yesterday. But also… a lifetime ago.”

“The sexual tension was so thick, you couldn’t cut it with a machete.”

“You stood over there—back against the corner—like I might bite.”

“You were dangerous.”

“And you,” he says, voice dipping, “told me you were going to climb me like a tree.”

I tilt my head, faux-innocent. “I don’t recall saying that.”

“Maybe I’m confusing what you said with what you did.”

I smirk. “Well, you’re half right. I climbed you like a tree.”

He leans in, mouth grazing my ear, breath warm. “I hope you do it again.”

Heat slides through me. “You trying to rush me out of this dress already?”

His hand settles at the small of my back. The tension in him is nearly tangible—the restraint, the hunger held barely at bay.

“I think I’ve been patient all night,” he says. “But the second these elevator doors open, all bets are off.”

My lips curve. “Good. Because I need help out of this dress.” I rise on my toes, brushing my lips against his jaw. “I have something very special for you.”

His eyes darken, mouth tugging into a smile. “You’re gonna ruin me tonight, aren’t you?”

“Planning to,” I whisper.

I laugh—quiet, breathless—my train pooled around our feet. He cups my jaw, tipping my chin up. We don’t kiss. Not yet. We just look at each other, and it’s heavier than any kiss could be. As if this moment in this elevator––hearts racing and hands roaming and skin buzzing—isn’t foreplay enough.

The elevator dings. Doors part.

Daddy’s home.

Alex’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Ready?”

I nod, heart tripping in my chest. “Ready.”

Alex steps forward first and turns to me. Without a word, he bends and sweeps me up into his arms. “Not our house, but I’m keeping with tradition.”

I loop my arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to the line of his jaw. “You’re setting the bar high, Mr. Sebring.”

He carries me across the threshold into the suite. Soft candlelight flickers across every surface, and low music drifts through the space.

The world quiets just for us.

Dim, golden light spills through the penthouse, humming softly with the music from my wedding night playlist I created months ago—strings, slow and sultry, beneath soulful vocals.

Romantic, passionate, intimate.

The scent hits next—gardenia, vanilla, honey, and wine. I inhale it all in one breath, heart tight in my chest.

Alex lowers me to my feet, and I turn, eyes taking in what Violet and the girls have done for us.

There are candles everywhere. Flickering on windowsills, scattered across side tables, tucked into glass votives by the bed.

The bed has been transformed.

Flowers spill across the duvet in gentle waves. Nestled in the center, laid on display, is my white bridal lingerie, so delicate it looks like it was spun from moonlight. White lace, soft and sheer, with satin ribbons tied in bows that beg to be undone.

Beside it—oh God.

At the foot of the bed, nestled on a tray, waits a curated display of indulgence. A black satin blindfold. Two silk restraints wound into soft coils waiting to be wrapped around wrists. A bottle of warming oil.

Meant for skin and sin.

Beside it all, the real temptations: a pair of rose-toned butt plugs in graduated sizes, one crowned with a crystal, another shaped like a delicate bloom.

A sleek vibrating bullet, its promise silent but sure.

And resting in its charger like a weapon of pleasure—a full-sized wand, matte white and built for one thing only.

Pleasure.

I exhale, heat blooming low.

“The girls in my bridal party outdid themselves.”

Alex steps behind me, his mouth hovering near my ear. “I was already the luckiest bastard alive. Now I’m not even sure I’ll survive the night.”

He reaches for the zipper of my dress and pulls slowly, every inch of the descent dragging like a promise. The fabric loosens around me, slipping from my shoulders. I catch it in time and press it to my chest.

“Not yet,” I say, stepping out of reach with a grin. “Waiting is foreplay.”

He groans deep in his throat. “Is that so?”

“Among other things.” I grab the lingerie from the bed and head toward the bathroom. “Give me five.”

Behind me, he calls out, “Take six and I’m coming in after you.”

I glance over my shoulder. “So impatient.”

“I’ve married the most beautiful woman on earth. Of course I’m impatient.”

The bathroom light glows soft and amber. I set the white lace aside and step out of my dress. My fingers shake a little when I slide the lingerie over my skin. It fits with perfection. Barely-there cups. Straps that cross beneath my breasts and curve at my hips, ready for him to remove.

I pause at the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, and my lips are still kiss-swollen. I have the look of a woman in love. Completely. Undeniably.

I add a dab of perfume to the inside of my thigh. Something subtle. Something for him to notice later.

I turn off the light and return to the bedroom for our wedding night.

The tux is long gone. He’s down to black boxer briefs and that look in his eyes—the one that says he plans to ruin me slowly.

The black-light flashlight is in his hand.

“That’s for later.”

He sets it on the nightstand. “I know, but I want it nearby, handy, when I’m ready for it.”

His gaze lifts—and stops. His breath leaves him in one stunned rush. “Jesus, Magnolia.”

I cross the room, moving toward him. “Too much?”

“Never.”

He reaches for me, fingertips brushing my waist, his hands gentle but greedy. “You look like an angel. My angel. ”

I smile up at him, heart pounding. “Then make me fly.”

His skin catches the candlelight, golden and warm, and his eyes… God, his eyes. They’re not teasing anymore. They’re soft. Intense. Worshipful.

No more jokes. No more playful tension.

He drinks me in. His gaze travels over the white lace that clings to my body. I am seen in a way that has nothing to do with what I’m wearing and everything to do with how deeply this man knows me.

“You’re not real,” he whispers, voice thick. “You can’t be.”

My breath catches. “I’m real. And I’m yours.”

He moves toward me. His hands rise to frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheeks. His mouth finds mine—slow, unhurried––and I melt into him.

His warm hands are sure, sliding down my arms, around my waist, until they settle low on my hips. When he lifts me, I gasp—a sound stolen more from wonder than surprise. He carries me to the bed and lays me down slowly and carefully, like placing a prayer at an altar. And then he kneels.

His fingers trace the edges of lace along my thighs. “You’re so beautiful, babe. Every inch.”

I reach for him, threading my hands through his hair. “Come here.”

He stretches out beside me, his body pressed against mine, and kisses me again. This time it’s deeper. Hungrier. But still tender.

His mouth moves along my jaw, down the curve of my throat. “My wife. My heart. My breath.”

When he cups my breast through the lace, his touch is gentle but possessive. I arch into him, silently begging for more.

“You’re really mine now,” he says, voice rough as his fingers slide under the edge of lace, slipping the strap down my shoulder.

I meet his eyes, aching and full. “We have the same last name now. I’m definitely yours.”

“Magnolia Sebring,” he says.

Something shifts in him—something unspoken. Like hearing it said aloud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.