Page 24

S antos drives us to my parents’ house, the road stretching ahead in a blur of dark asphalt and city lights fading into the quiet affluence of the Long Island Sound.

There’s a partition between us and the front seat, so I know Santos can’t see or hear anything going on in the back.

But I don’t need an audience.

I can see and hear for myself that my wife is going through something right now.

Aella is nervous.

I can tell by the way she fidgets with her hands, the way she nibbles on her lower lip, the way she keeps stealing glances out the window like she’s bracing for battle.

Maybe nervous isn’t the right word.

Maybe anxious is better.

And fuck— I don’t blame her.

Our families are a lot.

I don’t want her to feel anything but happiness over our marriage, so I place my hand over hers, my thumb stroking gently over her soft skin.

She startles, her pale green eyes snapping to mine, and for a moment— I get lost.

She’s so fucking pretty.

I lift her hand to my lips, press a kiss to the delicate skin of her wrist, lingering just long enough to feel the quickening of her pulse.

“Wanna talk about it?” I murmur.

She exhales, slow, measured.

“About what?” she says, sarcasm lacing the words. “The fact my father is a lunatic and is probably going to swing at you again? Or that my mother is going to start crying because I denied her the chance to see me walk down the aisle? I’m fine. What’s there to be nervous about?”

I smirk.

“If you wanna get married again to make your mother happy, Pixie, I’m ready and willing.”

She blinks, startled, then tilts her head, studying me.

“Really?” she whispers. “You would dress up and stand there and marry me again?”

I don’t hesitate.

“I’d marry you a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you happy.”

Her eyes heat, and she looks at me like I just said something profound.

Like I just changed the course of the entire fucking world.

I didn’t, though.

But I would. For her, I would do anything.

She exhales, shaking her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“So, what do we do if Daddy tries to hit you?”

I chuckle, rubbing slow circles on the back of her hand.

“Do? Nothing. He won’t hit me.”

“You don’t know that.” She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Trust me, my dad is a killer.”

It’s cute—her warning me like she thinks I don’t know exactly who Angel Fury is.

I fight back a grin.

“Pixie, your father can try to kill me, but he won’t.” I squeeze her fingers. “I can take care of myself. Besides, my pop won’t like it.”

I should be focused on her words, on prepping for the storm waiting for us at my parents’ house.

But instead— I’m staring at her.

At the way her skirt clings to her hips, the slits revealing just enough skin to make me crazy.

At the way that tight little V-neck sweater hugs her tits, the buttons just begging to be undone.

I want to hike her skirt up, see what kind of panties she has underneath.

Want to pop open those buttons, lick across her gorgeous tits, take my time worshiping every inch of her.

But I don’t.

Because we’re going to have dinner with our parents.

And I’m trying to be good.

Even though I don’t want to be.

The thing is—I spent years imagining what fucking Aella would feel like.

Years of dreaming about it.

And all of it— every single fantasy I ever had —is nothing compared to the reality of it, of her.

Because now I know.

Now I know exactly how she feels around me.

How she sounds when she’s falling apart beneath me.

How she tastes when I have my mouth on her, how she gasps and moans and begs for more.

And I only want more of her.

Want. Her. All. The. Time.

She takes up every inch of available space inside my head.

Right now, all I’m thinking about is stripping her out of that outfit.

Of pressing her against the car door, of tugging her panties aside, of sliding inside her before we ever reach Long Island.

But I know she’s feeling some big things over there, so I force myself to refocus on her words.

“What has you the most worried?” I ask.

She chews on her lip.

“Well, I mean, my parents are great, but they always treat me like I’m made out of spun glass or something.”

I nod, listening.

“Like when I was a kid, if I had a bad day at school and got a little emotional, they’d try to fix it any way they could. Buy me things. Take me to a show. Tell me I was special. And they never fought in front of me, even when I knew they were having a disagreement.”

I shrug.

“They were just being good parents.”

“I know. And they are.” She sighs. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“You don’t, Pixie. It’s okay to have feelings.”

She smiles a little, but there’s a flicker of something else in her gaze.

Something uncertain.

“A lot of the girls treat me that way, too. Like they think I’m breakable. Or weak. But not you.”

I lift a brow.

“Not me.”

“Why?”

I hold her gaze, my thumb still tracing soft patterns against her hand.

“Because I know you, Aella.”

I brush a stray curl from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

“You're strong. Smart as a whip. And so beautiful, it breaks my heart.”

Her eyes soften, something undeniably tender flashing through them.

She smirks.

“My father might still try to kill you.”

I chuckle, shaking my head.

“He can try.” I grin back at her. “But my dad probably won't like that. And this is his house.”

She laughs, tilting her head back slightly.

Goddamn.

I love that sound.

Love that I can pull her from her anxious thoughts, that I can replace them with something lighter, something that makes her smile.

“You’re probably right. Besides, Mom would be mad.”

I grin, amused by the way she says it so casually, like her mom being mad would be worse than her father attempting murder.

“Yeah? Your mom would get mad if he tried to kill me?”

Aella shrugs, her green eyes twinkling, but there’s a hint of mischief behind them.

“Oh, yeah. She’s always wanted to be a grandma.”

Something tightens in my chest.

“This is her big chance.”

She freezes.

Like she just realized what she said.

Like the words slipped out without her permission, and now she’s backpedaling in her mind, trying to shove them back down.

“Oh, um?—”

She can try, but it’s no good. I heard them.

Fuck me— I felt them.

I should laugh it off, should let her squirm, should give her an out so she doesn’t get too in her own head about it.

But I don’t.

Because my own brain short-circuits at the thought, at the mere idea of Aella carrying my child.

Of her belly, round and full with our baby.

Of her walking around this house—our home—pregnant, glowing, knowing she’s mine in every possible way.

I want it.

I want it so bad I can taste it. The image takes all my breath from my lungs. And makes my cock hard as steel.

I don’t react right away.

I’m too lost in the image.

Too blindsided by how much I fucking love the idea of putting a baby inside her.

So when I finally manage to say something, my voice is lower than normal, thick with something raw, something undeniable.

“Well, uh?—”

I clear my throat, dragging a hand through my hair, trying to get my shit together.

Trying not to just bend her over the seat and start making good on that vision right now.

“We’ll have to do what we can so she gets to be a grandma then.”

Aella inhales sharply.

Her cheeks flush pink, her lips parting slightly, and she looks up at me like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Because she hears it too.

The promise in my voice.

The absolute fucking certainty.

Her breathing picks up, and I can see the panic setting in, the way she’s processing my words, trying to figure out if I’m joking, if I mean it, if she’s allowed to want the same thing.

But I do mean it.

And fuck yes, she’s allowed to want it.

Because I want it.

I want her.

I want a life with her.

A future.

A family.

And if her mom wants to be a grandma?

Then hell, we’d better get started.

I tighten my grip on her hand, my gaze never leaving hers.

She swallows hard, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, and I can’t help but think about how fucking beautiful she’d look pregnant with my kid.

How she’d moan as her body changed, how I’d hold her every night, make sure she knew how goddamn perfect she was to me.

How I’d spend every single day worshipping her, taking care of her, making her feel cherished.

And how, even after, I’d never be able to stop.

Because Aella is mine.

And one day she’s going to give me the family I never knew I needed.

She clears her throat, shifting in her seat like she’s desperately trying to ignore the tension in the air.

Like she’s not about to combust from the weight of my stare.

“You’re—you’re not serious.”

I arch a brow.

“Aren’t I?”

She stares at me, eyes wide, and I can tell she doesn’t know whether she wants me to be joking or not.

But she knows.

She knows.

She just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

So I lean in, close enough to brush my lips against her ear, my voice a deep rasp of pure intent.

“Anytime you’re ready, Pixie.”

Then I kiss the spot right below her ear, where her pulse is thrumming wildly, and sit back.

Watching.

Waiting.

Letting her squirm under the weight of everything that just passed between us.

And fuck if it isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Then she takes a breath, shifts in her seat, like she’s building up to something.

“Sammy?”

Her voice drops to a whisper.

I match her tone.

“What?”

She licks her lips, her fingers tightening slightly around mine.

“Are you sure?”

I know exactly what she’s asking.

I cup her face, run my thumb over her cheek, and kiss her gently.

Once.

Then again.

Then one more time, slower, deeper, letting her feel the truth in my touch.

Then I press one last kiss to her forehead before resting mine against hers.

“I'm sure, Aella.”

I stroke her jaw, my fingers curling beneath her chin, lifting her face to mine.

“Never been so sure about anything in my life.”