Emery’s POV
I kiss him first.
It is not gentle. It is desperate and searching, tasting of tears and relief and something that has been building for days. All the words I've held back, all the fear I've swallowed, all the love I was afraid to trust—it pours out of me and into him.
He responds instantly.
His hands grip my waist like he's afraid I might vanish, and he presses me backward until my spine meets the cool stone of the pavilion. The chill seeps through the thin fabric of my sundress, a sharp contrast to the heat building between us.
But I don't care about the cold. All I feel is him—his mouth on mine, his body solid against me, his heart pounding beneath my palm where it presses flat against his chest.
"Emery," he growls against my lips, his voice thick with need. It’s primal, the way he says my name—like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. "God, Emery."
"Don't talk." I pull him closer, fisting the fabric of his shirt until my knuckles ache. "Just feel this. Feel me."
His fingers slide beneath the hem of my sundress, tracing up my thighs with aching slowness. Every inch of skin he touches ignites.
Goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingertips, and my breath catches when his thumbs brush the edges of my underwear—so close to where I need him, but not close enough.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark as midnight, his pupils blown wide with lust. His breathing is ragged, uneven, and I can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against my hip.
"Here?" His voice is rough, strained with want he's barely containing. "Anyone could find us."
I answer by reaching between us and unbuckling his belt with trembling hands. The leather slides free with a whisper of sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet garden.
He groans low in his throat—a sound that vibrates through my entire body and settles between my thighs. "You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything." I work his zipper down, feeling him hard and straining beneath my fingers. The evidence of how much he wants me makes me bolder. "I need you inside me. Right now. Right here."
He groans—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body and settles right between my legs.
"Do you know how unpredictable you are, and how much I want to fuck you every time?" The hesitation vanishes like morning fog burning away, replaced by pure, focused want that steals my breath.
He lifts me in one fluid motion, and my legs wrap around his waist instinctively. My back presses against the rough stone as he positions himself between my thighs, pushing aside the thin fabric that separates us.
I feel his cock there—hot and thick against my center—and my hips roll forward without my permission, seeking more.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice low and commanding.
I do. I watch his face as he enters me slowly, inch by devastating inch. His jaw clenches with restraint. A vein pulses in his temple. His eyes never leave mine, holding my gaze like a lifeline as he fills me completely.
"You're everything," he whispers. "My wife. My heart. The only thing that matters."
I cry out softly at the stretch, at the fullness, at the overwhelming rightness of being connected to him like this. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my cry, my nails digging into his back through his shirt.
He starts moving, slow at first, each thrust deliberate and devastating. But then he fucks me harder, deeper, until I’m gasping for air and clawing at him like an animal.
"I've got you." His voice is ragged now, barely controlled. "I've got you, baby."
The risk of discovery makes every sensation sharper.
Every thrust sends sparks shooting down my spine. Every sound we make feels amplified by the danger—the distant murmur of voices from the club, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the possibility that someone might walk down this path and find us wrapped around each other like we're the only two people in existence.
"Don't stop." I beg, my voice breaking. "Landon, please don't stop."
He drives deeper, harder. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. One hand grips my thigh, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks I'll feel tomorrow. The other braces against the stone beside my head.
"Never," he groans against my skin. "I need you too much. I'll never let you go."
The pressure builds impossibly fast. His hand slides between us, thumb finding the swollen bundle of nerves that makes my vision white out at the edges. He circles, presses, strokes in perfect rhythm with his thrusts—like he's memorized exactly what I need.
"That's it." His breath is hot against my ear. "Come for me. I wanna feel you come on my cock."
I shatter, my entire body convulsing around him as I come harder than I ever have in my damn life. He follows moments later, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills hot and deep, filling me until I’m dripping down my thighs.
We collapse against each other, breathing hard, foreheads pressed close. I feel his heartbeat against my chest, as wild and unsteady as mine. His hands still grip my thighs, holding me up, holding me together, holding me like he'll never let go.
"I love you," he says quietly. The words come out broken, reverent. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
I believe him completely.
Later, when we’ve straightened our clothes and smoothed our hair, we return to the main terrace looking perfectly composed—but I can still feel him leaking out of me, and it’s the hottest thing in the world.