by Violet Blaze
“Yes,” I say with a long exhale. “Let's.”
Fifteen minutes.
That's how long it takes from start to finish to get married in Trinidad, California. There's no waiting in line, and I had the foresight to actually make an appointment anyway—just in case. Of course, I also did my research on how to apply for a marriage license. No waiting period needed, just the couple present with their IDs and at least one witness, and you can apply and get married on the same day.
The county clerk performs our “ceremony” in his office—this part takes all of five minutes—and then Janae and Dober sign the certificate.
And then … that's it.
It's done.
I, Lyric Lenore Rentz, am now officially married to Royal Rowan McBride.
Who, coincidentally, I didn't know the middle name of until, you know, today.
When we kiss in the clerk's office, I feel like my mouth is aching, like I've slathered it in some of Kailey's buzzing lipgloss, the kind that makes it feel like bees are stinging your lips. We don't use any tongue, like we both know we can't trust ourselves to go that far and not take it all the way.
And then we walk out hand in hand as I wave to the multitude of stunned faces that work in the courthouse—all of whom I know from either high school or from working at the mayor's office. News is going to spread fast. In fact, we should probably get out of here before the media shows up.
Royal and I walk quietly out the front doors and pause under the awning, watching the driving rain pelt his and Dober's bikes.
“And this,” Janae says with a big grin, “is precisely why I brought my car.” She takes a deep breath and turns to me, getting teary-eyed and making me wonder if I'm being crazy for standing there with dry eyes. “Are you sure we can't do anything special? No party? Not get-together?”
“Are you bloody serious?” Royal asks as he puts his big hands on my shoulders and squeezes, giving me goose bumps as I lean into his touch. “I'm taking my new wife home for our wedding night.”
“It's three o'clock,” Janae says and Royal grins as I glance back at him.
“I know. I'm already afraid we might run out of time.”
My cheeks flush and my heart starts to thunder in time to the pounding rain.
“Fine. Go be newlyweds, but … after tomorrow,” Janae starts, and I feel a sickening hole open up in the pit of my stomach. With all of this turmoil about leaving or staying, about me and Royal, about getting married, I'd almost forgotten about the cartel's shipment. I need to check my phone as soon as I can and see if Heather Shelley ever left me a message. “After tomorrow,” Janae repeats as she clears her throat, “tell me I can plan something?”
“If it'll get you to leave us alone, then fine,” Royal says as I turn to look at him again and feel the world slide out from underneath me. I think I'm in shock. Or maybe I'm dreaming? Maybe I'm still sitting in that dreary airport lounge planning my life away?
“Congratulations, you two,” Janae says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek and then raising up on her tiptoes to do the same to Royal. After a quick pause to kiss Dober and run her fingers through his beard, she's gone, disappearing down the steps with an enthusiastic wave. “Have fun!”
We all watch her pile into her car and idle there, waiting for her husband to escort her to wherever it is that they're going. Even my own bodyguard of the day followed me to the airport, waiting there for me to leave on my flight. And then he followed me all the way to Royal's place before coming over here and disappearing as soon as I was pulling up behind his president. The only reason Royal doesn't know about that yet is because I bullied the guy into keeping his mouth shut for a while. Couldn't have him spoiling my romantic surprise.
“Boss, I'm real proud of you. And you deserve some alone time with your bride”—the word bride makes me both terrified and incredibly excited at the same time—“but don't forget that we have serious business in the morning.”
“I'm not a bloody idiot,” Royal snaps, licking his lower lip and giving Dober a look that speaks volumes about how badly he wants us to be alone. “We'll be at the compound first thing in the morning.” We. I suck in a sharp intake of breath and Dober glances my way.
“Make sure he keeps his fucking phone on,” he says and then pauses to smirk, “or better yet, why don't you answer it for him?”
Dober turns and pounds down the steps to his bike as Royal lets out a small growl and I turn to face him, watching the dark expression in his eyes fade as he looks down at me with this sudden breaking tenderness, like the clouds parting for the sun.
“What?” I ask as I listen to Dober's motorcycle roar to life behind me. I decide to take three steps up and then turn again so that I'm the one looking down into Royal's face. “Tell me.”
“I know it's raining and cold as all hell out there, but will you ride with me on my bike?”
“I just married the president of a motorcycle club,” I say, my heart racing like we haven't already screwed each other in every imaginable way, haven't practically been living together, haven't been through enough rough shit to fill a crime thriller. I feel like this is my first time seeing Royal all over again—and also kind of like I'm a virgin again. Ridiculous considering I'm still damp between the thighs from our last encounter.
But God.
I love him so much.
“Of course I'm getting on the damn bike,” I say and Royal's face practically splits in half from his grin. He reaches up and takes my hips, pulling me off the step and into his arms, my mouth crashing into his like it's magnetized, like I couldn't break us apart if I tried. “I love you so much,” I whisper when our mouths part enough for me to finally speak.
“Jesus Christ, Lyric. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I got the bloody deputy mayor to be my wife.” He pauses and his grin gets a little smirky, full of that stupid macho swagger that makes me so crazy. “Did you hear that? You're my wife, Pint-Size. My old lady.”
“We promised each other, didn't we? That Sunday after I crashed the truck. That we'd belong to each other. I guess we were both telling the truth.”
“You scared the shit out of me today,” he whispers, his voice rough and torn up. “I waited all night outside your parents' place, tailed your arse all the way to the airport and then, like the dumb shit that I am, I came here anyway.”
“You made the right choice,” I say, feeling myself get teary-eyed as I think about him sitting outside my dad's house, pining after me. A single tear escapes before I can stop it, glancing away as a young couple walks past and gives my dress and boots … and my husband, a strange look. “Can we go home now?” I manage to choke out and Royal nods, taking my hand and leading me into the rain.
I make a quick stop at my car to grab my purse and phone, shoving it into one of the saddlebags on his bike. Royal slips his leather riding jacket over my shoulders, jams a helmet on my head, and grins huge as I shove my lacy dress up to my hips and swing my leg over the leather seat.
My arms go around his warm, muscular body and I decide I don't give a fudge if it's raining. Hell, I wouldn't care if it was snowing out here. Holding onto my husband's big, muscular, tattooed body like this, I'm basically in heaven.
He smells like leather and motor oil and wet earth and growing things … and he's mine.
Forever and always.
By the time we get back to Royal's place, I'm sopping wet, the white lace of my gown pulling at my body like it weighs a million pounds.
But holy shit.
I've never felt so alive.
Royal parks the bike in the garage, giving us a much appreciated reprieve from the rain as I take the helmet off and shake my hair out to fluff it. Without a word, he climbs off his bike and takes it from me, tossing it onto a nearby worktable and pausing to stare, wet and beautiful and wild looking.
It's quiet in the slick cement surroundings of the garage, the only sounds that of the rain and the distant click of wolf nails from inside the house.
“After this is over,” Royal says, undoubtedly referring to the cartel nonsense, “I'm taking you somewhere special for a right proper honeymoon. Anywhere in the world. Where do you want to go?”
“London,” I answer without hesitation and he laughs, the bright beautiful sound of it echoing around the room.
“London? You want to trade one dreary, rainy city for another? What the hell would you want to go over there for?”
“I want to see where you grew up,” I say simply and Royal gives me a crooked smile, watching as I swing my leg over the bike and turn to face him, still sitting on the seat, my legs not quite managing to reach the ground. “And also, Big Ben.”
“A bloody clock? You want to fly all the way across the Atlantic to see a clock?”
“Okay then, hot stuff,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest with the squeak of wet leather, trying to pretend like my body's only trembling because I'm cold. It has nothing to do with the fact that my ridiculously tall, ridiculously sexy husband is staring down at me like he's about to tear my clothes off. Nope. Nothing to do with that. “Then where do you want to go?”
“Me? Love, as long as I'm with you, I don't give a fuck where we are. Could be a wet cardboard box or a castle under the sea. Doesn't much matter to me either way.”
“And if I were to write down what you just said and show it to all your brothers at the clubhouse, then how would that go down?”
“You cheeky little shit. What a man says to his wife in the confines of their home is sacred.”
“Actually, though, this is your home, isn't it?” I ask as I gesture at the walls around me and realize that holy crap, despite all of my usual preparedness and planning and borderline OCD tendencies, Royal and I have had … zero adult conversations. But … for the first time in my life, that thought doesn't really freak me out. Not even a little bit.
“You don't want to live here? Fine. Let's sell both our places and nab one of those mansions in the woods.” He takes a step closer to me and my body stiffens with anticipation. Our witty little back and forth is just a cover for what we both really want to do right now. And I'll give you one hint: it's an F-word that has nothing to do with fudge.
“Really though,” I say, feeling my cheeks color slightly, “I do want to live here. Your house has character and history and the ocean on its doorstep.” Royal licks his lower lip, crosses his arms over his vest and tilts his head at me. “I only bought mine because it was a good investment property.”
“Oh, Pint-Size,” he says with a long, heavy sigh. “You're talking like you—all proper and businesslike and whatnot—but your voice is trembling.”
Royal moves toward me and leans over, putting a hand on either side of my cold, wet thighs, the lace clinging to my skin like spiderwebs.
“You're nervous. What for?”
“I'm not nervous,” I reply, but my voice comes out in a shaky whisper, cut short by the softest ever brush of lips from Royal Rowan. “I like your middle name, by the way,” I breathe and feel him grin against my mouth as my eyes slide shut.
“Stop trying to change the subject, Lyric Lenore … McBride.”
“Go to hell,” I start to say, but Royal's hot, insistent mouth pushes up hard against me, parts my lips with his tongue and drops this bullshit pretense that we're both okay. Because we're not. We're not okay. We're scared and needy and wanting and desperate for each other.
Tears cling to my lashes as I kiss Royal like it's our last night on earth, my hands sliding up the wet sides of his face, digging into the thick darkness of his hair. In the back of my mind, I realize I should probably call Heather Shelley or Kailey—or both. But right now, I was just want to be alone with my husband.
“I can't believe we got married,” I blurt, fairly certain I should just stop talking but completely unable to stop myself.
“Nobody's quite as shocked as me, love,” he says, sliding one arm under my knees and grabbing my around my shoulders with the other. Royal hauls me up and carries me bride style, making me both smile and cry harder. And Lyric Lenore Rentz, she's not a crier. See. Told you I was losing it. “When I first heard that sharp, powerful voice of yours and turned around to see pint-sized and pretty in a hideous outfit with a headache inducing bun in her hair, fuck was I surprised as hell. And then three and a half weeks later, I marry her ass? You've done something to me, Lyric. I don't know what it is, but hell if I ever want it to stop.”
He kisses me again, delicious and long and sensual, holding me up like he could do it forever.
“Your tattoos,” I whisper against his mouth, “all of them. I need my tongue there, and I need to know what they say.”
“Done,” Royal says with a little growl in his voice, moving over to the garage door, and balancing me against his side with one arm while he unlocks the door with the other.
The wolf dogs greet us enthusiastically, but Royal shoos them away and takes me down the hall into his bedroom, kicking the door closed and laying me on my back on the bed. My heart races as I watch him slide his cut off his muscular shoulders, tossing it onto the chair in the corner before peeling off the soggy wet fabric of his t-shirt.
“I woulda dressed up,” he tells me as the rain pelts the wall of windows behind me, “but I didn't think you were going to show.”
“I almost didn't,” I say as Royal moves over to the bed, hovering above me, one hand on either side of my head, dropping his mouth to mine for another kiss, the stubble on his face making my toes curl. I love the feel and texture of it, tracing my hands up the sides of his face again, fisting my fingers in his hair.
Our mouths slant together, lips and tongue and teeth working, taking the cold wet chill of my body and turning it all to flame.
My hands slide up the slick wet surface of Royal's chest as he pulls away and points a finger to the Raw and Dirty banner across his pecs.
“Raw and dirty,” he says with a cocked brow, even though he knows I already know. Royal straddles me, sitting up on his knees so his weight is on his heels instead of my legs. He draws a smooth line across the waistband of his wet jeans and my thighs squeeze tight against a rush of warmth. “The world has no limits,” he reads, reaching down and grabbing my hand, pressing my palm against the flat hard surface of his tummy. My fingers tease the line of dark hair that leads into his jeans. “Passion in the line of fire,” Royal continues, flipping his right arm over so I can read the tiny cursive crawling up the inside of his forearm.
“That means what?” I ask as I sit up slightly on my elbows and try not to marvel at the thick, hard column of man towering above me. Dear Lord, help me please. My hand drops from Royal's belly to his jeans, popping the button open.
“It means,” he starts, breathing low and long and deep as I sneak my fingers into his boxer briefs. When I find the thick, hard length of him, his skin is warm, almost impossibly hot to the touch and I find myself biting my lower lip. “Passion … ” Royal starts, groaning and licking his lower lip, letting his head fall back, “is always under fire, always being put to the test.”
“You're so poetic today—deep, too.” I smile as I stroke his cock with my hand, slow and easy, but with a firm grip that makes the muscles in his neck and jaw clench. “Keep going.”
“Freedom,” he says, lifting his left arm toward me as I feel my heart stutter and jump. Royal grins and reaches down to take my wrist, carefully pulling my hand from his jeans. “You see, Pint-Size, you and me, we're not so different, now are we?”
Royal slides off the bed, kicks off his boots, and shoves his jeans down, leaving on his black boxer briefs. He moves toward me and grabs my legs, pushing his hands up and underneath the wedding dress until he finds my panties, dragging them down and yanking them over the leather boots.
I scoot away from him, crawling back to the pillows and leaning into them as he follows and lifts my leg with a hand under my knee, kisses his way up my thigh and under the lace, stopping short of my pussy by several inches. He then grabs th
e see-through lace of the dress's bottom half and rends it in half, opening it up all the way to the opaque underskirt that hits above the knee.
“And right here,” Royal says, pointing at a blank spot across his ribs. “Lyric.”
“Oh, please,” I whisper, but my voice is breathy and gasping and goddamn it, but I like his cheesiness. Royal crawls forward and kisses along my collarbone and up the side of my neck, his mouth hot on my earlobe.
“I told you what they all say, now … pretty sure I was promised tongue by my hot young wife.”
“You don't happen to have any tattoos on your cock, do you?”
Royal's face breaks into yet another grin; he might pretend to be a badass asshole MC president, but he can't seem to keep himself from smiling.
“Not yet, but if it'll get your mouth down there more often, I'll cover the fucking thing in 'em.”
“I'll think about it,” I say coolly as he crawls between my legs, shoving my dress up to my bare hips so that I can feel the cool wetness of his boxer briefs, soaked straight through from the rain. Royal presses our hips together so I can feel his hardness through the thin wet fabric. Automatically, my pelvis rises to meet his.
“Fine then. While you're thinking, tongue.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss my way across his chest. I might not be able to kiss his mouth in this position, but I've got great access to his nipples. I tease his pecs with my teeth, biting down gently on his right nipple as he slams our bodies together, pushing me into the mattress with his weight.
My tongue draws hot lines around the roses and skulls and pistols, slides over the words Raw and Dirty, circles the hard pebbled points of Royal's nipples until he's moaning and thrusting as if he's already inside of me.
