Before I could get another word in, he reached under my knees and lifted me up, carrying me like a bride. But instead of going to our bedroom, he headed directly to the couch he’d just got up from, and deposited me gently, kneeling right next to me. Leaning over me, radiant, muscly, shirtless, he whispered, “Give the beard a chance.”
I went to shake my head no, but I mean, come on. It was Ryan.
That beardy eyesore didn’t hide his striking green eyes.
“Give the beard a chance,” he’d said. But I didn’t stand a chance.
Cocking his head to the side, he started to kiss down my neck, and yes, it scratched, but more, it was warm lips and soft tongue, and in the time it took to make the jump to hyperspeed, I was willing to see what it felt like when cunnilingus became beard-a-lingus, and I told him so.
He grinned, and I got fascinated by the way the facial hair moved on his cheeks and chin, in a scientific way only, of course. Now his face moved differently, the way long grass moves on a hill in the wind.
But then I remembered I didn’t like a beard on him.
He didn’t let me get worked up again about his hairy abnormality on his otherwise perfect self, since he went straight to getting me worked up. He pulled, and off went my sandals. With flicks of his long, clever fingers, my khaki shorts came off my long legs. Peach peasant blouse off. Bra off, letting the ample girls loose. And he hooked his thumbs in the elastic of my pale peach cheeky panties and pulled them down my curvy hips.
Apparently I could go from zero to naked in six seconds these days on Ryan’s couch.
He held my feet firmly, spread them apart, and started licking and sucking his way up my legs while I squirmed on the couch.
God, I’d missed him while I’d been gone. I missed the way he took care of me, always. My needs first.
Except this beard thing.
Was this the first sign that once we got married things were going to be different?
I went to open my mouth to have a discussion with him, but his cheeks brushed against my inner thigh—yes, I could feel that bristly fur—and then his long, delicious tongue found my pussy and went to work. With two fingers, he spread me open and gently rolled his tongue around my clit, then widened it and pressed along the side.
Oh God.
Beard? What beard?
I only felt tongue on my sex. No beard. No scratchy. No different.
The part of my brain that worried about things and tried to make everything just so turned off, and instead my thoughts went into this vacant room filled with light and, fuck, give me more now, please.
“I missed you. I missed your arms. I missed your hair. I missed your curves. I missed the fucking sexy smell of your pussy,” he muttered as he ran his nose up and down the entire length of me. He put a finger inside me, curled up, and started pressing on the sensitive part—the rougher part with all the nerve endings—as he continued to go down, giving all of his attention to the bundle of nerves that he knew only he could affect.
Brain wiped. Not pissed about beard any more. Only processing tingling between my legs and blood rushing to my toes—heating them up—my hands scratching at the couch to the side of my hips, my body wiggling as he held me still by one hand on my hipbone.
He looked up, his mouth on me still, finger curled inside, and smiled with his verdant eyes.
Rubbing an extra good place with his fingers, because it had been two weeks since I’d seen him, I launched into orgasm, my brain lost and found again, my body shaking involuntarily. All the tension and nonsense in my brain vaporized and I entered a Zen-like state of nothingness. He kept going through my pulsing, the waves of the climax hitting again and again, and it was all I could do to not scream out in pleasure. All I could do to just let my body surrender to what it naturally did.
I felt better.
After I came to, I looked at him. “My God, Ryan, the things you get me to do.”
He smiled. While my legs were jelly and my brain, mush, he’d pushed his board shorts down to his knees and pushed himself over me, hovering. Positioning his cock—his hard, veiny, lovely cock—right at my entrance, he waited, his arms on either side of my head, gazing down at me.
I could smell myself on him and see the lust in his eyes. “What is it?”
“I missed you so goddamn much, Amelia. I don’t like going two weeks without you.”
“I missed you too.” I wrapped my arms around his ass and pressed him into me, and with a slow movement, he edged in inch by inch, until he fit all the way.
Finally.
“This is where you belong,” I murmured.
“Yeah.” He kissed me, and again, it was a beardy-kiss and smelled like me, but as he had started to move, started to thrust into me—gently, methodically, with a little tick up—I’d lost the ability to give a fuck about beards or anything else. I just wanted him to fuck me, and I wanted it now. I wanted the connection. I wanted to feel whole, the way I always felt whole with him.
As I wrapped my legs around him, he increased the pace and changed the angle. He grabbed a couch pillow and shoved it under my ass so that my back was arched, my head down, and my pelvis concave. As he fucked me, a blond curl dropped over his forehead and his eyes locked on mine.
Thrust, thrust, thrust.
I found myself tightening around him, and he reached down and rubbed my clit to finish. I came again, gasping, moaning, eyes on him. He watched me, satisfied, and it was beautiful in the way that anything pure is beautiful, anything sincere, anything loving.
When I settled down, he thrust five more times. With the sexiest groan, he threw his head back and came. He collapsed down onto me, and I grabbed him low on his waist, holding him close, never letting him go.
After a moment, snuggling his nose into the curve of my neck, he said, “Welcome home.”
And I was home. Breathing against his warm body in the afternoon sunlight, with the waves breaking outside, I was home. I nodded into him and held him tighter.
That night, curled onto his bare chest in our big bed clad with white linens, listening to the sound of the ocean, I played with his curly locks, while he kept an arm around me. He’d just taken a shower after surfing, and he smelled clean, but still like the salty ocean.
Trying to deal with what he’d done, I tentatively ran my fingers through his attempt at a beard. My first lesson in Beard Ownership 101: stroking.
It felt funny. I was used to his smooth, tanned skin, with just a little stubble in the mornings. I’d memorized his freckles and the curves of his face.
Now they were obscured, and I didn’t know what I thought about it anymore. I still didn’t think I liked it. I pressed my nose against his nipple. He scooted against the pillows and tucked me in against him, kissing the top of my head.
Tired, jetlagged, I fell asleep on his broad chest as he combed my dark hair with his fingers.
When I woke up the next morning, my Sun God was on his back, arm thrown back, making a quiet, whiffling snore. In the morning sunlight, I got a good look at his beard.
Yep. Beard. Check. Still there. On his pretty face.
I still didn’t like it. I wanted his face to go back to the way it was. Glancing over at the bathroom, I was tempted to creep in, get his kit, and shave it myself. Just lather my boy up with shaving cream and start while he was sleeping, so he’d have to finish or look ridiculous.
But that wasn’t right.
If I changed my hair, I wouldn’t want him cutting it while I was asleep.
Harrumph.
I looked over him out the window to the Pacific Ocean and watched the blue-green water shine in the morning, still calm. Guess the time difference made me get up extra early.
I padded downstairs, made a cup of coffee—sacrilege since Ryan made the best coffee—and settled on an arm chair looking out at the beach. A group of surfers gathered nearby, sitting on their boards. Ryan had left a stack of mail for me to look at, and I opened cards congratulating us on our nuptials.
Climbing out of my comfy chair cocoon, I went to the garage, with coffee cup in hand. No boxes. I started walking through all the rooms of the house, looking to see where he might have put them.
Nothing. Nowhere. Didn’t see them.
I went to my computer, logged on, and found the confirmation email with the tracking number. But when I clicked on the link, I found out that my beautiful linens and decorations were back ordered.
Delayed.
For three weeks.
No.
NO.
They wouldn’t come in time for our wedding.
I burst into tears. Ugly, heaving, wet, sobbing tears, way before six in the morning.
My wedding was ruined. Not only did my fiancé grow a wonky beard, but also the only thing I cared about—table settings—were not going to come.
Massive guilt washed over me for feeling this way. Here I was in a beach house, with the man of my dreams, crying because I didn’t get imported vases and napkins. Seriously first world problems.
And the shame of how badly I was acting made me feel even worse.
As I sobbed, I became aware of a presence watching me.
Ryan leaned in the doorway wearing black boxer briefs, holding two cups of coffee. He padded over, barefoot, set a cup down next to me, and crouched down next to my chair, concerned.
“Hey,” he said gently. “What’s going on?”
Wiping the snot away, I didn’t even want to look at him because I was being ridiculous and he had that stupid beard.
“Nothing.”
“Babe. You don’t cry like that for nothing. What is it?”
Holding my hands over my face, I muttered into my palms, “It looks like we’re not going to get the table settings in. Our wedding is ruined.”
Silence.
When I moved my hands and looked up, his facial expression registered utter amusement—eyebrow raised, eyes disbelieving, and that damn beard obscuring a twitch in his mouth.
“The table settings? Our wedding is going to be ruined because we don’t have table settings?”
I nodded and sniffled.
“I know you love them, but is this really about table settings, Movie Star?”
I nodded and then thought better of it, so I shook my head. My voice wasn’t louder than a whisper. “My last marriage was an utter failure. I want to get it right this time.”
He set his hands on my knees. “No matter what the tables look like, no matter what you or I wear, no matter who attends, no matter what, it’s going to be alright because I’m marrying you.”
I wanted to believe him, but he was wrong.
Women like weddings. We do weddings. We want them to be pretty and romantic. I wanted it to be pretty and romantic. It’s a special day. And if we have our heart set on something, then goddammit we have our heart set on something, and we’d better get it. That’s it.
It’s not being a bridezilla. It’s about making the day you dreamed about the day you dreamed about.
Ryan called me Movie Star because I looked like Elizabeth Taylor. But decorating was my release from being an attorney. I loved to come home and thumb through glossy magazines. My hobby was to arrange things just so. It soothed me to arrange flowers, find the right china, and use my grandmother’s tablecloths for a lunch with friends.
I started to shake my head, to argue with him, but he kept talking. “We’ll make something fun for the tables. We can go gather seashells and get candles.”
“The shells around here are small and gray and dirty and ugly.”
“They’ll mean more than anything you can buy.”
“But they’re not pretty!” I looked at the beard on his face again and burst into tears. I just wanted to crawl back into bed.
He ran his finger down my nose. “What is this, Amelia? Does it really look that bad? Or is it something else?”
“Nothing is going right. Everything is ruined. I wish you’d shave.”
He tilted his head to the side. “It’s just hair, babe. No big deal.”
I still didn’t like it.
Later that evening, I called Marie and told her about The Wedding Crises.
Instead of agreeing that yes, I was absolutely right to be upset, she laughed. “Dude, beards are hot. I wish Will would grow one. I don’t know what your problem is.” Marie, a therapist, lived about an hour away on a ranch with a cowboy, and I could hear him whistling to call his dog in the background.
“Ryan changed. He changed without telling me. Secretly. While we were gone.” My voice sounded like a whine.
“It’s no big deal, Amelia.”
“But it is.”
“You’re seriously telling me that your wedding is threatened by a beard?”
I kicked at the ground. “Well, if you put it that way, it sounds stupid.”
She adopted her professional tone of voice. “You’re not stupid. You’re getting married and scared, so you’re looking for a reason to freak out.”
“I am?” I stared at my feet on the floor.
“You are.”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s just that I don’t like beards.”
She sighed. “Hipster hater.”
That got a little laugh out of me—the mirthless kind of laugh.
“And I want my goddamn table settings.”
“I’ll be down tomorrow. Hang in there until then.”
The rest of the day, I moped around. I researched online. I avoided Ryan.
By the end of the day, I headed for the cabinet with the tequila. I poured a shot, downed it without lime or salt, and burst into tears.
Ryan came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “What on Earth is going on? You never cry like this.”
“I don’t know,” I sobbed.
“Is this really about the beard?”
I nodded. “You changed it without asking me.”
“I don’t think this is about the beard. I think you’re scared of getting married, and I think you’re scared of change.”
I turned to him, my jaw dropping.
“You’re scared of commitment,” he continued.
My stomach sank into my shoes. No. That wasn’t it. I loved Ryan. I wanted him more than anything. I wasn’t scared. This was the right decision. Why would he think that? “I’m not.”
He tilted his head and looked at me. “Our relationship is gonna change, Movie Star. It’s not always going to be like this. Right now it’s all new and exciting. Like anything brand new, you want to keep it new forever. But it’s not always gonna be like that. We have to grow up, and I want to do it together. I want to do it with you. I want to go through life with you, my beautiful, smart, kind-hearted Amelia.”
I stared at him. And I thought.
I did want everything to be like it was, with me crossing off rules and him making me experience new things. But at some point, we crossed everything off the list. We’d been back to places together, instead of experiencing them together for the first time. Things were becoming routine.
I liked the routine. I didn’t want the scary changes and rule breaking again. Too risky. What if I changed or he changed and we didn’t like each other, let alone love each other? Could I admit those awful truths?
What were we going to do in the middle of our lives? This was the beginning, but I was worried about what came next.
“I’m scared about the wedding,” I whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back. “We’re taking a risk. But I want to do it with you.”
“I’m scared about the future.”
He lifted up my chin. “We’re going to change. It’s okay.”
“I’m going to commit to you forever and ever, and right before we do that, you change?”
“I did. But this is no big deal, Amelia.”
I asked the scariest question of them all. “What if you change more? What if after
we make a legal binding contract to care for each other, we want out of it later because it wasn’t what we thought?”
“I’m definitely going to change. So are you. No getting around it.”
“But we might change in different ways, and we might not get along.”
He gave me a hug. “That’s really what you’re scared of.”
I nodded. “We’re taking a risk.”
“I think that’s what marriage is. Taking a chance on someone, knowing that they are going to change. You’re a real human being. We’re not going to stay the same forever.”
“So you think me not liking the beard means that I don’t want you to change?”
He shrugged and stroked his beard. Beard Ownership 102, now. “Yeah, that’s what I think. If it freaks you out that much, I’ll shave it off. You matter more.”
I looked at him, let out a breath, and took a deep one. I loved Ryan. I would take the plunge with him no matter what. Even with nasty facial hair. “No. Leave it.”
He looked surprised. “Really?”
I nodded. “Really. It’s kind of growing on me.” I reached around to hug him, and he snuggled his nose into the top of my hair.
“It’s growing on me,” he said with a wink.
I leaned back and groaned. Still, as usual, my surfer calmed me.
While I was in his arms, however, something came to me. I had to ask, but I was scared to death of the answer. Neuroses don’t go away in a day. “Do you still want to marry me?”
“More than anything.” He smiled his Sun God smile, and I felt bathed in his warmth again.
“I feel so insecure sometimes.”
“Babe. We’re both scared. I know I’ve wanted you my whole life. Ever since I saw you in high school. But does that mean I’m not scared? No. What if something happens to you? This is a chance we are both taking together. But you have to take chances. You don’t live otherwise.”
I nodded. He was right.
With a grin on his face, hidden by that beard, he got down on one knee before me. Solemnly. In board shorts and a Walden surf t-shirt. Barefoot. “Amelia. Will you marry me? Be my wife. Love me forever.”
