A chime signaled we’d reached our floor and the doors opened. I’d barely taken a step forward when he reached for me, swooping me up in his arms and laughing as my surprised screech rang up and down the empty hall.
“You’re carrying me?”
“I’m carrying you.”
I looped my arms around his neck. “I thought you weren’t a fan of traditions.”
I could hear his footsteps against the plush carpet, but couldn’t seem to drag my eyes away from his face. I was fascinated by his mouth and his lashes and the way my fingers slipped so easily through the back of his hair.
“Some traditions must be based on research,” he said, smiling down at me. “Everyone who has ever done this before me surely discovered how heroic it feels.”
I gazed up at him. “I’m not tiny, and there are about forty pounds of pearls on this dress. Look at you: you’re not even winded. I am impressed.”
Shrugging with me in his arms, he added more quietly, “Also, your tits look amazing all squeezed together like that. It’s win-win.”
I barked out a surprised laugh. “The truth comes out.”
Will stopped in front of a room, somehow managing to slip the keycard into the lock and turn the handle, letting the door swing open in front of us.
“Well, Mrs. Sumner-Bergstrom, here we are.” He paused, pressing a soft kiss against my mouth to mark the moment, and then carried me over the threshold.
It hit me all over again: We were married. Will was my husband—my husband.
For the past three months, no matter how busy our lives were—at work, at home, with friends—some wedding-related question would manage to work its way into every conversation. I was glad I’d taken everyone’s advice, reminding myself that it was just a day, and so much of it would go by in a blur. I didn’t remember much about the flowers or place settings at the reception, or even what we ate. But I did remember Will’s face when I saw him for the first time at the end of that aisle, waiting for me. I remembered how happy he looked as he watched me come toward him, how every bit of self-consciousness I felt about my dress or my boobs or being in front of all these people just slipped away when I saw his eyes roam the length of my body. I would have raced down the aisle naked if he’d asked me to. His voice shook when he said his vows, and I’ll never forget the tears in his eyes when he said I do.
“I’m ready to have sex now,” I told him, unwilling to wait another minute.
Will smiled and shook his head, taking the final steps that would lead us into the suite’s master bedroom. “Life will never be boring with you around, Plum.”
I’m sure our room was gorgeous—plush carpet, wide windows, and beautiful furniture, just like the rest of the hotel—but I never saw any of it, unable to pull my lips from the side of his neck while he lowered me to the bed, my dress crinkling between us.
Will reached over and switched on the crystal lamp next to the bed, and there he was, hovering above me.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”
I was so ready for this wedding night . . . but he wasn’t moving. I waited, blinking off to the side before peering back up at him again. “Everything okay?”
“Everything is fucking perfect.”
Another moment passed. I took in his soft smile, the way his eyes moved over every part of my face before focusing on my mouth. “Then . . . what are you doing?”
“Looking at you. Looking at my wife.”
“That’s not really getting us any closer to having sex.”
Will laughed and shook his head. “We’re married, Hanna,” he said, and it sounded like he was still marveling at it, too . . .
“Say, I was wondering what you were doing in this tuxedo.” I wrapped his tie around my fist and tugged on it, bringing him closer. “Unless you’re just a really, really snappy dresser. But then, you have this ring on your finger, too . . .”
“I want to be sweet with you,” he said, palm curving over my shoulder and slipping down between my breasts. There was a weight there, a pressure to his touch I could feel even through the thin layers of fabric. Despite the softness in his voice, it screamed of possession, of lust. “I feel like I should be sweet tonight.”
The delicate lamp threw shadows across his face and I pulled on his tie again, stopping when his mouth was just above mine. “You’re always sweet to me, Will. You make me feel loved and respected and cherished, every single day. I love that side of you.”
His smile widened, and I could hear the edge of laughter in his voice when he spoke into the darkness.
“I’m sensing a big but in there somewhere, Plum.”
“But we have eight hours before we need to be up.”
His brows lifted in amusement. “Eight whole hours.”
“That’s right. So you can be sweet the second time.”
It was all he needed to hear. Watching Will lose his restraint was like watching a fuse burn down. He lunged forward and any space that separated us was gone just like that. The heat of his body radiated along mine and I groaned, pushing his jacket off.
“Clothes,” I mumbled between kisses, between the taste of his tongue and the sharp bite of his teeth. “Off.” I pulled on his shirt, fingers fumbling with buttons and his tie, in search of skin.
Will nodded, helping me free him of his shirt before sitting me up just enough to unzip my dress and pull it down. I wanted to tell him to be careful, to remind him how many hours I endured shopping with my mother for this dress, that the fabric was delicate and could easily tear. But I’d never cared less about clothes in my life. I suddenly felt frantic, like when school and work got to be too much and I thought my muscles might burst from my skin if I didn’t get out and run, just move.
It took some maneuvering on both our parts, but with a final tug Will managed to pull the fabric over my hips and down my legs. I bolted up onto my knees, lips seeking skin and greedy hands trying to drag him back down to me.
“I love you so much,” I said between kisses. “Today was so perfect, this . . . tonight . . . all of it. You.”
I could feel his smile against my mouth, our kiss clumsy with teeth and whispered words and so much happiness that we were finally here, together.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he said, a gentling hand on either side of my face as he held me.
“Since the night you came to my apartment?” I asked, but he was already shaking his head.
“Earlier. Maybe since that day on the trail? In your brother’s baggy sweatshirt and—”
“And my terrible bra?” I said, laughing against his jaw. “It will never stop being funny that you had Chloe take me shopping. You must have been mortified.”
“You had to keep holding your boobs and it made me so sad for them. I wanted to offer to hold them for you—offer my support—apologize for how mean you were being to them,” he said, swiping a thumb over my nipple.
“God, I would have lost my mind,” I said, my giggle turning into a soft moan as he increased the pressure. There was one kiss, then a second, one to each corner of my mouth before he tilted my head, thumb pressed to the bottom of my jaw.
He moved lower and I heard him swear when he realized what I was wearing, his finger coming up to touch the delicate lace barely covering my breasts.
“Chloe,” I said, no further explanation needed.
He swallowed and reached up to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm, then took a long, heavy breath, eyes never leaving where my breasts were barely restrained by the soft material. “Remind me of this when her birthday comes around,” he said.
“I’m basically spilling out of it,” I told him.
“Exactly my point,” he said, gently coaxing me back and pressing me to the bed. My legs fell open and he moved to his knees, hips between my parted thighs and his silhouette framed by the large windows. I looked up at him, struck in that moment by how much bigger he was than me, the way his wide shoulders and broad
back were enough to blot out the city lights behind him.
I reached up, feeling the shape of him still in his pants, and squeezed, a little too tight, just the way he liked it.
With a grunt he lowered his head, leaning to lick at the hollow of my throat. The ceiling blurred and I closed my eyes, lost to the sensation of his mouth and teeth, the scrape of his chin, the pressure where his fingers worked to make room for himself inside my body.
I gasped, arching my spine against the bed and dragging my nails down his shoulder and across his back, hard, but not too hard. Not sure if he was ready yet. Will liked for it to hurt sometimes, asked for it. It was that thing that pushed him over the edge when he was so close he couldn’t catch his breath or think or even ask for what he wanted. He only knew he wanted more.
Will must have seen the question in my eyes because he swallowed and took a shaky breath. “Make it hurt,” he said.
I twisted my fingers in his hair, desperate and deep and just rough enough that his hips shot forward in surprise.
I rolled Will to his back and lifted my leg to straddle his hips. In the soft light I registered the surprise on his face and the way he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip when I reached up and unfastened my bra.
Cool air spilled across my breasts and my nipples hardened. Will freed himself of his pants and maneuvered my panties down and off my body. His skin was warm beneath me, his thighs firm and covered in soft hair. His hard cock rested against his stomach.
I pushed up onto my knees and positioned him where I wanted, smoothing him against me, teasing him.
“Do you want this?” I asked.
He nodded against the pillow, thumbs pressed into my hips, fingers gripping my ass. I lowered myself
slowly
slowly
until he was fully inside.
Will groaned helplessly, thrusting up into me while I moved over him. His hands reached to cup my breasts and lifted, squeezed them together before he sat up and took a nipple into his mouth.
“Will.”
He moaned around me, sucking harder before releasing it, his tongue drawing circles around the tip. He was so deep, and all I could think about or feel or hear was him. His stomach was slick with sweat where it moved against mine, his thighs firm against my ass. His fingers where he held me down and lifted me up slipped as he held me tighter, tried to move us faster.
With a groan, he flipped us over, throwing me to my back, his head down and hair fallen over his forehead. He watched where he moved inside of me, in and out. Harder. Faster.
An eternity, but never long enough.
“Fuck, Plum,” he said, kissing me until it was too much and my mouth was practically raw. With one hand he lifted my leg and pushed it to my chest.
“Jesus fuck,” he said, pistoning his hips faster now, each thrust pushing against something inside me that had me seeing stars.
I reached up, fingers grappling for the headboard, needing something to hold on to. Each snap of his hips pushed me further up the mattress and deeper inside that place in my head where static roared and the growing tension inside my lower belly—the friction and heat between my legs—became impossible to ignore.
“Will,” I breathed, gasping against his open mouth. I was going to come and I needed to come with him, feel him coming inside me and then again and again, on my breasts and my stomach, my lips.
Will reached for the edge of the mattress and pushed my leg farther into my chest and that was it. Heat exploded between my legs and ricocheted through every part of me. My toes curled, and I was coming so hard I couldn’t cry out or even say his name. He rocked into me one last time, so deep it took the breath from my lungs and I could feel him, muscles tense as he came inside me.
Will fell back to the bed and pulled me with him, cradling me into his side. “Holy shit.”
I blinked up at the ceiling, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. My bones were rubber; air cooled my fevered skin. I looked over to Will before reaching for the clock on the side of the bed. Six hours, twenty-two minutes to go. Not bad.
Sitting up, I filled two glasses from a bottle of chilled water on the bedside table, emptied mine in a single long draft, and climbed up onto Will’s lap.
His eyes moved down my naked body before he took the other glass from my hand. I watched him drink, marveling at his throat as he swallowed, his bare chest, his messy hair. This body? Was mine. Once he’d finished, I took the empty glass and pushed him back down to the pillows.
“Now,” I said, raising a single brow, “about that list . . .”
Three
Will
“Are you sure you don’t mind postponing the honeymoon?” On the couch at my side, Hanna turned her face up to me, squinting in the late-afternoon sun that streamed through our living room window. “Are you worried it will feel sort of . . . anticlimactic?”
A wild wedding, a sleepless wedding night, another interview checked off the list, and there we were: one week later, already back in our apartment, back in our day-to-day life.
There was something reassuring about taking the monumental step but then immediately falling back into pace with the rest of life. It reaffirmed what I’d told Hanna all along: The us beneath it all didn’t have to change. We could still be exactly who we were before. Married folk definitely lazed around in their underwear on a Saturday afternoon.
“I’m fine waiting.” I kissed her nose, pulling her closer. “As long as you don’t tack on any more interview trips in the meantime.”
Our rescheduled honeymoon was already booked for a little over a month after the wedding—late October—with a job-interview-free week beforehand to pack, finish up anything important in the lab, and hold any critical meetings. I wanted as much time with Hanna at home as possible.
I felt her response to this in her tiny hesitation¸ saw it in her small wince. “Hanna?”
“Not even for Caltech?” she asked sweetly.
What an odd feeling: to be fed up, to want to roll my eyes when my wife—holy fuck, my wife—received an interview request from Cal-fucking-tech.
“And when would it be?” I asked.
“Late October? We would still have a few days to get ready for the trip.” Her smile was so sweet, so genuinely hopeful, how could I possibly tell her no?
How would I, anyway? This was her career, her dream. Hanna was being courted by academic institutions all over the world. Her first interviews had been local: Princeton, Harvard, MIT, Johns Hopkins. But then the invitations had spread: Cal, Stanford. Max Planck in Germany. Oxford in the UK. And now, Caltech.
The thing was, we hadn’t really talked about how it would be if she wanted to move. We were in a holding pattern, stuck in a conversation on pause.
I kissed her nose again in answer.
“Does that mean yes?” she asked, studying me with a little smile.
“It means I would never tell you no, Plum. I think you should visit the universities you want to consider.” Kissing her mouth, I asked, “Do you feel like you have a favorite yet?”
She scrunched her nose at this. “I mean, not really?”
I watched her blink a few times, the tiny panic a little flutter in her breath. This process was a daunting one. I remembered being at that point myself: out of my post-doc and ready to tackle the next phase of my career, yet unable to believe, no matter how good my publications were, or how many job interviews I got, that I’d be able to hack it day in and day out running a lab. Research is scary. Academic research is cutthroat.
It’s one of the reasons I went into industry: I trusted my ability to determine whether a technology could be profitable and how to get it there more than I trusted my ability to come up with something innovative in its own right.
Likewise, Hanna knew her own strengths: her technical creativity was nearly limitless, and she had a rare ability to easily integrate everything she read into the broader scientific context. She would make an amazing professor. I simply worried it woul
d take more out of her than she anticipated.
Best to cross that bridge when we come to it.
She took a deep breath, looking past me up at the ceiling. “The head of the department at Caltech sounds amazing. She seems really happy. I sort of imagined this department full of old, awkward nerd dudes, but apparently it isn’t like that at all.”
“No?”
“Well, at least not primarily. I’m sure there are still plenty of awkward nerd dudes.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Her name is Linda Albert. She made me feel like I would have time for things outside of the lab, which I never hear on these calls. She asked about you, about your job and how you’re taking this whole interview process.”
“She did?”
Hanna nodded, sipping from her mug of tea before stretching to return it to the coffee table. She snuggled back into my arms. “I told her you were amazing. I told her you’re the most competent man I know.”
I pulled away, gazing down at her. A smile tugged at my mouth. “Did you say it like that?”
Hanna shook her head, confused. “Like what?”
“Like there are categories of competence, and a competent man is a lesser category.”
She laughed, holding up her hands. “No, no, I—”
I bent, tickling her waist, and she fell back on the couch. “As in, I’m not a bad driver . . . for a dog.”
Laughing harder, she wrestled against my invading, tickling fingers.
“Basically, you told the head of biotech at Caltech that your husband is a water-skiing squirrel.”
She grinned up at me, and I slowed my assault, bending instead to kiss her, to slide my lips on top of hers, feel her closed mouth opening against mine.
I moved my hand up from her waist, resting my first two fingers just above her collarbone, feeling her pulse there.
“Love you,” she murmured lazily, eyes closed.
“I love you, too.”
I watched her relax on our couch, listened to the sounds of cars and people outside. The early autumn breeze slid in through the window, cooling as night approached.
“It’s so good in the quiet,” Hanna said.