Chapter 215

Chapter 215
Stella:

We made our way upstairs to the changing room, Noah leaving a trail of champagne droplets.

The moment the door clicked shut behind us, I turned to face him.

"You're completely soaked."

"So are you." His eyes were dark as they traveled over my champagne-damp dress, the silk clinging to my curves. "That dress is... distracting when it's wet."

"Is it?" I stepped closer, my hands finding his tie. The champagne had made the knot tight, and I had to work at it. "We should probably get out of these clothes."

"Probably." His hands found my zipper, sliding it down with practiced ease even as champagne dripped from his cuffs. "Before we ruin them completely."

"Noah." My dress pooled at my feet, leaving me in just my lingerie—white lace that I'd chosen specifically for tonight. "We have maybe fifteen minutes before people start wondering where we are."

"Then we better make them count." His jacket hit the floor, followed by his champagne-soaked shirt.

I reached for his belt, my fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle.

"Mrs. Carter," he murmured, his hands settling on my waist, thumbs stroking over the lace. "You're shaking."

"Adrenaline," I managed. "From watching you fall. From thinking you were hurt."

"I'm fine." He caught my hands, bringing them to his chest so I could feel his heartbeat—steady and strong. "I'm perfect. Because I'm here with you."

I looked up at him, this man who'd waited for me, who'd been patient when I was terrified, who'd loved me through four years of secrecy and fear.

"Say it again," I whispered.

"Mrs. Carter." He walked me backward until my spine hit the wall, his body pressing against mine. "My wife. Mine."

The kiss was desperate, champagne-sweet and urgent. His tongue swept into my mouth as his hands worked at my bra clasp, and then we were skin to skin, nothing between us but heat and want and four years of pent-up longing.

"Need you," I breathed against his mouth, my hands pushing at his pants. "Need you now."

"I've got you." He lifted me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he braced me against the wall. "Always got you."

There was no time for finesse, no slow build. Just the desperate slide of skin on skin, the stretch and fullness as he pushed inside me, both of us gasping at the sensation.

"God, Stella." His forehead pressed to mine, his hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts that made me see stars. "You feel—"

"Don't stop." My nails dug into his shoulders, my hips meeting his rhythm. "Please don't stop."

He shifted the angle, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur, and I had to bite down on his shoulder to muffle my cry.

"That's it," he murmured, one hand sliding between us to where we were joined, his thumb finding my clit with unerring precision. "Let go for me. Let me feel you."

The orgasm hit me like a wave, crashing over me so hard I forgot to breathe. I felt Noah follow, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, my name a broken prayer on his lips.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing kisses to my face, my neck, anywhere he could reach. "My beautiful wife. Mine."

"Yours," I agreed, my voice wrecked. "Always yours."

He set me down gently, both of us unsteady on our feet.

"We should..." I gestured vaguely at our scattered clothes, at the time ticking away.

"Right." But he was grinning, that satisfied male smugness that should have annoyed me but instead made me want to kiss him again. "Cleanup. Then clothes. Then we go back and pretend we didn't just—"

"Have sex at our wedding reception," I finished, starting to laugh. "Yes. Exactly that."

We cleaned up quickly, helping each other with tissues and adjusting disheveled hair.

Noah pulled on his going-away outfit—dark jeans and a crisp white shirt that made his eyes look impossibly blue. I changed into a simple dress, easier to move in than the ceremony gown.

"Ready?" he asked, offering his hand.

"With you? Always."

---

When we returned to the ballroom, the champagne tower wreckage had been cleared away and replaced with neat rows of individual glasses.

Zoe took one look at us—both changed, both glowing, my lipstick slightly smudged—and shook her head.

"I heard about the tower," she said simply.

"It attacked him," I said solemnly. "Just like at your wedding."

"Unprovoked," Noah added. "I'm a victim here."

"You're both ridiculous," Zoe said, but she was smiling. "And shameless. You disappeared for twenty minutes and came back in different clothes."

"We had to change," I said primly. "Someone knocked over the champagne tower."

"Right. That's definitely all you were doing." Zoe's eyes sparkled with knowing amusement. "Well, at least you're consistent. Champagne tower disaster at my wedding, champagne tower disaster at yours."

"I'm starting a support group," Noah deadpanned.

The reception itself was perfect.

No champagne tower, but plenty of champagne. Dancing and toasts and laughter. Our parents looking at us with expressions that mixed amusement and affection and acceptance.

And later, when the photographer corralled us for formal portraits as the sun set over the ocean, someone made a joke about champagne towers and our entire group dissolved into laughter.

In my favorite photo—the one that would eventually hang in our hallway—I was mid-laugh, my head tilted back, Noah's face buried in my hair as his shoulders shook.

Our parents were grinning. Zoe and Jason had their arms around each other. Emily and Liam leaned together in that comfortable way of new couples.

It wasn't perfect. The lighting was slightly off. Someone's eyes were closed.

But it was real. Completely, messily, beautifully real.

And that, I thought as Noah pulled me close for one more kiss, was all that mattered.