Remy (Real Book 3)

Gah!”

The only sound in the silent church comes from one of the front rows, and it is followed by soft laughter nearby.

“Rem, that boy is priceless. He already feels like he’s the shit and he’s not even one,” Pete murmurs behind me.

I glance at my son and he’s slapping Josephine now, saying, “Gah!” every time he hits her. Brooke says he’ll be just like me, but I hope he’ll be better than me.

The doors of the church swing open, and I straighten and stand in place, like I’m supposed to, the anticipation slowly gnawing at me. I rub my thumb along my ring when a figure in white steps forward—and my lungs empty in a whoosh. Fuck me, look at her. Only Brooke does this to me. The noise inside me stills and I feel whole and content, at peace, the instant my eyes lock on hers. And she’s so fucking beautiful in that dress my collar suddenly chokes me.

Music starts playing. My bride’s music.

When she starts walking toward me, I feel like every step makes me grow inside my suit the way only she can make me, and I’m about ten sizes too large now and burning beneath the fabric. She didn’t hide her face behind a veil. Every step, I see her smile. Her huge, wide, I-fucking-love-you-Remington-Tate smile.

This is my woman pledging her life to me.

This is me, pledging my life to her.

My eyes run over her face, and it’s the same face I look for every morning in my bed, and every moment I’m in the ring, and every second in between. She’s that girl, with the marshmallow mouth that looks soft and inviting, and those eyes, gold as a lioness’s, and yet she tells me she’s no longer a girl. She’s a woman now. A mother. A wife. My wife.

The dress covers her completely, tight around her top and spreading wide at the skirt. She looks so fucking beautiful I want to mate her, take her, right now, slammed by thoughts of grabbing her into my arms, ripping off the dress’s buttons and her panties, then spreading her open so I can claim my wife, every sigh of hers, every inch of skin.

I’m so fucking ready for this, I step off the platform to receive her a couple of steps earlier and I lock gazes with her father when I approach. He’s unsmiling, his eyes wet, but there’s no antagonism in his stare. “She’s all yours,” he tells me thickly.

I’ve already slipped my hand to her small one when I nod and murmur, “Thank you,” then I bring her up with me to the altar. She stands trembling in excitement at my side, and I duck my head and lean over, brushing my nose against hers so she tips her head back to look at me. Our stares hold.

“Ready?” I ask when we hear the priest begin the ceremony.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony . . .”