Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) by Kate Canterbary

Author:Kate Canterbary [Canterbary, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780990957386
Publisher: Vesper Press
Published: 2016-07-11T21:00:00+00:00

* * *

It was a dark, unholy hour when the party finally started winding down, and that was only one of the reasons I was pleased as fucking pie that I got a room for us at the Four Seasons on Boylston. It seemed frivolous to spend this much on a Public-Garden-view suite when I owned a fully decent firehouse on the other side of town but…but we got married tonight.

Something—everything—about that demanded opulence.

And a guarantee that little brothers wouldn't be barreling in with random questions about the whereabouts of his swim fins, or whether anyone wanted an omelet while the stove was hot.

"This is so fancy," Tiel whispered, squeezing my hand in the elevator.

She glanced at the bellman and back to me, a goofy, slightly drunken grin on her face. The peacock feathers that were once artfully woven into her hair were listing at an odd angle, and her eye makeup was smudged, but all I could see was perfection. I mean, we were both fucked up three ways to Thursday, but this—this night, us, right now—was the start of something good. Something perfect, in its own wildly imperfect ways.

I brought my hand to her face, my palm cupping her cheek while a tight part of me breathed a sigh of contentment as she leaned into me. Edging forward, I pressed my lips to hers for a quick, soft kiss. "You're fancy," I said against her lips. "This dress is gorgeous. And really fucking hot."

The elevator came to a stop, and we followed the bellman down the silent hallway. He was probably bursting with questions. It wasn't as though many people checked in during the earliest hours of Christmas morning, and far fewer showed up in red tuxedos or peacock-inspired dresses with miles of crinoline puffing up the skirts.

So I put fifty dollars in his hand, asked him to hang the Do Not Disturb sign, and engaged the dead bolt and chain. When I turned back to my bride—my wife—she was gazing out at the Garden, her hands braced on the windowsill and her ankles crossed. Shrugging out of my jacket, I smiled, and let the deliciously loose, liquid sensation that belonged to a tangled mess of love, affection, and peace fill my chest and simultaneously ease one form of tension and stoke an entirely different one.

I draped the jacket over the sofa's arm and toed off my shoes, my eyes never leaving Tiel. I walked toward her, wondering what she was thinking as she stared at the grounds below. Her head was cocked to the side, her foot shook in a lazy rhythm, and what did I do right in this life to deserve her?

I didn't know, and I was more than half certain I didn't deserve her at all.

The only reasonable solution to that conundrum was fucking her against the window.

Bow tie, cufflinks, shirt, belt, glucose monitor: off.

Trousers: unbuttoned.

"It's ridiculous to expect a white Christmas," she murmured, inclining her head toward me but not looking over her shoulder.

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