51.2
The penthouse suite at the Raffles Hotel Singapore had been transformed while they were at the reception.
White orchids everywhere — on the mantel, on the nightstands, trailing across the white silk duvet. Candles in tall glass hurricanes, their flames flickering low and gold. A silver ice bucket with champagne, two crystal flutes, and a small white box tied with satin ribbon sitting on the pillow.
Lance carried Brett over the threshold.
He didn't have to — Brett could walk perfectly well in his white So Kates, even with ten feet of Chantilly lace train — but Lance insisted, one arm under Brett's knees, the other around his back, kicking the door shut behind them with his patent leather shoe.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan," Lance murmured against Brett's temple, his voice low and wrecked from vows and champagne and three hours of dancing.
"Mrs. Sullivan," Brett whispered back, his arms around Lance's neck, his veil long gone, his honey blonde hair falling in soft waves around his shoulders, his pearl comb catching the candlelight. "I like the sound of that."
Lance set him down gently in the middle of the room, his hands lingering at Brett's tiny waist, his blue eyes raking over the wedding dress for the hundredth time that day — over the long lace sleeves, the high neck, the boned bodice that lifted Brett's D cup breasts into perfect, high curves, the skirt that flared from his 23-inch waist into a pool of lace on the marble floor.
"You were the most beautiful bride I've ever seen," Lance said hoarsely, his thumbs stroking over the lace at Brett's hips. "Everyone said so."
Brett smiled, soft and shy and completely his, his cherry lips trembling. "I only cared what you thought."
Lance stepped closer, his forehead pressing to Brett's, his hands sliding around to the back of the dress — to the hundred tiny silk buttons Madame Elise had fastened that morning with shaking hands.
"Can I?" Lance asked, his voice rough with reverence, not just desire.
Brett nodded, his breath catching. "It's why I wore it."
Lance undid the first button at the nape of Brett's neck slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing the soft skin underneath. Then the second. Then the third.
Brett closed his eyes, his hands fisted in Lance's tuxedo jacket, his whole body trembling as each button came undone, as the high neck of the dress loosened, as the boned bodice began to give.
By button twenty, Lance was kneeling behind him, his lips pressing a kiss to each inch of spine as it was revealed. By button fifty, the dress was loose enough to slip off Brett's shoulders, and Lance eased the long lace sleeves down Brett's arms with a care that made Brett's eyes fill with tears.
By button one hundred, the entire back was open, the dress held up only by Brett's hands at his breasts.
Lance stood, turning Brett to face him, his hands covering Brett's over the bodice.
"Let me see my wife," Lance whispered.
Brett let go.
The Chantilly lace gown — the hundred-thousand-dollar French masterpiece — sighed to the floor in a whisper of silk and tulle, pooling around Brett's white So Kates like snow.
Underneath, Brett wore exactly what he'd promised in the lingerie salon: the white French lace balconette bra, the high-waisted panties, the garter belt with six satin straps, the sheer white stockings. His tuck was perfect, his waist impossibly small, his breasts high and round in the lace, his skin flushed pink from champagne and nerves and love.
Lance stared at him for a long, silent moment, his chest rising and falling hard, his blue eyes dark and wet.
"Brielle," Lance breathed, his voice breaking completely. "God, look at you."
Brett stepped out of the dress carefully, his heels clicking on the marble, and came to Lance in just his bridal lingerie, his hands shaking as he reached for Lance's bow tie.
"My turn," Brett whispered, his soft alto thick with emotion.
He undid Lance's tuxedo piece by piece — the jacket first, then the vest, then the shirt studs, his pink nails brushing over Lance's warm skin with every button, until Lance stood in just his trousers, his chest bare, his heart hammering against Brett's palm.
Lance picked Brett up again — easily, like he weighed nothing — and carried him to the bed, laying him down gently among the white orchids and the silk sheets, the garter straps stark against Brett's pale thighs.
He didn't rush. This wasn't the superhero night, or the schoolgirl night — frantic and playful and full of laughter.
This was their wedding night.
Lance kissed him slowly, reverently, starting at Brett's forehead, then his closed eyelids, then the tip of his nose, then his trembling cherry lips, then down his throat, over the lace edge of the bra, between his breasts, over the flat plane of his stomach, over the lace of the high-waisted panties.
Brett arched up into every kiss, his hands in Lance's hair, his breath coming in soft, broken gasps, whispering Lance's name like a prayer.
"Lance, please," Brett whimpered, his blue eyes wet and wide and full of love. "I need you. I need my husband."
Lance came back up his body, bracing himself over Brett on his elbows, his eyes locked on Brett's, his voice shaking with more emotion than Brett had ever heard from him.
"I love you," Lance said, simple and true and everything. "I love you, Brielle Sullivan. My wife."
Brett cupped Lance's face in both hands, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones, tears spilling over onto the white pillows.
"I love you too," Brett whispered back. "Make me yours."
Lance kissed him again — deep and slow and claiming — and the candles flickered lower, and the champagne went untouched, and the white satin box on the pillow waited patiently for morning.
They made love like it was the first time and the last time all at once — careful of the lingerie at first, then not careful at all, the lace eventually in a heap on the floor with the wedding dress, the garter belt unclipped and tossed aside, Brett's white stockings the last thing to go.
It wasn't about costumes anymore. It wasn't about fantasies.
It was just Lance and Brett — husband and wife — skin to skin in the soft gold light, whispering promises between kisses, moving together like they'd been choreographed for this exact moment since the day they met in Montana.
After, Brett lay curled against Lance's chest, sweaty and sated and completely naked except for the pearl comb still somehow in his hair, his left hand with the new platinum band resting over Lance's heart.
Lance stroked his back lazily, his lips pressed to Brett's damp temple.
"Happy wedding night, Mrs. Sullivan," Lance murmured, his voice sleepy and wrecked and happy.
Brett smiled against his skin, his eyes drifting closed, his whole body warm and safe and loved.
"Best night of my life," Brett whispered. "My pleasure. Always my pleasure."
Outside, Singapore glittered. Inside, the white orchids perfumed the air, and the hundred-button wedding dress lay on the floor like shed wings, and Brett Sullivan — formerly Brett, forever Brielle — fell asleep in his husband's arms, a bride no more, but a wife forever.…