She groaned. “This tradition sucks, but I feel like if there are any traditions I should listen to, it’s the ones about how to not mess this marriage up. We can’t see each other until tomorrow.”

I held her face in my hands, tilting it so I could kiss her. My lips met the tip of her nose first, before traveling south to their target. “There is no way to mess this up,” I said, right against her mouth. “Even if we didn’t get married tomorrow, you’re the love of my life. I’m with you until we both die, at the same time, when I am one hundred and you are ninety-three.”

With a quiet laugh, she turned me, guiding me to the bed and carefully pulling me down onto it. She pushed me until I was lying on my back and then climbed over my hips.

“Are your eyes open now?” I asked her, teasing.

“I lifted the blindfold for a second, but they’re closed again. Someone had to navigate us here safely.”

“I mean, I think the rule is the groom can’t see the bride, right? You can look at me,” I whispered.

She paused. “Really?”

“Yeah, Plum.”

After a short hesitation, I heard the shift of her blindfold as she removed it and then the sound of her quiet breaths.

“There you are.” She ran a hand up my chest and over my neck, and then a single fingertip traced the shape of my mouth. “Husband. Isn’t that crazy?”

My skin ignited, hungry. “Hann—”

Her mouth came over mine, shutting me up, lips wet and so fucking full, hands working my boxers down my hips. She licked my neck, her hair tickling my skin as she made her way down my chest, past my stomach...

“It’s good luck to give head before the wedding,” I confirmed when she wrapped her hand around me, licking near the base and dragging her tongue to the tip. “So we’re on the right track.”

Her giggle vibrated against me as she kissed and sucked, licking me hard as fucking stone in her grip.

“Goddamn,” I whispered, hips arching from the bed. “Plum, this blindfold... your tongue. Fuck.”

She played with me just enough to have me rocking up from the mattress and then I felt her shift and pull her little nightie up over her hips and straddle me.

Her mouth came down against my ear. “No grabbing my boobs.”

“Whatever you say,” I swore immediately. “Just don’t stop.”

“You have a gift for bruising boobs. My dress shows boob.”

“You mentioned this.”

“If you bruise them, no head for a year.”

Even though she was probably—I think?—joking, the idea made my heart stop for about three beats.

I gave her a reverent “I promise.”