Blake took the glass with a crooked grin, eyes flicking from her mouth to her bare feet to the rings she wore like brass knuckles.

“To the storm we just married,” she’d said — like she hadn’t just rewritten the forecast of his entire life with that one sentence and a look that could floor him faster than any vow.

He tilted the flute toward hers and clinked it, soft but deliberate, his gaze never leaving her. “To the best bad idea I’ve ever had,” he said, voice warm with awe and whiskey, threaded with that signature rasp that always gave him away. “And the only woman who could make a honeymoon suite with a heart-shaped bed look like a crime scene waiting to happen.”

He sipped, slow, and set the glass on the nightstand next to the slumped Elvis and the scratched chrome lighter she’d chosen like it already belonged to him. His eyes didn’t leave her — not even for a second. The grin on his mouth curved like a challenge, but his expression? That was something else entirely. Something wrecked and reverent.

She was barefoot in fishnets, hair half-wrecked, cheeks flushed, eyes dangerous.

And somehow, she looked more like a bride than anyone he’d ever seen.

“Jesus, Willa,” he muttered, head shaking slow, that same grin softening into something undone. “You look like the devil signed your marriage license and handed you the pen with a wink.”

He reached for her — not rushed, not rough, just sure — his fingers catching the hem of her dress where it skimmed her thighs. The fabric bunched in his hand, cool and familiar, and he tugged her toward him like he didn’t know how to stop. Like every instinct in him had already rewritten itself to follow her.

“C’mere, Mrs. Maddox,” he said, voice low and full of something she’d put there. “Before this suite gets cold and I forget that I’m the lucky bastard who gets to ruin it with you.”

And he kissed her again.

This one wasn’t careful.

It was slow, yes — but it was claiming, too. Deep and messy and all tongue and teeth and heat, his hands framing her face like she was something holy and furious, like he wanted to memorize the taste of her vows all over again.

She leaned into him with a growl of a laugh against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like oxygen.

The city was still sprawled out beyond the window, still humming neon and sin, but Blake didn’t see it. Didn’t care.

Because Willa Jameson-Maddox was standing in front of him in ripped fishnets and a grin sharp enough to start fires — and he was never letting her go.

Not tonight.
Not ever.

The champagne was sharp on her tongue, bubbles snapping like sparks as she tipped the glass back. Sweet, fizzy, reckless — the perfect drink for a night like this.

She didn’t get more than a few swallows down before he had her again.

Blake’s hand slid higher on her thigh, tugging her in like she’d never been anywhere else but here. His mouth crashed into hers — slow, deep, certain — and the glass slipped right out of her hand.

She heard it thud against the shag carpet, fizz bleeding out over fibers that had probably seen worse sins than this. She didn’t care. Not when his tongue stroked hers like it was a vow, not when his thumb brushed her cheek as though he was steadying himself with her face alone.

Her laugh broke against his mouth, muffled, dangerous. “God, you don’t play fair,” she whispered, biting at his bottom lip before she let him have it back. He groaned — low, guttural, wrecked — the sound vibrating through her bones like a bassline.

She loved that sound. Loved that she was the one who could drag it out of him.

The hem of her dress was already bunched in his fist, his rings scraping lightly against the fishnets stretched over her thighs. Every pull of his hand felt like a promise. Every breath against her mouth felt like confession.

She was so close to saying rip them. To daring him. To letting the night devour them whole.

Instead, she pushed back for just a second, grinning, flushed, lips swollen. “Careful, Maddox,” she rasped, voice shaking but steady all at once. “These fishnets don’t stand a chance.”

Her boots were long gone, her pulse was wild, and the city might as well have stopped outside.

Because she was here.
With him.
Ready to burn the night down piece by piece.

Blake’s breath caught on a laugh, sharp and rough at the edges. “Then maybe they shouldn’t,” he said, voice like gravel and sin, his grin flashing wicked and reverent all at once.

One hand curved around her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip — swollen from his kiss, still slick from champagne. The other didn’t budge from her thigh, knuckles dragging up the inside with just enough pressure to make her knees threaten mutiny.

“You think I give a damn about fishnets?” he muttered, mouth brushing her cheek, her temple, her jaw. “You could walk in here wearing crime scene tape and I’d still find a way to get on my knees.”

His voice was lower now, reverent in its ruin. Like a prayer disguised as a dare.

He pressed her back toward the bed — slow, coaxing, like he was giving her the choice even though they both knew it wasn’t really up for debate. Her calves hit the edge, and his hand splayed across her back, steadying her as she dropped onto the mattress in a sprawl of limbs and laughter and hunger.

Blake just looked at her for a second.

Lit by the neon bleed through the window, dress bunched around her hips, fishnets spidering against her thighs, cheeks pink and pupils blown wide — she looked like the punchline to a song he hadn’t finished writing yet. Like sin wrapped in silk and something too tender to name.

“You,” he said hoarsely, running a hand through his hair, rings glinting. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he crawled over her like he meant it.

His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder where a strap had fallen out of place. Every kiss was a promise she could feel. Every scrape of stubble a confession he couldn’t voice.

And Willa?

Willa arched into him, head thrown back, laughter spilling from her lips even as her hands fisted the front of his shirt.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she gasped, and tugged him down with her.

If Vegas had a god, it wasn’t listening tonight.

And if those fishnets survived — they’d write a hymn in their honor.

His mouth on her throat was fire. Slow drags of lips and teeth against skin he already knew better than anyone, leaving her breathless in the way that wasn’t panic but hunger. Every kiss he pressed to her collarbone felt like he was signing something permanent, and every scrape of stubble was a reminder that this wasn’t a dream, wasn’t neon fever.

This was him. Her husband.

Her fingers slipped up into his hair, tugging just hard enough to drag another groan out of him. God, she loved that sound. It vibrated against her pulse when his mouth hit the spot just below her ear, wrecked and reverent, and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing into the ceiling.

“You’re easy to kill, Maddox,” she teased, voice low and rough, nails dragging across his scalp before sliding down the back of his neck. “Guess it’s a good thing you married me.”

He muttered something against her skin — half curse, half prayer — and bit at her shoulder, and her whole body arched up into him.

“Fuck,” she hissed, the word catching on a laugh, her lips grazing his temple. “Do that again and these fishnets really won’t stand a chance.”

His hand was already sliding higher, fingers ghosting against lace, against heat, against the lines of her legs still caught in that black webbing. She knew she should stop teasing, but hell, she never had. Not with him. Not when she had him like this — ruined and grinning and hers.

So instead of biting his lip like she always did, she angled her head and caught the side of his throat instead. Slow at first — tasting salt and champagne and him — then harder, teeth catching just enough to make him groan into her shoulder.

The sound shot straight through her, left her buzzing, left her aching.

She pulled back to look at him — hair mussed, pupils blown, rings catching light as he braced himself above her. He looked like the end of the world and the start of something better.

Her hand slid down his chest, hooked into his shirt, tugging him closer.

“Ruin me, Maddox,” she whispered, voice shaking with heat and certainty. “I dare you.”

And the grin that broke over his face then — wrecked, reverent, wicked — told her she’d just lit the fuse.

She said ruin me, and it hit him like gasoline over an open flame — all spark, no warning.

Blake didn’t smile. Not really. Not in the way people expected when they heard the word grin. What curved over his mouth was darker, deeper — reverent like a hymn, wicked like a storm rolling in too fast to name. Because this? Her, breathless and burning beneath him? This was church. This was wildfire. This was everything he’d ever chased with a guitar string and a broken compass and still never found until her.

His fingers tightened in the fabric beside her hip — an anchor, a prayer, maybe just the last bit of control he had left. God, he could drown in her. And what a way to go.

“You think I won’t?” he whispered, voice roughened from the inside out. “You think I won’t take you apart just to learn how to put you back together?”

His mouth found hers again — slower this time, deeper, like a vow carved into smoke. Like he was tasting the future and the past in the same breath. She tasted like defiance and promise. Like every late-night dare they ever made and every sunrise they never meant to sleep through.

Blake kissed her like it meant something. Because it did.

Because this wasn’t neon fever. Wasn’t adrenaline and eyeliner and running on borrowed time.

This was his wife.

His.

And if she lit the fuse — well, he’d always been the explosion waiting to happen.

So he moved like it. Careful, then not. Devotion braided into every drag of his mouth against her pulse, every press of his hand mapping lace and skin and the parts of her only he knew how to touch like that.

He pulled back just enough to look at her — truly look — the way a musician studies a melody they already know by heart but want to play better this time. Always better. Always more.

“Don’t say dare,” he murmured, voice low and edged with thunder. “You know I don’t back down.”

And then he kissed her again — ruinous, reverent, and right on time.

It was the way she looked at him that undid him most.

Like she already knew he was wrecked. Like she liked him that way.

Her hand on his chest had set something off, but it wasn’t just want — it was that deep, bone-level ache he only ever got when she looked at him like that. Like she trusted him with all of it. Like the damage was part of the design.

His breath caught as her fingers curled into his shirt. She didn’t say another word — didn’t have to — but every heartbeat between them was screaming now now now. And Blake? He’d never been good at patience when it came to her.

God, he remembered the first time he touched her like this. The way she arched into him, already knowing exactly how far she could push, how deep she could pull. It had been chaos then — fast, hot, wild. But now?

Now it was intentional.

Now she was his wife.

That truth hit him square in the chest — like a song that finally makes sense after the chorus has been sung a hundred times. Like lightning striking the same place on purpose.

He didn’t rush. Not this time.

His hands moved slow, reverent. Mapping every line of her with the kind of certainty that came from memorization. Her legs wrapped in fishnet, the way her breath hitched when his palm brushed the soft inside of her thigh, the heat of her skin beneath the lace — it was all familiar and still completely devastating.

He kissed her again. Not because he needed to, but because he could.

Because there was no one watching. No cameras. No countdown.

Just her. Just him. And the kind of silence that wrapped around them like velvet — heavy, rich, filled with tension and promise.

Blake let his forehead rest against hers for a beat. He could feel her breath against his lips, fast and warm, synced to the thrum beneath his ribs. His thumb dragged slowly along her jaw, and he felt her lean into it.

She was the slow burn. The late-night melody. The match he struck just to feel something, and the reason he didn’t need to anymore.

And fuck if he wasn’t already gone for her.

But he wanted to do this right.

He wanted to make her feel it for days.

He wanted to leave no doubt that he didn’t just love her — he chose her. Every second. Every breath.

And tonight, he’d show her the difference.

God, the way he looked at her.

Like she was both the match and the inferno. Like he’d been waiting his whole life for her to strike.

Her pulse was a drum in her throat, beating hard against every kiss he laid down her skin. Every drag of his mouth was slow, deliberate, the kind of worship she wasn’t used to. She should’ve made a joke, thrown gasoline on it just to keep him off-balance, but she couldn’t. Not when he was looking at her like that.

Like she wasn’t chaos at all. Like she was home.

Her hands slid under his shirt, palms hot against the muscles of his stomach, nails scratching just enough to make him hiss. She grinned, breathless, chasing the sound with her mouth against his jaw, then lower — the sharp curve of his neck where she knew he was weakest.

Her teeth grazed, lips dragging, and when his groan spilled out into the space between them, she laughed low against his skin. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” she whispered, voice cracked with want.

She wanted to savor this. To memorize it. To match him, stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss, devotion for devotion. But she also wanted to burn. To leave him marked in ways fishnets couldn’t cover.

So she gave him both.

Her mouth found his again, slower this time, deeper, like she was swallowing him whole. Her hips lifted to meet the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, every shift of lace and skin against him sparking brighter.

She broke the kiss only long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to his, their lips still brushing. “You’re right,” she gasped, fingers curling in his shirt until the fabric strained. “I shouldn’t dare you.”

Her grin was feral, but her voice was steady, reverent. “Because I want you to. Every way you can think of. Make it spectacular, Maddox. Make it ours.”

Her hand slid down to the hem of her dress, pushing it higher, exposing more of the fishnet stretched over her thighs. She arched into him deliberately, daring without words, adding fuel to the fire with every movement.

This wasn’t just chaos anymore.
This was intention.
This was forever.

And tonight, she was ready to let him prove it.

God, she was gravity.

Every part of her pulling him in, anchoring him to this moment like it was the only one that had ever mattered. The world could’ve burned around them and he wouldn’t have noticed — not with her looking at him like that. Not with her breath catching like she’d been waiting her whole life for this version of him. Not with her body curled into his like they’d been built to break and rebuild each other.

His hands slid over her like memory. Not new, not hesitant — known. He’d traced these curves in a dozen lifetimes already, but tonight felt like the first time they meant forever. Like her skin had rewritten the map of his life and left no room for return.

When she arched into him, when she grinned like sin and dared him with that voice, something primal in him snapped loose — not wild, not reckless — certain. Like a storm finally allowed to land.

He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air. Like every breath between them was sacred. Like if he did this right — slow, sure, hers — the world might finally make sense.

His fingers found the edge of the fishnet, the silk of her dress, the heat beneath it all — and he didn’t rush. He never would. Not with her. She deserved the build, the ache, the way the world tilted and held its breath just for them.

She said make it ours — and he would.

Every kiss, every touch, every reverent drag of his mouth along her throat was a vow he couldn’t speak aloud. She’d dared him to ruin her — but she didn’t know.

He already was.

Not because she was fragile — God, no. She was wildfire wrapped in velvet. But because she made him want too much. More than he’d ever let himself want before.

So he gave her everything: hands like thunder, breath like prayer, devotion stitched between every beat of his heart.

This wasn’t heat anymore.

This was home.

And tonight, he was going to burn with her.

She felt it.

Not just his hands or his mouth — not just the slow, delicious drag of skin and silk and stubble — but him.

All of him.

The way his breath hitched when she moved just right, the way his fingers trembled even as they steadied her. The way he held her like this wasn’t about taking — like it was about staying.

And God, she could’ve drowned in it.

But not yet.

Not until she got her hands on him the way she’d wanted to since the second they stepped into this ridiculous, velvet-drenched honeymoon suite.

Her fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, dragging it up slowly, deliberately — not to tease, but to feel. She wanted to touch the man she’d married. Wanted her palms on his skin, warm and solid and already hers.

He sat up just enough to let her pull it off.

And then it was gone — the barrier, the weight, the last scrap of fabric that kept her from pressing every inch of herself to him without apology.

She tossed the shirt aside without looking, without caring.

Her hands flattened against his chest, fingers splaying wide like she needed to memorize the way his heartbeat felt under her touch. He was burning up, skin hot, chest rising fast, and still — still — he looked at her like she was the one undoing him.

“God, Blake,” she breathed, more breath than words, lips brushing his collarbone, her voice caught somewhere between wonder and want.

She leaned in, kissed the curve of his neck — slow and lush — and smiled when he swore under his breath.

She loved him like this.

Undone. Still trying to hold back, even now. Still savoring her like she was something precious.

But this was her, too.

She could be slow. She could be sacred.
She could match him kiss for kiss, touch for touch — fuel for fire.

Her thumbs brushed his ribs, her lips trailing down the center of his chest. She wanted to worship him the way he worshipped her. Not with restraint, but with intention.

Because he wasn’t just hers.

He was Blake.

And he was everything.

She looked up from beneath her lashes, eyes catching his in the low light, her voice velvet and low and dangerously certain.

“This is ours,” she said, fingers still roaming, reverent and hungry. “And I’m gonna make you feel it.”

Then she pulled him back down to her like gravity had just remembered who it belonged to.

She pulled him down like gravity had made a choice — and God, maybe it had. Maybe he was always meant to fall into her.

Because this? This wasn’t just touch.

This was tether.

The second their skin met again, Blake felt it in his ribs — like his bones had been hollow until she pressed herself against him, filled every space with heat and heartbeat and the kind of closeness that made a man believe in permanence. Her hands were warm and sure, mapping the length of his chest like she was rewriting the lines of a story she already knew by heart.

He didn’t speak.

He couldn’t. Not when every inch of her was singing against him — every shift of her hips, every brush of her lips, every breath that ghosted over his collarbone like a promise. She moved like a slow-burning comet — all fire and pull and impossible beauty — and he was just the sky she chose to streak across.

She’d said this was theirs.

And it was.

Because no one else ever touched him like this — not with hunger, not with heat, but with knowing. With reverence. Like she wasn’t just unbuttoning him, she was unmaking him. On purpose. With care.

Her mouth found the curve of his shoulder and lingered, and he felt her smile there — felt the curl of it like a match head against his skin.

Blake’s hands slid down her waist, finding the edge of her dress, fingers catching on lace and fishnet and the last fragile barrier between them. He didn’t rip — he didn’t rush — he just moved like he had all the time in the world to savor this, because he did.

She was his.

And she wanted to feel it.

So he gave her everything.

Every kiss like a vow. Every breath like a hymn. Every movement like he was trying to memorize what it meant to be loved this way — fully, fiercely, without apology.

Because she wasn’t just a flame.

She was the whole damn fire.

And he wasn’t afraid to burn.

Willa didn’t breathe.

Not really. Not when his hands slid along her sides like they belonged there. Not when his mouth traced heat along her jaw and down the hollow of her throat. Not when his fingers reached the hem of her dress and stilled — reverent, like even undressing her was sacred.

Because it was.

This wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t wild.

This was slow worship in the shape of undressing.

He peeled the fabric up her body inch by inch, knuckles brushing her skin like he was trying to memorize the shape of her — and she let him. She let him see her. Let him look.

Eyes half-lidded, lips parted, chest rising in time with the beat of something heavy and holy inside her.

Her arms lifted, the dress sliding over her head, leaving her in nothing but the wreckage of fishnets and heat. She expected his hands next — rough, eager — but no, Blake Maddox kissed her again.

Soft. Sure. Ruinous.

She exhaled against his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as he kissed his way down her neck, her collarbone, her ribs. Her hands knotted in the bedding as his fingers slid over the curve of her hip and down the backs of her thighs.

And then he reached the fishnets.

She felt the tension shift in his shoulders. The pause. The decision.

But he didn’t tear them. Didn’t rush. He slipped them down slow, careful — rolling them off like something precious, like even the ruin of her deserved to be unwrapped like a gift.

Willa’s breath hitched. Not from nerves. From the weight of it. The care in it. The intimacy.

She looked at him then — really looked — and found him staring at her like he was unraveling, and didn’t mind one damn bit.

Her hand found the waistband of his pants, and she didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to.

She undid the button, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving his. There was power in it — not just lust, but love. That deep, searing knowledge that this wasn’t about taking. This was about giving. About choosing.

Her palm pressed flat to his abdomen as she slid the zipper down, her voice barely above a breath:

“Your turn.”

And God, the way he looked at her — like she was gravity and gospel and every sin he’d ever wanted to confess — that alone could’ve undone her.

But she wasn’t done.
Not yet.

She wanted to feel all of him.

Wanted to hold this night in her skin for days.

And as he stepped out of what little was left between them, she reached for him again — hands on his hips, mouth already chasing his, her body flushed and bare and braver than she’d ever been.

This was theirs.

Not just the marriage. Not just the night.

The ache. The tenderness. The heat.

All of it.