Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
“F-forever?”
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
It takes a few seconds for me to find my breath. It also takes me a few seconds to find my heart. Because I don’t think it’s in my chest anymore. I think it fell down to my tummy. I think it jumped up to my throat.
I think my heart is everywhere.
Like stardust.
Like the snow.
Falling and beating and throbbing.
It throbs more when I notice something.
A ring.
He produces a ring from somewhere—probably his pocket—and holds it in his fingers between us.
“You have a…”—I fist my fingers in his shirt—"ring?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine, his face all cut open and vulnerable. “Bought it the day we moved in together.”
“But we”—I catch my breath again—"moved in together, like months ago.”
“Been carrying it around,” he shares.
“In your pockets.”
He nods. “Stopping myself from asking the question.” He swallows thickly before continuing, “I wish I had taken more time. I wish I’d worked on—”
“No.”
He grows cautious. “No?”
“No, I mean I love you. I—”
“I love you too,” he says, still looking both cautious and vulnerable.
And oh God, how can he not know? How can he not already know what my answer would be? How can he not know how perfect he is? How wonderful and amazing and so deserving of my love already.
I mean, look at him saying I love you back all because he’d promised me that I’d never be alone in saying it. So, every time I say it, even as an afterthought, he returns the sentiment as if it’s forefront on his mind. As if that’s all he ever thinks about.
And knowing him, he probably does.
“You’re perfect,” I tell him vehemently.
He swallows again. “I don’t think so.”
“You are.” I fist his shirt again. “And you’re not that old.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You said, back there, that”—I shake my head—“people your age have things figured out and all that. You’re only twenty-seven.”
He is.
We celebrated his birthday last month and I don’t think I will ever look at vanilla cream cheese frosting the same again. Not after how he smeared the frosting on my nipples and my pussy before eating me out. And then how I smeared it on his dick and licked it off him.
“Kinda close to thirty,” he corrects me.
“Are you serious? You’re not close to thirty. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter because as I said, you’re perfect and I love so much.”
“I love you too.”
God, he’s crazy.
“And I will marry you,” I finally tell him.
Still holding the ring in his fingers, he goes still.
His chest stops breathing and he stares at me unblinking.
I shake him. “Stellan?”
He blinks. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because I… I looked at you and you were so… You didn’t eat all day for me and I… I just… I couldn’t stop myself but—”
“Will you put the ring on me and kiss me already?”
And like the rule follower he is, he does.
He obeys me and puts the ring on my finger with his big, usually-graceful-but-clumsy-in-this-moment, hands.
I look down at the ring—a princess cut diamond with red rubies circling it—and smile. “We’re engaged.”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, his hands coming to rest on my bare waist.
As if he needs support to hold himself upright.
I look at him; he still looks a little dazed. “And it’s not fake.”
At my words, any dazedness on his features goes away and his eyes flash possessively. “Absolutely fucking not.”
I chuckle. “I’m never taking it off.”
“You’re not allowed to take it off,” he tells me, flexing his fingers on my flesh.
“Even when you’re being bossy and annoying,” I point out.
“And neither will I.”
“Neither will you what?”
“Take off my ring,” he promises, “when you give it to me at the wedding.”
“We’re going to have a wedding,” I say, my eyes wide, as if it’s only now sinking into me.
“We absolutely fucking are,” he agrees vehemently.
I grin. “I can’t wait.” Then, gasping, I add, “Can we do it tomorrow?”
His jaw tenses in response. “No.”
“But—"
“We will wait.”
“I don’t want—"
“Because you deserve a perfect Indian wedding, and it takes planning.”
I stare at him for a beat but give in because he’s right. “You know I want an Indian style wedding?”
“You’ve made me watch enough of those movies to know that yeah I know.”
“Hey, they’re good movies.”
“They are,” he agrees solemnly.
“You’re going to have to wear traditional Indian clothes, you know?”
“A sherwani,” he goes. “Yeah, I know.”
“You know what they wear at the traditional Indian style wedding?”
“It’s a simple Google search,” he murmurs.
It is but…
Holy shit.
My boyfriend—fiancé—is so fucking hot for knowing that. For researching that. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? He is a scholar. Oh and a sherwani is a long-sleeved coat that grooms wear over a pair of flared trousers. It is fitted and goes down to the knees.
And oh my God, I cannot wait to see Stellan rocking that, and he is going to rock it, believe me.