Their Wicked Wedding by Ember Casey

her sleep. Maybe she’s finding some solace in her dreams, and waking to find me here will only bring back the unpleasantness of last night. But I can’t bear to leave her like this, fully clothed and sprawled across the bed. My mind tells me I should go, but my heart says a different thing altogether.
    I start with her shoes. She’s wearing simple slip-ons, and she doesn’t wake as I slide them off of her feet, though her toes wiggle slightly. Under other circumstances, that might have made me smile.
    My eyes move to her skirt next. I remember all too well that she’s wearing nothing underneath, and though I’d love another look at her—another taste of her—I can’t bring myself to even consider it after the way we left things last night. Instead, I reach across her to where her pajamas lie in a pile on the far side of the bed. At home, when we share a bed, she sleeps naked most nights. But I imagine she’s been cold in this big bed by herself.
    I take the pajama bottoms—a pair of little shorts—and slide them over her feet, one and then the other. Her bare calves look so soft, so tempting. But I don’t dare touch her naked skin. Instead, I move the pajamas slowly up her legs, taking care not to wake her. I make it to her thighs before I’m forced to acknowledge that I’ll have to move her, but I do it gently, lifting her just enough that I can pull the soft cotton shorts over her sweet little ass. When they’re safely up, I undo her skirt and pull it off of her as delicately as possible. I’ve exposed a thin strip of skin between her shorts and her sweater, and I can’t help myself. I lean over and kiss her just above the belly button. Still, she sleeps.
    The sweater provides more of a challenge. I try more than once to remove it, but she keeps stirring and I finally have to admit that any further attempts will probably wake her. Instead, I pull down the bottom hem to cover that bit of skin at her waist.
    There’s an extra quilt at the foot of the bed, and I unfold it and spread it across her, taking care to tuck the edges around her body so she won’t get cold.
    There. Hopefully I’ve made her more comfortable. It’s a small gesture, but it’s the least I can do after the way I’ve handled things. Now I should go and give her the chance to finish sleeping. But I find that I can’t bear to leave her side. I could sit here for hours and watch her dream, counting the minutes by the number of deep breaths she takes in and out. I could lose myself in the fluttering rhythm of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
    I shouldn’t have left her alone last night, and I’m not going to leave her alone now.
    I bend over and pull off my shoes. Then my socks. My clothes come off until I’m down to my undershirt and briefs, and then I lean over the bed, carefully pull the quilt away from her body, and slide in next to her. The mattress sinks slightly beneath my weight, and her breathing hitches. But her eyes never open. After a moment, her breathing falls back into rhythm again.
    I don’t get too close—still fearing I’ll disturb her—but at the same time, I find it hard to stay away. I lie on my side facing her and just watch her. Not touching, not speaking, just watching.
    After a few minutes, she makes a sound in her sleep, then shifts toward me, her body seeking mine as it has on so many nights we’ve shared the same bed. When she moves, she’s right up against me, her shoulder against my chest, her face turned toward the base of my throat. I can just feel the brush of her nose against my neck, and her smell—that luscious smell that is solely hers —envelops me.
    I can’t help myself. I reach out and pull her closer to me. I drop my head until my lips are against her hair, until I can taste her delicious fragrance on my lips.
    Her body molds right against mine, just as it has on so many other occasions. And my body is quick to respond. There will be no more fighting and no more secrets between us,