Chapter Four

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Oliver was smiling in his sleep.

I haven't had more than a few hours of shut-eye myself, considering he'd made love to me through most of the night—slow, fast, rough and tender—but my bones were weightless, my body relaxed, my soul perfectly still.

Why sleep when you can gaze at the man you love instead?

Yes, I was a little tired but it didn't keep me from waking up at first light, snuggling closer to Oliver's warm, hard body and studying his features in repose, a little awed that after more than decade of secretly loving him, he was mine at last.

The room was awash with the muted rays of sunlight slipping through the curtain gaps, bathing everything in this soft, rose-gold glow—a romantic backsplash to the portrait of a sinfully seductive sleeping prince sprawled next to me in bed.

Oliver might be my prince but his beauty was rugged in a way that no one would really call him handsome, at least not in the traditional sense. They would call him hot or sexy (or orgasmic if it got a little blunt) because his sex appeal was far more powerful than his looks—he was mostly rough edges and stark masculinity. Even with a half-curve of a smile touching his mouth, he still seemed intimidating. His nose had a slight bend to it, having been broken at least twice that I knew of. His cheekbones were sharp and high, his jaw square and peppered with a semi-permanent five o'clock shadow. His strong profile was punctuated by the deep, wide cleft on his chin, a stark contrast to his soft, pillowy lips that often curved into an insolent smile. If one looked closely, they would see little white scars that marred his mostly smooth skin, the more pronounced ones under his lower lip, on his chin, and a long, curved one that cut across his left brow. His hands were rough and full of little nicks too, as if Oliver constantly got into brawls and lived on the streets instead of the luxuries an heir to a vast family-owned empire of hotel chains would enjoy—at least before his family's car accident. We'd spent a lot of time living in different states that I didn't always know if he was coming home bruised and banged up but I could tell the new scars from the old ones every time we saw each other. If anything serious happened though, Oliver would tell me. If he didn't, Stellan or my Dad would.

They wouldn't need to anymore. I don't plan on us living apart for much longer.

We were married now—husband and wife.

No married couple lived apart—at least not while they're still in love, and Oliver and I will be in love for a long time.

My husband.

That word was common enough but it evoked a fierce surge of pride and possessiveness in me, as if that word punctuated the very essence of how I'd always felt about him. I always knew that he would, one day, be that man for me and now that it was actually done, it didn't liberate me as it normally would when something you always wanted finally happened. It felt like I was even more tethered to him and that the force that bound us together was tangible yet irrevocable.

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