by Imani King
“Not yet, you two,” the priest joked, and the people around us laughed as Dorian rubbed his neck sheepishly and cleared his throat.
“Right. Sorry.” He was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
I barely heard a word the priest said. I was lost in Dorian’s eyes, in the knowledge that what we had was special, everlasting. I could see the future in his gaze: our happiness, our children, our life full of adventure and wonder every morning that we woke up in each other’s arms. I’d never dreamed any of this was possible for a girl like me, but here we were, the two of us, madly in love.
No, I thought, my hand drifting to my belly and the very small bump that rested there, the three of us.
When I look back on that day now, I don’t remember saying “I do.” That was something I’d said before, totally not worthy of committing to memory. What I remember is Dorian kissing me like there was no tomorrow, like we were the last damn people on Earth.
I was Dorian Lambert’s wife—his convenient wife—and the woman he’d spend all of eternity with. And I couldn’t have been happier.