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After the bar is his hand on her knee in the back of the town car Charles rented for them, Amy leaning against his shoulder as they speak in low voices, whispering about the night, about their captain’s words. It’s going over plans for dinner with their parents for the following day, and it’s his mouth against her collarbone. It’s the quiet buzz from the alcohol, not enough to make them drunk but instead a pleasant feeling of tipsy. It’s bubbling laughter as they thank the driver, as they stumble up the stone steps to their apartment, hand in hand. It’s Jake insisting on carrying her over the threshold, and her giggling into his chest.
It’s soft kisses pressed into long stretches of bare skin, dragged against the columns of throats, brushed on the corners of jaws and the tips of noses and foreheads covered with flyaway wisps of dark hair. It’s quick thumbs deftly unknotting a silk tie, and the feel of lace against open, moving palms. It’s his lips, light, against the fourth finger of her left hand, where the cool silver band sits.
“Is it weird to wear your ring even when you’re sleeping?” His words are nearly a murmur, his mouth touching the skin of her knuckle. “For some reason, I can’t remember if you took your engagement ring off.”
And Amy can’t help but chuckle, run her fingers through his cropped hair. “I mean, I only took it off during the night because the weight from your body against your hand can re-shape your ring over time, which loosens the stones and is hell to fix.” Then she smiles, dropping her right hand so that she can feel his ring, which matches hers (the thought makes her heart melt, just a little). “But these,” she says, cradling his palm, “these shouldn’t have that problem, since there are no stones to move.”
Jake grins then, intertwines their fingers and brings their now conjoined hands to his mouth. “Good, because I’m never taking it off. They’re gonna have to bury me in it.”
“You know, that’s a good idea, considering you’d probably lose it if it wasn’t literally attached to your body.”
Gasping overdramatically, a look of feigned betrayal slips onto his face, especially when he sees her shit-eating smirk. “God, I can’t believe my wife could and would insult me like this.”
“I can’t believe my husband didn’t have a good comeback for an insult that was mediocre at best,” she giggles, rolling her eyes in mock irritation. “Too bad that I love you.”
“Okay first of all, I love you, too. But secondly—” He doesn’t finish his retort, because she swallows his words with a hard kiss that quickly morphs into something slow, something deep. In the smooth, fluid movements, she tastes the sweet floral of rosé on his breath. She cups his cheek in her palm as he rolls onto his back, and she shifts so that her knee is hooked around his waist, so that she’s hovering just above him.
Idly, she can feel his hands roaming across the expanse her back, which is exposed thanks to the low cut of her garment, and when they part again, using the respite as an opportunity to take long, shuddering breaths. And then her fingers move to the buttons of his white shirt, while his move to fumble with undoing her dress; she laughs something deep in her belly when he can’t figure it out, as she whispers against his neck: “It’s a zipper, babe.” Soon enough, they’re both stripped of their cotton and tulle and lace and whatever else fabrics, and they can focus on each other, on the high of the night and the events of the day and what each coming day will bring.
And later, when the dress Gina lent her sits in a white heap on the floor, and her head lies against his chest, face burrowed into his collarbone, Amy lifts her chin, raises her gaze so that she can meet his. Then her eyes dart to the dark mauve lipstick that stains the edge of his jaw, to the foundation that most certainly (and unfortunately) stands out against his dress shirt even without her looking, and it makes her groan into the crook of his neck.
Eyebrows furrowed, Jake asks, “What’s wrong? Did we forget something? I know we haven’t opened the binder yet, but—”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” Her words are a little fast, but she doesn’t want to encourage the spiral that will inevitably occur if she allowed him to continue. “I just meant to take off my makeup when I got up to pee earlier.” And then quieter. “I don’t wanna get up now, I’m comfortable but my skin will definitely murder me in the morning if I don’t.”
“I’ve got you,” he says cheerfully, and she can feel his smile against her lips when he kisses her. Then he pulls away for a brief moment (she feels cold, just a little bit) as he stretches his arm, fumbling around in his nightstand.
She frowns. “I don’t think that’s gonna solve—”
“Make-up wipes.” And then he presents a sleek package of her favorite brand, the one that smells faintly of peaches and is organic and manages to never make her break out. An indescribable warmth fills her chest, and it’s like liquid gold because holy shit, how lucky is she to spend the rest of her life with a man who remembers minute details like make-up wipes and she feels like she’s wiping away tears along with her foundation.
When she finishes thoroughly divesting her skin of pore-clogging makeup (it only took two thin cloths to accomplish this), she briefly thinks about actually throwing it in the trashcan but it’s so far and Jake’s embrace is so soft, so inviting, that she can’t find it within herself to care, instead discarding the wipes on her bedside table, an action that causes Jake to raise an eyebrow.
But when she turns back to him, he kisses her tenderly, and it’s something languid, something light, and she sinks into it but they both pull away, grinning. Tucking her head back under his chin, she feels his fingers tracing faint, whimsical patterns against her back.
“God, our breath is gonna suck in the morning.”
Jake smiles, presses his lips against the crown of her head. “Worth it.”