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The Wedding Night

One Year After the Flood

BEAU

They got married in the bar.

Of course they did. Where else would two men who’d fallen in love over sawdust and mahogany and six weeks of forced proximity choose to pledge their lives to each other?

The ceremony was small—just family and close friends, maybe forty people total. Marge had cried through the whole thing. Flynn’s mother had cried harder. Even Tom Callahan had looked suspiciously bright-eyed when Beau slid the ring onto Flynn’s finger.

Now the guests were gone, the caterers had cleaned up, and The Old Mill was quiet again. Just Beau and Flynn and the building that had brought them together.

“We’re married,” Flynn said, like he still couldn’t believe it. He was sprawled in one of the booths, bow tie undone, jacket discarded, looking thoroughly debauched even though they hadn’t done anything yet. “We’re actually married.”

“We are.” Beau sat down across from him, reaching across the table to take his hand. The matching rings caught the low light. “Having second thoughts?”

“Never.” Flynn’s smile was incandescent. “I’ve been waiting for this day since you proposed. Maybe since before that.”

“Since when?”

“Since you walked into my ruined bar and scowled at everything like it had personally offended you.” Flynn turned Beau’s hand over, tracing the lines of his palm. “I knew you were going to be trouble.”

“I was trouble?”

“The best kind.” Flynn lifted Beau’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “The kind that changes your whole life.”

Beau’s chest ached with how much he loved this man. A year ago, he’d been alone. Closed off. Convinced that needing people was weakness.

Now he was married. To the most beautiful, stubborn, impossibly optimistic person he’d ever met.

“Come here,” Beau said, tugging Flynn’s hand.

Flynn slid out of the booth and into Beau’s lap, straddling him, arms looping around his neck. “Hi, husband.”

“Hi yourself.” Beau pulled him down for a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. They had all night. They had the rest of their lives. But right now, Beau wanted.

“I have a request,” he said against Flynn’s lips.

“Anything.”

“I want—” Beau hesitated, still not entirely used to asking for things. “I want you to fuck me. Tonight. On the bar.”

Flynn pulled back, eyes dark. “Yeah?”

“It’s where we started. Where we’ve celebrated everything important.” Beau met his gaze steadily. “I want to start our marriage there too.”

“God, I love you.” Flynn kissed him hard, grinding down in his lap. “I love that you ask for things now. Love that you let me give them to you.”

“You taught me how.”

“We taught each other.”

Flynn climbed off his lap and held out a hand. Beau took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet, led across the empty taproom to the mahogany bar that had witnessed so much of their story.

“Hop up,” Flynn said.

Beau raised an eyebrow. “That’s usually my line.”

“Tonight, I’m in charge.” Flynn’s smile was pure sin. “Consider it your wedding present.”

Beau hoisted himself onto the bar, and Flynn stepped between his legs, and suddenly they were kissing again—deep and filthy, months of marriage anticipation finally breaking free.

* * *

FLYNN

Flynn had been thinking about this all day.

Through the ceremony, through the vows, through the toasts and the cake and the endless well-wishes—part of his brain had been here, in this moment, planning exactly how he was going to take his husband apart.

His husband. God, he loved the sound of that.

“Arms up,” Flynn ordered.

Beau complied, and Flynn stripped his shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him. A year of seeing this body, and he still wasn’t used to it—the broad shoulders, the defined chest, the trail of dark hair leading down into Beau’s dress pants.

“You’re staring,” Beau said.

“Admiring.” Flynn ran his hands up Beau’s chest, feeling muscles twitch under his touch. “You’re mine now. Legally. I can stare as much as I want.”

“You could always stare as much as you wanted.”

“Now I have paperwork that says so.” Flynn pinched one of Beau’s nipples, enjoying the sharp inhale it earned. “Lie back.”

Beau lay back on the bar, stretching out on the mahogany surface like an offering. His feet hung off the edge, and his head was pillowed on his folded arms, and he looked like every fantasy Flynn had ever had.

“Stay there,” Flynn said. “Don’t move.”

He circled the bar, trailing his fingers along Beau’s skin—up his arm, across his shoulder, down his chest. Beau’s muscles twitched, stomach clenching, but he stayed obediently still.

“Good,” Flynn murmured. “So good for me.”

The praise made Beau shudder. A year in, and that particular kink hadn’t faded. If anything, it had gotten stronger—Beau craved approval, validation, proof that he was wanted.

Flynn planned to give him all of it.

He undid Beau’s belt slowly, drawing out the moment. Button next, then zipper, and then he was tugging Beau’s pants and boxers down, freeing his already-hard cock.

“Look at you,” Flynn breathed. “Hard already. Just from me touching you.”

“Always.” Beau’s voice was strained. “From the day we met. You’ve always done this to me.”

“Even when you hated me?”

“I never hated you.” Beau lifted his head, meeting Flynn’s eyes. “I was terrified of you. Of what you made me feel. But I never hated you.”

Flynn’s heart clenched. He leaned down and kissed Beau—soft, reverent.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promised. “Going to take you apart and put you back together. Going to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

“Please.”

Flynn retrieved the supplies he’d stashed behind the bar earlier—he was nothing if not prepared—and settled between Beau’s spread thighs.

“Feet on the bar,” he instructed. “Knees up.”

Beau obeyed, planting his feet on the mahogany surface, opening himself up. Flynn took a moment to appreciate the view—Beau laid out before him, vulnerable and trusting, the ring on his finger catching the light.

Then he slicked his fingers and got to work.

* * *

Flynn had learned Beau’s body like a language.

He knew that Beau liked to be stretched slowly, that too fast made him tense up. He knew that Beau’s prostate was slightly to the left, that hitting it made him curse and arch off whatever surface he was on. He knew that Beau could come untouched if Flynn was patient enough—had proven it multiple times over the past year.

Tonight, he used all of it.

One finger first, circling and pressing until Beau relaxed enough to let him in. Then two, scissoring gently, working him open with practiced ease.

“More,” Beau demanded.

“Patience.”

“Flynn—”

“You asked me to fuck you.” Flynn crooked his fingers, rubbing Beau’s prostate, watching him gasp. “That means I’m in charge. That means we go at my pace.”

Beau groaned but stopped pushing, surrendering to Flynn’s control.

Three fingers now, and Beau was sweating, cock leaking against his stomach, making sounds that went straight to Flynn’s dick. He looked wrecked already, and Flynn hadn’t even gotten inside him yet.

“Ready?” Flynn asked.

“Been ready. Please, Flynn—”

Flynn withdrew his fingers and slicked his cock. He was longer than average—they’d both learned to work with that—so he lined up carefully, pressing the head against Beau’s entrance.

“Look at me,” he said.

Beau’s eyes opened, dark and hazy with want.

“I love you,” Flynn said. “My husband. My forever.”

“I love you too,” Beau breathed. “Now please fucking move.”

Flynn pushed inside.

Beau took him beautifully—body opening, muscles relaxing, accepting Flynn inch by inch. It was always like this when Flynn topped: overwhelming, intimate, a connection that went beyond physical.

“Oh god.” Beau’s head fell back against the bar. “Flynn—”

“I’ve got you.” Flynn bottomed out, buried to the hilt, and held still to let Beau adjust. “I’ve always got you.”

“Move. I need—”

Flynn moved.

He started slow, long strokes that let Beau feel every inch of him. The bar was the perfect height for this—Beau laid out like a feast, Flynn standing between his legs, able to thrust deep and watch Beau’s face at the same time.

“So beautiful,” Flynn murmured, picking up the pace. “Taking me so well. My perfect husband.”

Beau moaned, cock jerking against his stomach.

“You like that?” Flynn angled his hips, searching for that spot. “Like being called husband? Like knowing you’re mine?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

Flynn found his prostate and started hitting it with every thrust.

Beau came undone.

His back arched off the bar, hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth mahogany surface. The sounds he made were obscene—broken moans and gasps and Flynn’s name repeated like a prayer.

“Touch yourself,” Flynn ordered. “Come for me. Come on my cock, Beau.”

Beau’s hand flew to his cock, stroking desperately, and three pumps later he was coming—spilling across his chest and stomach, clenching impossibly tight around Flynn.

The sensation dragged Flynn over the edge with him.

He buried himself deep and let go, pleasure crashing through him in waves. Distantly, he was aware of crying out Beau’s name, of gripping Beau’s hips hard enough to bruise, of filling his husband with everything he had.

When it was over, Flynn collapsed forward onto Beau’s chest, both of them breathing hard.

“Best wedding present ever,” Beau managed.

Flynn laughed weakly. “We aim to please.”

“You succeeded.” Beau’s arms came up to wrap around him, holding him close. “I love you. Have I mentioned that?”

“Once or twice.” Flynn pressed a kiss to his sweaty chest. “I love you too. Forever.”

“Forever,” Beau agreed.

* * *

BEAU

They eventually made it upstairs.

The loft had changed in the year since Flynn first hired Beau to save the bar. Real furniture now instead of an air mattress and sleeping bag. Photos on the walls—the two of them at various stages of the renovation, the grand opening, the day Flynn’s dad came back and actually said he was proud.

Home. That’s what it was now. Their home.

“Shower?” Flynn suggested.

“In a minute.” Beau pulled Flynn down onto the bed, arranging them face to face, legs tangled together. “Want to look at you first.”

“I’m sweaty and covered in—”

“You’re my husband.” Beau cupped Flynn’s face. “I want to look at my husband.”

Flynn’s smile was soft. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you? ‘My husband’ this, ‘my husband’ that.”

“Absolutely. For at least the next fifty years.”

“Only fifty?”

“Minimum. Could be longer.” Beau kissed him gently. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For seeing me. For staying. For being stubborn enough to break through all my walls.” Beau’s throat tightened. “I wouldn’t be here without you. Wouldn’t be this person. You made me better.”

“You made yourself better,” Flynn corrected. “I just provided incentive.”

“Very attractive incentive.”

“I do what I can.”

They lay there in the quiet, trading kisses and soft words, letting the magnitude of the day settle over them. Married. Partners. Forever.

“Hey, Beau?” Flynn said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Ready for round two?”

Beau laughed—a real, full laugh, the kind that Flynn had taught him how to make. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twelve, final offer.”

“Deal.” Beau pulled him closer, burying his face in Flynn’s hair. “Have I mentioned I love you?”

“You have. But feel free to keep saying it.”

“I love you.” Beau pressed the words into Flynn’s skin like a brand. “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Flynn’s arms tightened around him. “Now and always.”

Outside, the river flowed past in the darkness, patient and eternal. Inside, two men who’d found each other against all odds held on tight and started their forever.

The bar would open tomorrow, full of people and noise and life. There would be drinks to make and customers to charm and a business to run.

But tonight, there was just this—warmth and love and the quiet certainty of belonging.

Beau had spent his whole life building things.

This—this love, this marriage, this life with Flynn—was his greatest creation.

And it was only the beginning.

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