Where We Disappear
“Now be a good wife and get your divine little ass in the car.”
— Rhys
The second we stepped into the dining room, I felt it—a hush that fell over everything like the quiet turning of a final page. It was subtle, that shift in the air, but undeniable: the last chapter of something sacred softly closing around us. The laughter in the room was light and easy, a gentle undercurrent that hummed beneath the clink of coffee cups and half-finished plates—the kind of morning-after scene that only belonged to those who’d seen each other at their rawest and still chosen to stay.
The light poured in from the tall French windows, striking her hair in a way that made my chest ache. Even in soft clothes, barefoot, she glowed—married, grounded, mine. God, she looked so peaceful it made me want to kiss every bruise the world had ever given her. I kept my hand resting at the small of her back as we moved through the room—not out of obligation, never that. Out of instinct. Out of worship. Out of the need to remind the world that she belonged to me now.
I felt the subtle ripple of tension in her as heads turned, a tide of good mornings and teasing jabs washing over us like warm sun across cold marble.
“Looks like the newly-weds survived the night,” Camille said, her lips curving in a knowing smirk as she sipped her espresso.
Nicola let out an exaggerated sigh, her voice bright with mischief. “Barely. Rhys looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, and she looks like she’s the reason.”
Jude didn’t even glance up from his black coffee. “I need stronger caffeine.”
I pulled her chair out with one hand, letting my fingers linger at her waist before I pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder—quiet, deliberate. Then I slid into the seat beside her, our fingers threading together under the table—an unspoken vow in the space where skin met skin. She fit there like she’d been carved to belong, like we’d been doing this forever and the rest of the world was only just catching up.
She looked toward the centre of the table—trays of eggs and fresh fruit, croissants still steaming—her free hand drifting to a glass of juice, something to ground herself in the soft chaos of the morning. I leaned in, voice pitched low for her alone.
“You doing okay, kitten?”
She nodded, but her fingers tightened around mine, a wordless confession I felt all the way down to my bones. I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed her knuckles, the simple press of mouth to skin saying everything I didn’t need to speak aloud.
Around us, people began to rise—stretching, gathering luggage, voices weaving together with laughter and talk of travel plans. I didn’t let go of her hand. I wouldn’t. Not here. Not ever. Camille kissed her cheek softly, a parting benediction, while Nicola demanded a hug and threatened to leave a framed copy of my topless beach poster in the guest room.
“You’re welcome,” she said, her stage-whisper bright with delight. “In case you forget what he looks like. Or need a conversation starter for the twins someday.”
I laughed, low and rough, and pressed a kiss to Jasmine’s temple. My breath was warm against her hair as I whispered, “Remind me to burn that poster when we get home.”
When we stepped out into the morning light, the world was still bright and gentle—cars waiting with trunks popped, keys exchanged with murmured thank-yous. I kept my arm wrapped tight around her, her body tucked into my side like she’d been built to fit there. The air smelled of coffee and roses, fresh dew on the grass, and the softest hush of leaves overhead.
I knew, even then, as we watched our friends gather the last pieces of themselves before leaving, that this was what I’d been fighting for all along. This quiet morning, this woman who was mine, and the certainty in my chest that I would hold her here—always.
When the last door shut, the tires crunching down the gravel drive like the last echoes of a world that wasn’t ours anymore, I didn’t let go. I held her there—her body soft against mine, her breath warm at my throat—because this was it. We’d done it. We’d weathered the vows, the chaos, the secrets, the danger. And now… now it was just us. No more pretending. No more distractions. No more eyes. Just her. Just me. And the next chapter of the life I’d build with her until the stars themselves forgot our names.
I tilted her chin up, catching the curve of her lips in a kiss that was deep, slow—reverent. My voice was a murmur against her mouth, low and possessive.
“You ready, mon amour? Because now? Now we disappear.”
She looked up at me, her smile soft and sure, her eyes lit from the inside like she’d been born for this moment. One hand rose to cup my cheek, her ring glinting in the soft light—my mark on her, my vow made real.
“I was born ready.”
I let out a breath that was half a prayer.
“You were,” I said, my voice rough with something raw. “God, Jasmine… you really fucking were.”
My arms slid around her waist, pulling her in, pulling her close—closer still—because even with her in my arms, I didn’t feel close enough. My forehead pressed to hers, my nose grazing the bridge of hers, and I let the silence hold us there, let it speak for me when words couldn’t.
“I used to think I knew what purpose looked like,” I whispered, my thumb tracing the length of her spine with slow, deliberate reverence. “Running companies. Chasing legacy. Building empires. Turns out, it looks like this—like you. In my arms. In my house. In my future.”
Outside, the morning sun spilled across the stone of the courtyard, turning the air gold and warm—like the world itself had been holding its breath for this moment. The noise of the past few days was gone. The weight of expectation, of performance, of survival—it all belonged to yesterday. And here? Here was the first breath of everything that mattered.
I pulled back just enough to look at her again, my hand rising to cup her jaw, my thumb brushing the perfect curve of her lower lip.
“I’m going to spoil you, mon amour,” I said, a slow, wicked smile curling the edge of my mouth. “Ruin you for anything that isn’t this.”
I took her hand, lifting it to my lips and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, right over the frantic beat of her pulse.
“Now,” I said, voice low and full of promise, “go pack your bag. Honeymoon starts in twenty minutes.”
She let out a squeal—pure, unguarded joy—and launched herself at me so fast it knocked the breath from my chest. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her laughter spilling between us like sunlight, and I swear to God, I could’ve lived in that sound forever and still died happy. She pressed a quick, fierce kiss to my cheek and tore off, barefoot and bright, her hair flying behind her as she disappeared back inside.
I just stood there, watching her vanish around the corner, a grin breaking across my face like I was a man undone and too far gone to care. My heart was still thundering in my chest, every beat a testament to the way she filled me up and stripped me bare in the same breath.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair as I grinned at the empty hallway. “She’s going to destroy me.”
And I couldn’t fucking wait.
I turned back inside, my smile still carved into my face, already ticking through the mental list I’d checked a dozen times over: the car packed, the staff briefed, the villa waiting—quiet, secluded, perfect. Just the two of us. Just the sound of the ocean and the hush of silk sheets and her body wrapped around mine until the rest of the world disappeared into memory. No headlines. No shadows. No masks. Just my wife, sunlit and unrepentant, and me—already half-gone just thinking about watching her unpack in some impossibly beautiful room that would feel like ours the second she stepped inside.
As I made my way upstairs, the faint scent of her shampoo still lingered in the air—a breadcrumb trail I followed with a heartbeat pounding like war drums. I half-expected what I’d find, of course.
The moment I pushed open the bedroom door and saw the battlefield she’d created, I had to laugh—a low, dark sound that slipped past my lips like it belonged to the man I’d always been with her. Clothes were scattered across the bed like confetti, shoes flung into opposite corners of the room like they’d had an argument, silk and lace spilling from open drawers like a riot of colour and soft promise. Her suitcase lay half-open, half-defeated, and still—she was radiant.
She was half-buried in the wardrobe, tossing garments out like she was on a mission that involved no logic and all the chaos in her heart. A bikini flew past the mirror. A hoodie—mine, obviously—landed on the floor. One of her bras sat perched on the edge of the chair like a crown. And through it all, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I bent, picked the bra off the chair, and handed it to her like I was giving her a weapon meant for worship.
“For the record,” I said, my voice low, dark, and edged with everything I was feeling, “bring the red one.”
She wrestled with her suitcase like it was an enemy that refused to yield, that little flick of her tongue slipping out as she zipped it shut—God, that tongue, that grin—pure chaos. Pure her. And pure fucking temptation. The red set hit the suitcase like a shot to the chest, and I didn’t even bother to pretend I wasn’t watching. She eyed that zipper like it was an opponent she’d bested a thousand times, like it might just fight back with vengeance if given the chance. The soft laugh that slipped from my chest wasn’t something I could have stopped even if I’d tried.
“That suitcase’s holding together by sheer force of your will and probably a whispered threat,” I murmured, letting the words curl around the quiet like the flick of a match in the dark.
But then she turned to me—slow, deliberate—the curve of her brow raised in challenge, that spark in her eyes that always made me feel like I was standing on a precipice.
“Shouldn’t you be packing too?” she said, voice smooth, calm, and sweet as sin.
I let my smirk spread, stepping forward into her space until I could feel her breath stutter. My hands slid over her hips with a slowness that was anything but innocent, my thumbs pressing into the soft dip of her waist. Her breath caught, just for a second—just long enough for me to know she felt it too.
“Oh, kitten,” I murmured, my voice low and warm, dipping my head until my lips brushed her jaw in a promise that tasted like sin. “I’ve been packed for two days. Clothes. Chargers. Spare tie in case we get lost and I need to look apologetically handsome. Even your favourite snacks. And I left room in my bag… in case you decide to pack nothing but that red set and make me carry you the rest of the way.”
Her breath hitched, the sound slipping from her throat like a confession. I pressed a kiss just beneath her jaw—slow, possessive—before I straightened, stepping back like I hadn’t just set her whole world on fire.
“Come on, Mrs. Llewellyn,” I called over my shoulder, my voice lazy, amused, wrecked with the kind of affection that tasted like a promise. “Time to see what the world looks like when it’s just us.”
“Are you not forgetting to grab my bag?” she asked, brow raised, smirk dancing at the corner of her mouth. “Or is Jude going to come grab it?”
I paused mid-step, turning back slowly—deliberately—because that tone in her voice? That wicked little smirk? It was a challenge she knew I’d never walk away from. My eyes swept over her, head to toe, my gaze heavy and deliberate, every inch of her claimed before I even spoke. Then I closed the space between us again, each step slow and sure, watching the way she shifted her weight like she couldn’t decide whether to stand her ground or run just to see if I’d chase. I didn’t speak right away. I let the silence do the talking. I reached for her suitcase, lifting it easily in one hand, the gesture as possessive as it was practical.
“Do you really think I’d let anyone but me carry the bag that holds my lingerie?” I asked, voice low and edged with that quiet, dangerous promise she knew so well.
She snorted softly, her brows arching like she was both unimpressed and charmed—her mouth curling into a smirk that had me wanting to bite it away.
“Your lingerie? Unless you have some secret cross-dressing fetish that should’ve been disclosed to me well before we married, I believe it’s my lingerie.”
I stopped dead, the words slipping through the air like silk-wrapped blades. My breath left me in a slow exhale, and I turned back to her—slow, deliberate, each step a promise and a challenge all at once. I set the suitcase down with a soft thud, reaching for her with both hands—one sliding around her hip, the other rising to trace her ribcage, my thumb brushing the swell of her breast through the thin fabric she wore. Just enough to feel her breath stall.
“My lingerie,” I murmured, my voice dark and low, my mouth so close to hers she could taste every word. “Because anything that touches this body—this body—belongs to me.”
My hand slipped lower, fingers gripping her thigh with that quiet, possessive strength that had her breath catching again.
“You wear it for me,” I whispered, my lips a breath from her skin. “You strip out of it for me. You tremble in it when I say your name. So unless you’re dressing up for the maid or the moon, I’m pretty fucking sure…”
I kissed her then—hard and deep, every promise and every claim wrapped up in that single, punishing press of lips. And when I pulled back, my voice was a ragged breath against her mouth.
“It’s mine.”
I let her go slowly, every inch of skin I released a promise I’d claim it back before the day was done. My hand closed around the handle of her suitcase again, my grip easy, deliberate. “Now be a good wife,” I said, my voice soft and edged with that possessive growl she never stopped craving, “and get your divine little ass in the car.”
As I turned to walk away, my voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for her to hear—because she always heard every word I meant for her. “...unless you want to see me in lace. In which case, honeymoon’s about to get real fucking interesting.”
She grabbed a pillow and launched it at me with a feral growl that was all fire and defiance.
“Good wife?” she snapped, her voice edged with that delicious threat that always made me want to test just how far she’d go. “I’ll show you fucking good wife.”
The pillow hit my back with a soft, muffled thud, but I didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn around right away. I let that moment hang in the air—her challenge, my silence. I paused mid-step in the hall, the suitcase still hanging from my hand, and then I turned back, slow and deliberate. My eyes locked on hers, every inch of me radiating the calm of a man who knew exactly how this game would end. Then, with that quiet authority she knew better than to doubt, I pointed at her—finger steady, tone low, the final command in a mission she hadn’t even realized she’d already accepted.
“Five minutes, kitten. Get your ass downstairs. And don’t forget the red set. The good wife wears her colours with pride.”
Her breath caught just enough to let me know she’d heard the promise behind every word. And then I turned, letting that soft, dangerous grin linger on my face as I walked away, the echo of her thrown pillow and her fire still warming my back.
I didn’t look back again. I didn’t need to. I knew she’d follow. And I knew I’d be waiting. Smiling the whole damn way to the car, already half-crazed with the thought of her in that red set and the silent vow in her eyes that said she’d show me exactly what being a good wife meant—again and again and again.
