“A winter wedding sounds good,” he says, closing his suitcase. “Wedding?” “Yes.” He sits on the bed, and I stand between his legs, his hands on my waist. “Let’s get married in February.” “Married?” He nods, advertising a smile I can’t refuse. “I want it all with you. Love, marriage, kids.” “You haven’t even asked me to marry you.” “Aurelia.” His voice is low and husky. “I ask you to marry me every time I’m inside you.”
