A Father's Fight: Blake and Layla #2 (Fighting #5) (14 page)

Epilogue

Six months later . . .

Layla

“For the love of God, Layla, can we please do this
already?” Braeden groans and drops his head back. He’s standing with his thumbs
hooked into his pockets, leaning against the wall, looking every bit the
military hero in his dress blues.

“Okay, I’m ready.” I take a deep breath and check my reflection
one last time.

“You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.” He pushes off the wall,
glaring at me through the mirror. “Pretty sure a guy ain’t going to show up in
your reflection to tell you you’re the fairest of them all anytime soon.”

I whirl around and glare at him. “Hardy har har.”

He takes me in from my hair to my feet, and his eyes soften when
they land on my shoes. “A wedding dress and biker boots.” He shakes his head.
“You were so made for my brother.” He holds out his arm and nods for me to take
it.

“Thank you.” I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. “I’ll
take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.” He flashes that Daniels’ crooked grin. “You’re
the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” A hint of color touches his cheeks. “Definitely
the fairest in the land.”

“Aww . . .” Hot tears burn my eyes. “No, no, no!” I stomp my
foot. “You’re going to make me cry, and it took Eve thirty minutes to get these
fake eyelashes on straight.” I pretend I’m checking my eyelashes and not
actually soaking up the beginning stages of tears.

He chuckles as we move from the bride’s room into the reception
area of the church. It wasn’t our idea to get married in a house of God, but
Blake wanted a traditional wedding to honor our parents’ beliefs and customs.

At first I thought it was absurd. I mean we already live together
and have a baby, but I love how committed Blake is to ensuring our parents are
proud and comfortable with our situation.

That’s also the reason I’m wearing a white dress. The Lord God
above knows I sure don’t deserve it, but Blake insisted I deserve to wear white
more than any other bride because I never had the option to do it the other
way.

“Your choices were taken
away from you, Mouse. I want you to have them back. You want to wear white; you
fucking do it and own it. Throw a big fat middle finger to the past, and take
control of your future.”

I went shopping with Axelle, Raven, Eve, and Gia the weekend after
Jack was born and fell in love with a corset-style wedding dress with a black
lace overlay on the bodice. Everything about it screamed rock n’ roll, and
without even checking the price tag, I agreed to buy it.

Standing outside the double doors that enter into the chapel, I
fuss with my hair. Blake loves it down, so I had Eve style it in long, loose
curls that hang around my shoulders, and instead of a veil, I opted for a thick
black fabric that wears like a headband and ties at the nape of my neck.

The church wedding coordinator presses her eye between the doors
that lead into the sanctuary. “It’s almost time, you two, ready?”

Brae looks down at me, grinning. “You ready—”

“Wait!” I hold my finger up to the lady and turn to face Brae
head on. “I forgot to say thank you for doing this. My dad . . . his wheel
chair . . . I just . . .”

“I’m honored.” He squeezes my hand and tucks it back into the
bend of his arm. “Now let’s do this. Last time I was left in charge of you I
fucked it up, and my brother swore wedgies and loogie drops to my forehead if I
fucked it up again.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” With my blood-red rose bouquet held to
my waist, I squeeze my future brother-in-law’s arm. “I’m ready.”

~*~

Blake

Standing up here in front of all these people, wearing
a damn monkey suit couldn’t feel any more awkward. Over two hundred of our
friends and family sit facing me while I wait for Brae to walk Layla down the
aisle.

I keep my shoulders back, arms loose, hands clasped in front of
me. The small string quartet plays a familiar wedding song, but as I stand here
getting ready to make my woman my wife, the melody sounds new, as if it were
created just for us.

My eyes scan the room, passing over all the gazes set on me, to
settle on my dad. Over the last six months, he’s endured rigorous amounts of
chemotherapy and radiation. His once strong body is now almost half its size,
his skin pale and almost hanging off his bones in some places just like the
starched fabric of his dress blues. The small bit of hair that’s finally
growing back on his chemo-ravaged scalp is completely white.

But his eyes shine with a ferocity I’ve never seen in him before.
His posture is that of man ten times his size and weight, and he gazes up at me
with the pride of a father who has spent his entire life hero-worshipping a
son. Our eyes lock. He nods and it’s so small, but it communicates support and
love.

My mom has her hands wrapped around one of his in her lap, and
she smiles in a way that seems to say,
I
knew you’d be okay.

Layla’s mom and dad are sitting together in the front row on the
opposite side from my parents. They were older when they had Layla and now look
more like great-grandparents. We were able to fly them in town and arranged for
a nurse to accompany them. When I called Layla’s dad back before I proposed, I
told him I’d make sure he was there to give his daughter away. He didn’t
believe I could make it happen, but now he gets it. I’d do anything, pay any amount,
cross to the ends of the world and beyond if it meant making my woman happy.

A baby-sized squeal comes from behind me, and I turn to see
Axelle moving to her spot across from me with Jack in her arms.

“Sorry,” she mouths and moves into her position as Maid of Honor.
“Diaper change.”

Jack squeals and flashes a toothless grin before leaning forward
to gum his sister’s shoulder. I roll my lips between my teeth to avoid
laughing, at the same time thinking we need to move this along because Jack
clearly needs to feed.

The sound of the quartet fades, and then they start up a new song
that has the entire room standing and turning toward the back of the sanctuary.
My stomach flip flops with excitement, and I stand tall, my eyes fixed to the
back of the room.

The double doors swing open, and with the mid-day sun shining
behind her, I can only make out her silhouette. That alone has my knees
wobbling and me holding my breath.

An angel.

She’s my fucking angel.

One slow step at a time, Braeden walks Layla toward me until
she’s fully visible beneath the lights. Her big brown eyes set on mine and I
catch my breath. My hand moves to my chest of its own accord as if trying to
protect my heart from her beauty.

They continue to advance, not fucking fast enough, as the music
plays.

Gorgeous.

Breathtaking.

One of a kind.

The whispers of the people in the audience mimic my thoughts.

As they reach the end of the aisle, Layla’s eyes break from mine
to watch as Braeden wheels her father to her right side. He’s hunched over in
his chair, unable to sit up fully, so Layla squats at his side, pulling one of
his shaky hands into hers, then turns to face the pastor.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” the pastor says
with a Bible clutched to his chest.

Layla’s dad sits up as tall as he can, throwing back his
shoulders just as I’ve seen her do countless times. “Her mother and I do.” He
places a tender kiss to her knuckles then holds out her hand to me.

My heart leaps in my chest. I already have Layla in every way a
man possibly can, but something about the act of having her handed off to me by
the man who gave her life and nurtured her to be the woman she is, pulls
something deep within me. Humility and feelings of unworthiness wash over me,
and I claim Layla’s hand and bend to meet her father’s eyes.

“Mr. Devereux, thank you for trusting me to take care of your
daughter. I won’t let you down, sir.”

His bottom lip quivers, foggy brown eyes shine with tears, but he
remains stoic. “No, I don’t believe you will.”

Layla and I stand, and Brae wheels her father back before taking
his place at my side. We turn hand in hand to the pastor, and I can’t help
peeking over at her. Her face is made up just enough to enhance her already
perfect features, lips painted a deep red that reminds me of a ripe cherry. She
sees me staring and smiles so sweetly that my heart kicks double-time. I’m
surprised I turn back to the pastor without pulling her in for a long, deep,
wet kiss.

Patience, Daniels. That
part’s coming.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today . . .”

The ceremony goes on exactly how we rehearsed. There are tears,
laughter, more tears, and the occasional baby protest. I try as hard as I can
to keep my head in the game, remember all my lines when the time comes, but
it’s difficult to focus on anything except Layla.

She radiates purity and love in white, but the black lace that
pushes up her breasts and those damn biker boots scream rebel. My hands itch to
explore her body, to see all that fabric pooled around her ankles as I run my
tongue over every inch of her naked skin.

“You may kiss the bride.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” I murmur and receive a tight warning glare
from the pastor.

“I cannot believe you just said the f-word in church,” Layla
whispers, but the ginormous grin on her face contradicts her reprimand.

I cup her face in my hands, lean down, and brush my lips against
hers. “Open up, Mrs. Daniels. Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget.”

~*~

Six hours later . . .

Layla

We burst through the doors of our honeymoon suite, with
me cradled in Blake’s arms and our mouths fused together. I don’t know how he
managed to work the key card without looking, but I’m damn grateful he did.

Blake rips his mouth from mine. “Shit, Mouse. Are you trying to
get us blacklisted from The Four Seasons?”

I push up, pressing my breasts to his chest and pulling his lips
back to mine. “I could ask you the same thing.” Our voices are breathless and
weak.

What started out as innocent kissing in the elevator quickly
turned to fondling, which will ignite into a full-blown public indecency charge
if we don’t get our asses behind closed doors ASAP.

The reception was beautiful. Food was delicious. Decorations
flawless. But I still found myself wanting to hit fast forward on the night and
get to our suite. I longed for it to be just the two of us, alone for the first
time as husband and wife.

Blake drops my legs so my feet hit the floor but doesn’t release
me from the beautiful assault of his tongue.

I moan and pull back to meet his eyes, which are hooded and
practically glowing emerald. “Are you going to rob me of my first look around
this fancy hotel room?”

He shrugs off his tux jacket without leaving my space. His eyes
roam my neck, jawline, and breasts. “’Fraid so. You’ll have to take in the
sights when you’re on all fours.” He steps close, wound up tight after today,
and I step back out of instinct. “Study the ceiling when you’re on your back.”
Having already removed his tie earlier, he moves to unbutton his black dress
shirt. “Check out the view while I’m taking you on your side.”

My stomach tumbles and melts down low. I step back again, only to
have him chase me down. His hands move to the swell of my breasts, which are
now heaving and practically spilling over my corset top. He traces the line of
my cleavage. “Want this off, but the way I’m feeling, I don’t want to rip it.”

A giggle burns in my chest but dies before it hits my lips. I
turn around and pull my hair over one shoulder while he slowly unlaces the
delicate fabric and pushes it down around my hips and then to the floor. The
cool air hits my body and I shiver. He must’ve chucked his shirt, because I
feel his bare skin against my back and his hands slide around my belly.

I’ve lost most of the baby weight I’d gained during pregnancy, but
my tummy isn’t as flat or tight as it used to be. Now to accompany the C-section
scar I got bringing Axelle into the world, I’ve got a few extra stretch marks
too, but I’d never know it from the way Blake feasts his eyes on me.

If anything, he seems more attracted to me now that I’ve got the
battle wounds of childbirth marking my body. He treats them like medals,
symbols of valor that he insists on worshiping with his hands and lips whenever
we make love.

“No bra?” He cups my swollen breasts, still larger from
breastfeeding.

I tilt my head and allow him better access to my throat and jaw.
“The top of my dress held everything in place, and I had to pump a couple
times. No bra equals easy access.”

The vibration of his laughter rolls across my skin in a sensual
caress. “Easy access is my favorite, Mouse.”

His mouth continues its torturous exploration while his hands
drop lower and trace the line of my lace panties. I moan as his fingers slip
below the delicate fabric and move straight between my legs. I bite my lip and
roll against his hand, hoping he picks up on my unspoken request.

He nuzzles my neck, nips my ear, and then freezes. “You sure we
left Axelle and my parents with enough milk?”

I blink open my eyes and feel cool air hit my upper back as he
leans to meet my glare.

“The pediatrician said he’d have a growth spurt at six months.
I’d hate it if he burned through all you pumped and didn’t have—”

“Blake”—I drop my chin to my chest—“we’ve been over
this.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

I turn around, losing his hand that was between my legs, not that
it matters since this conversation has doused my arousal. He opens his mouth,
but I put my finger to his lips.

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s our wedding night. I’ve had to look
at you all night and imagine all the dirty things you’d do to me once we were
finally in our room, and I refuse to allow you to ruin it by worrying.” He
kisses my finger, and I drop it from his lips with no intention of allowing him
to continue before I set the ground rules. “First, no mention of any of our
parents. Let’s face it. They’re the last people we should be thinking about
when we’re naked. Our kids are a close second, but we can’t not talk about them,
so let’s save them for post-lovemaking conversation. And third, for the
hundredth time, Jack has plenty of milk, and they’re staying in the same hotel,
so if worse comes to worse, Axelle can bring him to us.” I hold out my hand and
make a show of dropping the mic.