Prompt: shackles
Your honeymoon begins in a hotel in downtown Toronto, just a few miles away from the reception you and your wife—your wife—snuck away from.
The real honeymoon begins tomorrow, when you and your wife board a flight for Bora Bora. But tonight, tonight you're in a gorgeous suite at the Windsor Arms, one overlooking the sparkling lights of the downtown skyline, and your wife—you have a wife—is standing there in her wedding dress, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as she looks at you like it's the first time. Like she's falling in love with you all over again.
There's so much you want to do. You should be exhausted, you've been up forever and the day was full of movement and celebration and this and that. You should be ready to fall into bed, collapse and feel the soft mattress catch your body and cradle it until morning. You should be exhausted but you're not. Every part of you, every nerve and synapse is on fire, burning with excitement.
You got married today.
You got married.
Your wife squeezed your hand and said "I do" and slipped a ring onto your finger, promising forever.
You got married today and you can't let today end, can't let today slip away and become tomorrow yet.
You're not ready for it to be tomorrow yet.
"Wait," you say as your wife—your wife—slowly slides the hidden zipper of her dress down, lets the fabric pool at her feet, and she looks up at you with a smile and you want to keep this moment in your memory forever. The milky-white of her skin, the ivory lace covering her sex, her breasts. You want to savor this image, the flush of heat at her chest, the trembling of her thighs.
"Wait," you say again, and step forward, step out of your own dress and move toward her, the soft blue of your lingerie a gentle contrast to her own.
The meeting of your lips is delicate, tentative. You've shared many a kiss tonight, many a kiss since that first one, that one that made you hers until death do you part. But those were for others. For your mother and hers, for your fathers. For your friends and your colleagues and your relatives. For people you barely knew and people you've never met.
This kiss, this kiss is for you.
This kiss is everything.
A promise to each other, a dream for the future.
The kiss deepens and as she clings to you, as your wife clings to you, you hear your vows echo through your head. A promise to love and to cherish, a promise to support her in her times of need, a promise to celebrate her in her times of joy. A promise to believe in her when she can't believe in herself. A promise to laugh with her, cry with her, hope with her, and dream with her.
A promise to choose her, every day, for the rest of your lives.