by Meghan Quinn
Head held high, plan in place, I slip into the bathroom, keeping my eyes turned down . . . just in time for me to hear a light groan come from the shower directly behind me.
Because my eyes are curious—and don’t listen to my brain—I glance in the mirror. And what a sight. A dark outline of Beck’s incredible body. I cast my eyes down, focusing on the marble countertop of the vanity. I shouldn’t be looking. I should leave. It was supposed to be a quick drop and go, but . . .
I peek up again and notice Beck hunched over, one hand propping his body up against the tile, the other at his waist.
My mouth goes dry as I watch him slowly pump himself, his groan echoing through the bathroom, the steam and sounds coming from him heating my entire body. Like a voyeur, feet cemented to the tile beneath me, I stare into the mirror and watch his silhouette pump his length. Up and down, up and down.
A low ache starts to thrum between my legs, the need for him building, my will for leaving slipping.
I hear him grumble something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds a lot like my name, which pulls me toward the shower. On shaky legs, I kick off my shoes and socks, my body moving automatically, my hand reaching for the handle of the shower door.
T-shirt and shorts on, I open the shower door, and the cold air must pull Beck’s attention in my direction. Pained eyes meet mine, his hand stills on his cock, and his back muscles ripple from the tension building inside him. He’s so gloriously naked, sinew wrapped around the sturdy bones of his body, enticing me inside. Water be damned. I step up from behind him and bring my hands to his back where I hook them around his stomach, and his abs flicker beneath my palms with each inch I lower to his hard-on. I’m silent as I kiss his wet body, his back tight against my mouth, his hand parting from his length, giving me the access I want. With both of his hands leaning against the tile in front of him now, he braces himself as I move my hands to his center.
I grab his hard-as-rock cock and grip the base tightly, rotating my hand, making sure to move my thumb up and down his stiff veins. A low hiss escapes him, and when I grab his balls with the other hand, he bucks against me. I hold him tightly, giving him no wiggle room, as I roll his balls back and forth in my palm, his cock cut off at the root, my squeeze like a vise, trying to pool the blood at the tip as I slowly move my hand to the head. I don’t pump. I don’t rub. I squeeze and at a snail’s pace move upward.
“Fucking hell, Rylee. Goddamn it.” His fist pounds against the tile of the shower, his muscles in his back tensing even more. I continue to move my hand up, my other hand rapidly rolling his balls.
“Rylee, please, fuck, I can’t take this.”
I kiss his back and continue to move my hand up, my squeeze growing tighter with each pass. His breathing becomes labored, and his cock twitches in my hand, as he leans his brow against the tile. When I reach the bottom of the head, I twist my hand at the base.
“Fuck!” he shouts and stands tall, removing my hands. When he spins around, his cock looks heavy, ready to burst, and his eyes look murderous.
He doesn’t give me a chance to make a move because he’s on me before I can reach out for him again. He plasters my arms against the tile of the shower, bits of water bouncing off his back. Leaning forward, he nips at my lips, pulling on them, giving me no other option but to let him take charge. When he pulls away, he says, “Keep your hands here, Rylee.”
Reaching for my shorts, he undoes them and drags them down my legs along with my lace thong. He leaves them on the ground and slowly moves his hands up my legs, past my hips, to the hem of my shirt where he peels the wet fabric off my body.
“We were supposed to wait,” he grumbles, working my bra off as well, freeing my nipples as he immediately starts to tweak them with his fingers. I breathe out heavily when he pinches both at the same time. “I had plans of fucking you all over this hotel room tonight, but not right now.”
“Why not . . . now?” I practically yelp when he squeezes my boob with his entire palm.
“Because, I don’t think after tasting you again I’ll be able to leave this hotel room.”
Yeah, he might be right about that. It’s going to be pretty damn hard.
“Well, you’re the one who was jacking off without me.”
“To get through the fucking night,” he mumbles against my skin. “Seeing you again, fuck, Rylee. It’s doing something to my body, something dangerous. I had to take care of myself, to relieve some of the tightness inside me in order to make it through the night with you.”
“You should have asked me to help.” I move my head to the side as his lips work up and down my neck, my core tingling with need.
“The surprise was better.” He lowers his hands and presses a finger against my clit. He slides in easily. “Shit, Saucy. You’re ready.”
“I was ready the minute I saw you in the airport.” And that’s the truth, because him leaning against the pole is an image I won’t forget for a very long time.
Growling, he hoists me around his waist, spins us around, and presses me against the opposite end of the shower. His erection presses against my ass as I squeeze my legs tightly around him, holding me up since he’s once again pinned my arms above me.
He moves his hands down my body, his thumbs rubbing against the side of my breasts as he ravages me with his mouth. Parting my lips, he slips his tongue inside and plunges forward, so aggressive, so needy, so male. So Beck.
Everything about Beck is male from the way he’s taking me against the tile of the shower, to his hardened cock so thick and enticing, to the way his mouth takes control, moving his tongue expertly against mine.
“Are you on the pill?”
“What? Yes,” I mutter, my mind unable to truly comprehend what he’s asking until he grunts and lifts my hips up, his cock pressed at my center.
“Tell me now if you don’t want this.”
Is he insane? Looking him in the eyes, I say, “I need this.”
Wasting no time, he brings me down on his cock. Our foreheads press together, our breathing both erratic as I adjust around his girth. I don’t remember him being this big. Hell, I don’t remember it being this intense, like every nerve ending in my body is set on fire and no amount of water will be able to extinguish the blaze inside me.
“So full,” I breathe out.
“So tight,” he replies, his voice strained. “I won’t last long.”
He pumps his hips into me. My body rubs along the tile wall, his mouth is on mine, his tongue busy flicking across mine, and his hands? They’re all over my body, searing my skin with each touch.
Relentless.
Slow.
Fast.
A rhythmic pattern of his cock hitting me in just the right spot.
Pulse after pulse.
Toes curling, nipples hardening, deep groans.
My body numbs, my stomach bottoms out, my clit pounds, yearning for release.
“Oh God, yes, more.”
Pump after pump.
Groaning, biting, scraping.
Fingertips across my skin, pinching my nipples.
“Fuck,” he says, his dick is so hard inside me.
One rub.
Two.
Three . . .
“Yes,” I scream as I convulse around him, his dick stilling as he releases right along with me, his cock pulsing inside me.
Light like a feather, my body floats down from my orgasm, tremors ratcheting through me, small little pulses shooting around my nerves.
Head on his shoulder, I catch my breath as he lowers me to the ground. My legs shake. He pulls me into a hug and holds me tightly for a few moments before separating us and grabbing a bar of soap.
What the hell was that?
I’ve never felt that good.
So sated.
Relaxing into his touch, for the first time ever, I let a man soap me up. It’s as if I’ve been waiting. Waiting for the right man, the man I can trust, and the man I can give myself to freely.
Beck.
Are you almost ready, Saucy? I’m about to demolish my damn shoe if we don’t eat soon.”
I fluff my hair one more time and check my lipstick to make sure it’s all in place. We might have missed our reservation for dinner due to unforeseen sexual activities, but Beck assured me he’d rather spend the time fucking me than eating dinner. After round three, my stomach grumbled and Beck slapped me on the ass, sending me to the bathroom to get ready.
The plan was to get ready, eat and crash weddings, but after the shower, there was no way we were going to be able to move out of this hotel room without making up for lost time. Again. And when he was groaning into my ear from behind, his release taking over the both of us, I couldn’t agree more. We needed a little fucking before we could move forward.
I pat down my dress and do a little turn in the mirror to check out my backside. I love how low the dress dips, low enough to make any man lustful. It’s so Vegas, so scandalous, and the perfect dress to drive Beck crazy. Especially after seeing him in his black button-up shirt and black slacks, looking sexy as sin.
Taking a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom and find Beck on a chair, his legs wide, and his forearms resting on his knees as he stares at his phone. When he looks up, he does a quick double take and a slow smile spreads over his lips. Standing and pocketing his phone, he walks toward me, a swagger in every step forward.
Gripping my hips, his eyes then rake over me with hot perusal, his pupils darkening with each pass. “You’re trying to get me into trouble tonight, aren’t you, Saucy?”
“Whatever do you mean?” I play with the open collar of his shirt, marveling at his bronze skin.
“This dress is going to get me in trouble with every man on the strip tonight.” Leaning forward and pressing a light kiss across my lips, he says, “I take no responsibility for any fights I get into.”
“There will be no fighting.” I walk past him when he catches my wrist and his eyes soften.
“You look gorgeous, Rylee.”
My heart sputters in my chest as I feel my cheeks blush. Shyly, I reply, “Thank you.”
We take a moment, and an unknown electricity bounces between us, an awareness I’ve never felt with another man before. I like him . . . a lot, and that’s scary.
I shouldn’t like him, but I can’t help it. I’m drawn to him. I’m addicted to making him smile, and now, to feeling him pulse inside me. And I’m addicted to his mind, the way he lives life so freely, like every day is his last. It’s refreshing.
“Come on”—he nods toward the door—“before I rip that dress off you and we do nothing tonight but tangle each other up in the sheets.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” I give him a wink and pick up my small clutch on the way to the door, Beck trailing closely behind.
After some debating in the elevator about where to eat, we end up hitting a lobster joint called Lobster Me inside the shops by Planet Hollywood. Beck says his friend’s husband swears by their rolls. Being from Maine, where lobster is plucked from the sea in the morning and served on your plate that night for dinner, I’m skeptical, especially since Nevada is a land-locked state.
“Come on, admit it, Rylee. This shit is good.” Beck takes another giant bite of his lobster roll, his jaw working the food around. Call me crazy, but watching him eat is arousing.
“I’m not sure,” I answer, taking another bite of the lobster roll, loving how the flavors pop on my tongue.
“You’re such a liar.”
Okay, I’m a liar. I admit it; the lobster roll is fucking good. It’s more than good, because it’s one of the best I’ve had. And what a sin for me to admit such a thing. I was born and raised in Maine, and not just Maine, but on the coast where I’ve caught lobster myself. I shouldn’t like this lobster roll, I should turn my nose up at it. But holy shit, I can’t stop eating it.
“Ha!” Beck pokes my lip where it’s turned up. “You like it and you know it. You want another one, don’t you?”
I’m halfway through my first lobster roll and, yes, it’s crossed my mind to grab another, because that’s how good these are.
Ugh, I’m a sham of a woman. I shouldn’t be able to return to Maine. My parents will disown me if they find out.
“I mean, it’s good.” I try to play it casual but Beck can see right through me.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll go order another one to split.”
“Extra grilled bun,” I call out as Beck walks toward the register, his laugh shifting his shoulders up and down.
I’m such a shame to my home state. Thank God, I have this delicious lobster roll to comfort me.
Have you been to Vegas before?” I ask Beck as we walk to the Vegas Wedding Chapel, well known for their Elvis weddings.
“Maybe too many times, especially when I was younger.” His jaw turns tight and I can see the change in his features when he mentions his past. “What about you?”
“A few times for author signings. Spent many a night at Chippendales.”
“Love that show. Can’t get enough of men’s dicks in small fabric slings.”
“What?” I laugh. “You’ve been to a Chippendales show?”
He holds the door open to me and nods. “Yeah, I’ve done it all, Saucy. Maybe a little too much.”
“So does that mean you want to catch a Chippendales show with me?”
“Not even a little.”
He kisses the side of my head and directs his attention to the woman at the front desk. It’s hard to take her seriously given the Dolly Parton hairdo, the blaring, bright pink blazer, and neon-blue eyeshadow. My eyes are almost watering from the bright, slightly over-the-top ensemble. Welcome to Vegas!
“Hello, are we getting married tonight?”
The question catches me off guard. I never thought of going to a wedding chapel with Beck and being mistaken for an eager bride to marry her man, but here we are.
Squeezing my shoulder, Beck says, “We’ve been married for five years actually. We came here to watch our friends, Becca and Charles, get married. I’m Frank, and this is Bitsy, we’re super excited to be here.”
Becca and Charles. Who the hell are they? And Frank and Bitsy? Good God.
“Oh how wonderful, their ceremony is about to start, so go ahead and sneak right in.”
“Thank you.” Beck takes my hand in his and guides me through the chapel doors.
“Who the hell are Becca and Charles?” I whisper, scooting into a pew next to Beck. When we sit down, he wraps his arm over my shoulder and pulls me in close.
“No idea,” he answers on a whisper. “Just saw the names scrolled on the schedule in front of her.”
I turn to look him in the eyes. “Are you really that stealth?”
He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You have no idea who you’re hanging out with, Saucy.”
And isn’t that the scary truth? I feel like I know him, especially after our month of phone conversations, but I know there is a darker side to him I don’t know, a side that’s been instrumental in shaping who he is today. A side I desperately want to find out about.
Before I can question him, wedding bells chime and Elvis steps up to the altar and starts belting out a song as the bride and groom walk down the aisle together. Beck twiddles his fingers in their direction as they walk by, pulling a confused look from both of them.
Oh hell. Looks like it’s going to be one of those nights again.
Dr. Pelican and Gloria here for the Barclay wedding,” Beck says, putting one hand in his pocket, looking rather dignified.
“Yes, they’re over in chapel two. Flamingo hats are on the right, so be sure to put one on before you enter the chapel.”
“Oh perfect.” Beck presses his hand against his chest in relief. “We left our flamingo hats back at the hotel and I was worried.”
“We got you covered,” the receptionist answers, her eyes making a dangerous perusal of Beck.
“Come on, sugarplum.” Beck presses his hand at
the opening of my lower back. “Time to get our bird on.”
When we walk away, I lean into Beck and say, “She was totally checking you out.”
“Really? I didn’t notice, as I kind of had my eyes glued to your cleavage.” He presses a kiss against my temple and hands me a flamingo hat. He puts his on and flaps fake wings. “Kaw-Kaw!”
I snort laugh and cover my nose. “I don’t think flamingos make that noise.”
“They sure as hell stand on one leg and flap their wings though.” And to demonstrate his flamingo skills, he does just that, making me laugh all too hard.
Mr. and Mrs. Gentry, you can sit right here.” The usher sits us in a pew behind two beautifully perfect drag queens and a Dolly Parton impersonator.
“Thank ya, kind sir,” Beck says in a thick southern accent, tipping a felt cowboy hat he bought from a vendor on the street.
“Anytime. Looking forward to your debut album.”
“That’s awfully kind of ya.” He points at the usher. “Keep that autograph. In a few years it will be worth something.”
“I will, sir.”
The poor usher will be scouring iTunes trying to find Max Gentry. He might be pissed when he comes up short.
“You’re absurd,” I whisper. Taking in the setup of the wedding around us, and from the hot pink scattered all over the chapel, I actually think this wedding is going to be a good one.
From the side of the chapel, the groom appears in the brightest pink suit I’ve ever seen and looking so incredibly happy. I’m going to take a wild guess here and say he’s one hell of a guy trying to make his girl happy, and that’s all around sweet.
The doors behind us open and a woman in white with hot pink flowers appears. She looks beautiful with her hair flowing around her shoulders, flowers pinned in the tendrils. The Wedding March begins, but is quickly cut out when she motions to her neck to stop the music.
Oh boy . . . this is going to be good. The scene from The Office pops into my head where all the characters dance down the aisle at Pam and Jim’s wedding. A smile crosses my face as I prepare for the entrance of a lifetime.
But when I think Vegas showgirls are about to burst through the doors as well, I’m utterly mistaken. With the bouquet clutched to her chest, the bride slowly—and I mean slowly—walks down the aisle . . . humming Mendelssohn’s infamous Wedding March.