Well Hung

by Lauren Blakely

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m thinking there’s one more thing that would make this the full Vegas experience.”

  She clasps one hand to her mouth then lets go. “Oh my God. Are we really going to do what they’re doing?”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice, given the deal we made back at the New York-New York bar. Go big or go home.”

  For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. I don’t have to wait long for an answer, though.

  “Go big, Wyatt,” she says, her voice soft, but her intention loud. Clearly, she thinks my idea is brilliant, too. How could she not?

  Dropping down to one knee, I grab her hand. “Frisky Mittens, want to go to a twenty-four-hour chapel and tie the knot?”

  She hiccups, then laughs and tugs me in for a sloppy kiss that tastes like tequila and fruit mixer. “When in Vegas . . .”

  12

  One sideburn slides off the man’s face.

  It’s mildly distracting. But nowhere near as disturbing as the officiant’s gold leisure suit. The one-piece has a collar that could double as wings, and is the very definition of skintight. It hugs every inch of his body, and yeah, I do mean inch.

  Sorry, not sorry. He’s wearing a fucking unitard. Hard not to notice shit.

  “Is he Leisure Suit Larry or Elvis?” I hiss to Natalie. When the venue has a name like Larry, Lana, and the King’s Full-Service Quickie Weddings, he could be either.

  She nods at the guy, who’s got a full perm going on, taking kinky curls to new heights, and whispers to me, “Or Richard Simmons got a new gig.”

  Only it’s not a true whisper. It’s a drunk whisper. So she’s not quiet in the least, but I doubt the exercise fanatic double cares, since I’m pretty sure he’s stoned. Looks that way, as he fumbles around for the wedding bands while we stand at the front of the tiny chapel. That’s part of the full service—two gold bands for fifty-seven bucks. What a steal.

  He reeks of pot, and judging from the Bob Marley tune playing as our wedding music this second, I’m guessing he was toking up before the limo dropped us off a few minutes ago, right after we grabbed a marriage license before those offices closed at midnight. The swanky black stretch number waits for us in the lot. I sprung for the best on my wedding night. That’s just the kind of swell fellow I am.

  Fishing around in the breast pocket of his suit, the dude grabs the rings, and holds them up. “‘Got ’em.” One slips from his fingers. “Oopsy daisy.”

  That sends Natalie into peals of laughter, and she grabs my arms, clutching me as she holds on. I chuckle, too, because everything is funny tonight. And everything is awesome, like my life is bobbing on a raft in an infinity pool under the warm sun, drinking a piña colada without a care in the world.

  Natalie runs her hands up and down my arms, and I wiggle my eyebrows. We can’t stop flirting, touching, giggling.

  The dude bends to fetch the ring when I hear the telltale sign of stitches coming undone. I’m not sure what part of the leisure suit has popped open, but I decide to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the bride-to-be, just in case Larry Elvis Officiant is a commando-style guy.

  “That’s the real oopsy daisy,” Natalie says, and now I’m the one to crack up, grasping her trim little waist in my hands. Nothing quite like laughing like a hyena at your own nuptials.

  “All set now,” the guy says, and then he cups his hand to the side of his mouth and shouts, “Hey Lana! Can we get some grand finale music?”

  A woman in a white Elvis suit, her breasts spilling out from the mostly unzipped zipper, pops in and gives a big thumbs-up. “Oh, look at the happy couple,” she coos, then points overhead. Maybe to the sound system at the chapel, which now pipes in the opening bars of a song I recognize as soon as I hear the first line about what wise men say.

  A strange thing happens to my chest again when I turn back to Natalie in my arms. It’s like my heart is being squeezed. I blink, trying to center myself, but it’s hard when she’s staring at me as Leisure Suit Larry clears his throat, and the King croons in this most romantic song about fools rushing in. I kind of feel like I’m floating. Must be all the liquor playing tricks on me, making me smile like an idiot as Natalie looks at me, her eyes big and full.

  The officiant hands me her band, and Natalie and I move apart briefly as he runs through the familiar vows. We exchange rings, and as I stare at my newly adorned finger, something unnamed bubbles up inside me. I step closer to Natalie once more, clasp her hands in mine, and words tumble out in a rush. I’m telling her how gorgeous she is, and how much I’ve loved working with her, and how ridiculously fun this night is, and then I’m saying all sorts of things about what the future holds, and doesn’t hold, and I can barely keep track of everything I’m saying. I’m just serving up all that feels true, past, present, and future. She nods vigorously the whole time, and I love this about her—she fucking gets me. Then, that unnamed thing in me shifts, and now it tightens, ratcheting into worry. Before I know it, I tell her the most important thing I’ve ever told her. And I find myself making her promise to hold me to it.

  “Just promise me, Nat. Promise me, promise me, promise me,” I say with a harsh swallow, and then I wait.

  But not for long.

  “I promise, Wyatt. I promise. I promise. And I get it. I do. I really do.”

  The momentary tension inside me vanishes in an instant, and my world is all hazy, sexy, intoxicating goodness once more.

  I put my hands on her face and then kiss my wife for the first time—a searing, deep, passionate kiss that’s a reminder of how utterly fucking amazing this night has been. She sways slightly as I kiss her, and I wobble then find my footing, and we separate at last, grinning like fools rushing in.

  The officiant clears his throat. “There is no more dwelling at the Heartbreak Hotel for Natalie and Wyatt, and now these two are stuck on each other. By the powers vested in me by the great state of Nevada, and by the King himself, I now pronounce Natalie and Wyatt husband and wife. But remember there is no return to sender. So, it’s time for you all to get shook up. You’re married!” He thrusts his gold-satin covered arms in the air and hoots. “I would tell you to kiss the bride, son, but you already did, and I bet you’ve done a helluva lot more. So be on your way, and do some more of that!”

  A few minutes later, we slide into the limo. I pop open the champagne and toast to my bride as we drive around town after midnight, getting horizontal again. Soon, we stop at the Flamingo for roulette. When we win a round, a tipsy dude at our table who says he works for a rapper invites us to a party in the penthouse suite.

  “You guys are cool. You gotta come check out Secretariat’s bash,” he says, running his big palm over his shaved head.

  We cash out and go, because why the fuck not?

  Especially, since the rapper named himself for a Triple Crown winner.

  On the top floor of the hotel, the party rages. Music pulses so loudly it thrums in my bones, as scantily-clad women grind against scantily-clad men, and another group of partygoers ride hobby horses as they chug their drinks. Natalie and I take it all in, then check out the view of the Strip, and enjoy the free-flowing champagne.

  Natalie cups her hand around my ear. “Need to find the little girl’s room.”

  That sounds like a fine idea to me too, and when we’ve both answered nature’s call, she peers down the hallway at the end of the suite and points.

  Holy shit.

  “There’s a fucking Titanic slot machine in the penthouse,” I say, heading straight for it, parked next to a standard Las Vegas slot machine with fruit on the screen.

  “Wanna play? It takes bills,” she says.

  We slide some dollars into its mouth, and proceed to lose all our roulette winnings. But it hardly feels like losing when Natalie parks herself on my lap and wraps her arms around me as Jack, Rose, and a Heart of the Ocean spin into view.

  Feels a lot like winning when her lips crush mine, and her hands slide down my chest. All sense of propr
iety slinks around the corner, as I check to make sure the coast is clear, pull her behind the slot machine, and make good use of another one of those condoms she so thoughtfully packed for our trip. She must have brought a box.

  As I hike up her leg around my hip and drive deeper, I whisper in her ear. “You’re so fucking daring.”

  “And you’re so fucking interesting,” she says on a moan.

  As she grows louder, nearing the edge, I cover her mouth since someone’s now in the hallway with us, yanking the other one-armed bandit. Whoever it is nails three cherries, right as Natalie lands her third climax of the evening.

  Guess we’re all getting lucky tonight.

  We say goodbye to Secretariat and the bald-headed dude, thanking them profusely for their hospitality, as well as the wonderfully convenient height of the slot machines. Good thing they were so damn tall and provided just enough cover. Once we leave, we cruise down the Strip and take a selfie at the famous Vegas sign. Natalie posts that on Facebook, too. And we dance dirty at the Edge nightclub at a newer hotel. Sometime after four thirty, we make it back to her room. Or maybe it’s mine. I honestly don’t know. The night is a blur. A streak of laughter and sex and wild, crazy fun.

  All I know for certain when we stumble into the suite with the king-sized bed is that this night is far from over. Not when she looks at me with sultry eyes while her busy fingers make quick work of her shirt and skirt.

  My hands cover hers, stopping her. “I’ll take it from here. It’s time for me to fuck my wife.”

  It will be the first time I see her naked, and I’m like a kid on Christmas morning. There’s nothing I want more than the gift of Mrs. Hammer’s nudity.

  13

  Generally speaking, all sex is good sex.

  It’s a guy thing. Honestly, it’s just anatomically difficult for us to have bad sex. Enough friction, along with a little something wet on the equipment, and chances are good we’ll achieve the big bang. That’s the nice thing about being a dude.

  But some sex is better than others, and at the pinnacle is hotel sex. The dark of the night, the size of the bed, the escape from reality . . . hotel rooms are designed for great sex.

  Nothing could be truer for Natalie and me right now, here on the last stop of our great escape.

  Neon from the Las Vegas night casts a faint light, illuminating her face, silhouetting her body. She’s perched on the edge of the bed.

  A part of me wants to undress her slowly, to savor every slide of silk and lace along her smooth, soft skin. But a stronger part of me knows now’s not the time for lazy, unhurried, we-have-all-night foreplay. The red lights on the hotel radio remind me that it’s not long before the sun comes up, so I tuck all the images of slow kisses along her calves and lingering caresses across her belly out of my mind.

  Besides, her tits are pretty much calling my name. The low-cut cups of her black lacy bra expose succulent, kissable, bitable pale flesh. In mere seconds, they’ll be free, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to take my hands off them. I think I’m in love with them already.

  “Can’t believe I haven’t gotten acquainted with these beauties yet tonight,” I say as I unhook her bra with a quick snap. “But no time like the present to rectify that.”

  As I throw her bra behind me, the lace falls somewhere, but I don’t notice or care because her tits are now liberated, and I was right.

  It’s fucking love at first sight. My hands dart out to cup her breasts, and yep, it’s love at first touch, too, because damn. They feel spectacular. Evidently, it feels good to her, too, since she gasps as I squeeze and knead. I rub my calloused fingers over her nipples and pinch. Her hands shoot out to my hair. She threads her fingers through the strands and grips me tight, saying my name like a long, low moan. “That turns me on so much,” she murmurs.

  Holy hell, Natalie has insanely sensitive nipples, and I adore her tits. Who would have predicted a more perfect union? Maybe my hands should marry her breasts.

  “You won’t mind if I just verify precisely how turned on you are?” I tease.

  “Please feel free to conduct a proper and thorough test . . . Inspector Hammer,” she says with a grin.

  I laugh as I run a hand down her belly, then, as I slide my palm between her thighs, I stop laughing. Even I can’t make a joke about this kind of wetness because it’s just too fucking fantastic. She’s soaked through her panties.

  Beautifully soaked.

  I crowd against her, my big body pushing hers down to the bed. She crawls back and props herself on her elbows. I climb over her, my clothes still on.

  I lower my head to her chest, draw a nipple into my mouth, and suck hard. She bucks up against me as I lick and suck and kiss her nipples. This is the true jackpot—learning my woman likes having her nipples played with.

  She moans, and groans, and grabs my head again.

  She’s got me in a headlock, and trust me, this girl knows how to execute that move, but there’s no way I’m letting go of this beautiful breast in my mouth. Nothing to worry about there. You’d have to pry me off from this taste of heaven. She widens her legs and rocks up into me as I draw her nipple deeper, flicking my tongue against it, then biting down. She lets out a little shout.

  “That drives me crazy,” she moans, never letting go of me, and I wonder momentarily if she could actually come from this kind of play. Seems like a far-fetched fantasy, but I’d be willing to go the distance and find out. As I devour her breast, my hand squeezes the other tit, kneading, pinching, and pulling until Natalie thrashes under me.

  Jesus Christ, this woman is more than interesting in bed. She’s electric. She’s wild. She’s so damn sensual and in touch with her body. It’s addictive, the way she wants what I want. She pushes my head away and stares at me. Her eyes are crazed, hungry, as she jams her hands between us, hunting for my jeans and fumbling for the zipper. “Now, Wyatt. I need you now. I need you inside me.”

  There are just certain words that cause instantaneous action in a man. No matter what else you’re doing, when a woman says, “I need you inside me,” you stop, drop, and answer the call.

  In seconds, Natalie’s shed her panties, and I’m naked too, rubbing the head of my dick against the slick paradise of her pussy. She grabs my ass. Her hands on me make my head spin. Fuck, I want her so much. Tonight won’t be enough to quench this desire.

  I start to push into her, when I realize my dick is bareback.

  “Shit,” I curse, hanging my head low.

  “What is it?”

  “Condom. Need to get one.”

  But her hands grip me harder. “I’m on the pill. Are you safe?”

  I nod. “Clean as a whistle.”

  “Same here.” She lifts her face and brings her lips to my ear. “I think my husband can fuck me without a condom.”

  And that does it. Something about the way those words fall from her mouth in such an inviting purr makes it impossible for me to resist.

  I sink into her, and it’s staggering. She’s hot and tight, and the wetness is infinitely more wonderful because I feel it with no barriers. Skin against skin. Hardness against heat. Her and me. She raises her knees and hooks her ankles against my lower back, and I pump. I shove in and out of her. Watching her face. Studying her reaction. Loving the way she breathes out hard and groans.

  She’s so noisy, and her sounds are a drug. I love that she can’t hold back. That she’s a moaner, and an “oh god”-er, and a “yes, just like that”-er. Makes my job so much easier to know what the lady likes.

  And by all accounts, the lady likes it when I fuck her. When I drive in deep. When I stroke back, nearly pulling out of her. And when I drop my face to the Candy Land of her tits again, sucking on each nipple till she moans.

  When I let go, I move my mouth to her neck, nipping her. My reward is her lifting her hips faster and wilder as her noises go into overdrive.

  I take her with deep, fast thrusts. “Love this. Love your hot, wet pussy,” I rasp out. “Fuc
king love fucking you.”

  “Love it, too,” she says in a broken pant.

  Sweat slicks our chests, and the room fills with the sounds of us. Flesh slapping, feral grunts, guttural cries, and the bed smacking the wall. This is hotel sex. This is the furious race along the fast track to a fiery release.

  She wriggles and writhes, then she drags her nails down my back.

  “Leave marks,” I tell her, like a command.

  “I’m going to,” she says, digging in deeper and scratching my flesh in a way that sends heat spiraling in every corner of my body. I like it rough. I like the evidence of rough sex, too.

  She lifts her head and kisses me, a hard and hungry kiss, full of teeth and need. We claw at each other’s mouths as I pound into her, and she urges me on with thrusts that meet mine, and nails that dig into my ass.

  When our lips lose contact, her blue eyes lock on mine, and they’re so honest, so full of desire.

  And they disarm me. They strip me of all my defenses. They threaten to undo all the reasons I know we can’t make this last beyond tonight. They make my heart beat harder, and I slow down.

  I ease the pace.

  I take a break from the relentlessness of our lovemaking. So does she, as her hands quit scratching. Instead, they travel along my back, up to my neck, and into my hair, making me shudder.

  The noises between us fade to just breathing, just husky moans. My hand reaches for her hip, and I hike her leg up higher as I slow-fuck her. I lower to my elbows, and I stare into her eyes. She trembles. Her whole body shudders.

  “Oh God, Wyatt,” she whispers.

  She’s not loud and crazy. She’s just raw and real now, and I feel the same way. Naked, totally fucking naked, and not just because I’m in my birthday suit.

  But because it hits me hard—no matter what tomorrow brings, tonight I’m fucking my wife. I bring my mouth to her ear, and murmur, “I love fucking my wife. God, I love fucking my wife so much.”