The Wedding Rescue, Book One (An Alpha Billionaire Club BBW Romance)

by Wilder, Alexa

  “We worked with the robotics club on navigational calculations for a drone they built. We won a grant for the school with it.”

  “Impressive,” Dylan said, giving me that intimate boyfriend smile again. I couldn’t help melting a little, especially when he followed up by squeezing my knee under the table. His fingertips traced my kneecap in slow, deliberate circles, distracting me from the conversation.

  “It was the only way she could get a date,” Cathie cut in. “Fishing at the bottom of the barrel.”

  “It didn’t stop you from sleeping with him,” I said, sweetly. Maybe she’d been more popular than me, but most of that was because she slept around. A lot. Not just ‘healthy young woman with an active sex drive’ a lot but ‘trying to get attention any way I can’ a lot.

  “Someone had to,” she shot back, not ashamed. “God knows you weren’t going to.”

  “Leave your sister alone,” my mother said to them. “It wasn’t her fault she was overweight and shy.” Turning to Dylan, she went on, “Leigha was always a good girl. Bright. Well behaved. Never gave me a second of trouble. Not like these two.”

  That was the reason I was even there. While my sisters were turbo bitches most of the time, my mom meant well. She got married way too often and was always on the prowl for her next husband, but she loved me and she showed it as best she could. When I’d tried to beg off the wedding, even though it was only a few miles from my house, she’d said, “But I never see you anymore. I miss you!” I’d been helpless to say no.

  At that moment, I fiercely regretted not sticking to my guns, even if being there had put me in Dylan’s path. Sitting through dinner with those two was going to kill me with humiliation. I knew I’d wake up that night, or sometime next week, with the perfect comebacks echoing in my head. I always thought of them later, never on the spot. Under the glare of their cutting comments, my throat would swell shut and I could never think of anything good to say. Accusing Cathie of sleeping around didn’t count since she considered it a badge of honor.

  The waitress interrupted with our menus and a recitation of the specials. I was still starving, despite the appetizers Dylan had fed me in his office. The next few minutes were occupied with deciding what to order, my sisters saying I should I get a side salad to keep my calories down, and Dylan suggesting the lasagna or the linguine pescatore. When Christie gasped in horror and said, “Girls like Leigha can’t eat pasta. Too many carbs.” Dylan skewered her with a look and murmured in my ear, loud enough for the table to hear,

  “I love to watch you eat, don’t I?” Then he pressed a kiss to my mouth.

  I felt my skin turn a bright, hot red. His hand left off tracing circles on my knee and slid up to the middle of my leg, the weight of his palm heavy, a claiming, while his fingertips teased the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My pussy, so close to his touch, heated. Again.

  “Shall I order for you?” he asked. I nodded, mouth dry.

  I looked around the table, trying to pretend Dylan didn’t have his hand between my legs under the table. My mother was smiling at us. Christie and Cathie scowled in confusion. And Peter studied me with a curious, appraising look, as if Dylan’s interest was making him wonder what I might have to offer.

  Yuck. He was a perfect match for my sister, with his overly polished good looks and the bank account to match her desire to never work a day in her life. But when you scratched the surface, he was all asshole.

  A few months before, at a dinner to celebrate their engagement, I’d caught him berating the valet driver over a nonexistent scratch on his sports car. This was after he treated our waiter with rude dismissal and then tipped him less than five percent. Not to mention that he’d grabbed my butt on the way out of the restaurant. I’d whirled and hit him on the arm. He’d backed off, but the whole thing made me uncomfortable.

  Resolving to ignore him, I turned my attention back to Dylan, whose fingers were slowly inching their way up my thigh. He wouldn’t actually touch me at the table, would he? Taking in the amused, aroused glimmer in his eyes, I realized that he would, if he wanted to. I just had to hope he didn’t want to. All it took was the memory of what those fingers had done and my body was ready for more.

  I zoned out, barely listening to my sisters chatter on about the wedding, something about the flowers, or the place settings, all my attention focused on Dylan and his roving fingers. His right foot hooked my left and tugged, spreading my legs just enough to make room for his hand. I hitched a breath as his thumb skated across my clit.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Cathie asked. I shook my head, and grabbed Dylan’s hand under the table, desperate to stop him before I embarrassed myself.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Your face looks weird,” she said, wrinkling her nose at me.

  I didn’t care; I was more worried that Dylan was going to make me come right there at the table. I knew he could. If what had happened in the hallway was any indication, he could do it before our entrees arrived with time to spare.

  “Stop,” I breathed into Dylan’s ear. He shook his head in a barely perceptible movement. Leaning in, he said, so quietly I could only hear a thread of sound,

  “You’re going to come. Do you want it here, or upstairs?”

  “Upstairs. Please upstairs.”

  “What are you two whispering about again?” Christie asked, looking annoyed that we weren’t paying attention to her story about where she’d found her bridesmaid dresses. Dylan straightened, drawing his hand back into his own lap.

  “I apologize, that was rude of us. I was just telling Leigha that an urgent message came in on my phone and we’re going to have to excuse ourselves.”

  “Oh, can’t Leigha stay?” my mother asked, the only one who cared if I was there or not. I felt a little bad about letting her down, but not enough to stay. Especially not if Dylan was taking me upstairs to give me an orgasm.

  “I’m sorry, we have a commitment after this, so she’ll have to come with me. As an apology, dinner is on me. We’ll see you tomorrow. It was a pleasure meeting all of you.”

  With a nod, he pulled me from the booth and we were on our way out of the restaurant. Dylan stopped at the hostess station to say,

  “Put their dinner on my account, Melanie. And send them a bottle of the Perrier-Jouët 2006 Belle Epoque Brut. Have our meals sent upstairs along with a piece of the mascarpone chocolate cheesecake.”

  “Yes, sir. Office or penthouse?”

  “Penthouse.”

  8

  Leigha

  We rode the elevator in silence, standing side-by-side, not touching. The lack of contact was excruciating. After sitting so close in the restaurant with his arm around me and then his hand on my leg, the space between us made me feel alone. And nervous. I was pretty sure he hadn’t changed his mind. But what if he had? Halfway through the ride, I couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

  “I’m sorry about my sisters. And my mom kind of hitting on you.” I didn’t know what else to say. They were rude, and it was embarrassing. Dylan looked at me, his eyes impossible to read.

  “Your mother was fine. Your sisters are atrocious. Did they really steal your boyfriends in high school?”

  “There weren’t that many,” I said. “But, yeah. They didn’t want to go out with the guys. They just wanted to, I don’t know, humiliate me? Show me what a dork I was? I was in the math club and the chess club so it’s not like I didn’t already know.”

  Dylan gave me another long, unreadable look. I forced myself not to squirm, or tug at the hem of my skirt.

  “They’re bitches, Leigha. They’ll probably always be bitches. Don’t let them bother you.”

  “I try not to. Mostly, I avoid them.”

  “Good.” Dylan turned his attention back to the elevator doors, making me even more edgy. Finally, the elevator stopped at a floor marked P*. Taking my arm, Dylan led me into a luxurious entryway complete with a crystal chandelier and polished parquet floors. O
pposite the elevator hung an oil painting that made me wish I knew more about art. It was certainly original and undoubtedly expensive. Below the painting, a wide, decorative China bowl sat between two fresh flower arrangements on an antique sideboard. Tall, wide double doors flanked the entryway. In contrast to the casino’s more modern decor, it was like entering another world.

  Dylan punched in a code on the doors to our right. Inside, it was more of the same. Polished parquet in a warm, honey-toned wood, covered by Oriental rugs. More oil paintings hung on the walls. Antiques were everywhere. The space was masculine, yet welcoming. The furniture was large enough to accommodate a man of Dylan’s height, but not bulky. I followed Dylan into what appeared to be the main living room, trying to take it all in without looking like I was overwhelmed by the opulence.

  He stopped in the middle of the room, between a long brown leather sofa and gas fireplace surrounded by a hand carved mantle that would have been at home in an English gentleman’s club.

  “Take off your dress.”

  My brain stuttered as my body flared with arousal. I was still turned on from his teasing in the restaurant, but the elevator ride had given me time to cool off just enough for insecurity to creep back in. Take off my dress in the middle of the living room? I couldn’t do that. It was too exposed. One look at Dylan’s face told me I didn’t have a choice. I’d made a deal - he was my date, and I gave him what he wanted. Maybe I should’ve thought that last part through a little more carefully before I’d agreed.

  “Are you going to make me wait?”

  Dylan raised one eyebrow and stared me down. There was just enough threat implied in his question that I wasn’t eager to see what would happen if I disobeyed for much longer. I shook my head. No, I wasn’t going to make him wait. I might pass out from the combination of arousal and embarrassed terror, but I’d take off the damn dress.

  It took a little squirming to reach the zipper between my shoulder blades and pull it down. The fabric was stretched tight around my torso, strained by my breasts and my not-so-svelte figure. I couldn’t look Dylan in the eyes as I tugged at it. When I got it past my rib cage, it slid the rest of the way freely and the dress fell to the floor, pooling around my feet.

  Dylan paced around me, his eyes soaking in every inch of my half naked body, standing there in black spike heels and mismatched bra and underwear. At least the underwear was nice. The thought that I might have been wearing laundry day panties was too hideous to consider. My navy lace boy shorts and black lace bra weren’t new, but at least they were presentable and looked decent on my curvy body. I waited, trembling a little from the tension, wondering what he would say next. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Now the bra. Straps first.”

  I reached up and hooked a finger through my left bra strap. The bra I was wearing was intended for containment. It needed those straps. Without them it wouldn’t cover me for long. Finding the courage to meet Dylan’s eyes, I drew down the first strap and let it fall limp against my arm. As I’d known it would, the lace on that side of the bra began to slide, exposing the upper swell of my cleavage, until it hung on the tip of my hard nipple. Dylan’s eyes flared with heat.

  Encouraged, I drew down the other strap and let the bra fall away. He stood three feet from me, but his gaze felt like a touch, insistent and demanding. My insecurity drained away. I reached behind me with one hand and flicked the clasp on the bra, letting it fall to the floor. My breasts swelled under his attention, begging for his hands or his mouth.

  “Panties. Off,” he ordered, his voice low, gruff.

  I obeyed, sliding my palms flat down the sides of my hips, pushing the boy shorts along with them until they fell around my feet with my dress. Normally, the thought of being stark naked in front of anyone--especially a man as beautiful as Dylan--would have had me hyperventilating with panic, searching for the closest dark room. The arousal on his face was enough to keep me where I was. Whatever I saw when I looked in the mirror, Dylan saw something different. Something he wanted. He reached out a hand. Taking an unsteady step forward, I slid my fingers into his.

  Silent, he led me across the room to the tall windows overlooking the garish lights of Vegas. He raised one of my hands and placed it against the glass, forcing me to bend forward slightly. He positioned my other hand beside it, so my hands were just wider than shoulder width apart.

  “Don’t move until I tell you to,” he said. “Don’t turn your head and don’t close your eyes.”

  Then he stepped away, and I was alone, unable to see what he was doing. I trembled in my heels, my palms leaving damp marks on the glass, my breath creating a circle of mist in front of my face. I needed him to do something. I needed him to touch me. To fuck me. To do anything.

  Behind me, I heard a knock at the door. Instinctively, I began to turn my head, only to hear,

  “No.”

  A flat command. One I obeyed instantly.

  Trembling harder, I stared blindly out into the night, not seeing the lights of the strip, catching only vague shadows of movement in the reflection of the window in front of me.

  “Put it over there please,” I heard Dylan say. Then the sound of rolling wheels.

  Our food. I’d completely forgotten about the dinner we hadn’t eaten. And now the waiter could see me, completely naked. I was grateful Dylan had told me not to look. If I’d seen the waiter’s face, and he’d seen mine, this would’ve been humiliating. As it was, he could only see the backside of my body. I was somewhat obscured in the dim room and mostly anonymous.

  To my surprise, a second set of eyes only made me hotter. I could feel the molten heat of my pussy, the moisture gathering so quickly I thought it might begin to run down my inner thighs. How long would Dylan make me wait? Was the waiter going to stay? I hoped not. As arousing as it was to be on display like this, Dylan on his own was more than I could handle. Throwing a stranger into the mix would be way too much.

  I heard a few murmured words and the sound of the door shutting. Then one set of footsteps coming in my direction. I was pretty sure the waiter was gone. Dylan moved so quietly, I didn’t know he was behind me until I felt the tip of one long finger trace the lips of my swollen pussy. Without thought, I surged back, wanting more of him. The finger disappeared.

  “Don’t move.”

  I obeyed, too desperate for his touch to think about defying him. It would be no hardship for Dylan to find another woman to satisfy him if I couldn’t do what I was told. But I didn’t want another man, I wanted him—and to have him, I would have to be obedient. Submissive. I’d never thought about playing this kind of game before in real life, never imagined it would get me so hot outside of my fantasies.

  But then, it wouldn’t have if I’d been with anyone else. I knew that. Of all the men I’d known, only Dylan had ever made me mindless with arousal. I fought to control my shaking, to keep completely still.

  A moment later I was rewarded by the touch of his hand to my hip. Then, I felt the length of his body against my back, still clothed in his suit, as he pressed forward and filled his hands with my breasts. He kneaded them, stroking and pinching my nipples, twisting them back and forth until tears of frustrated arousal ran from the corners of my eyes.

  “These are perfect,” he whispered in my ear. “You have perfect breasts.” I moaned, almost sobbing with need.

  “Please. Please.” I didn’t even know where the words were coming from; some deep part of myself wanted more than the tepid orgasms I’d had before I’d met Dylan. I wanted this-the intensity, the rich, luscious pleasure of having him touch me. Still, I needed more. I needed his cock. I needed him to fuck me.

  “Is this what you want?”

  Hot, hard, velvet skin brushed against my inner thigh just below the curve of my ass, leaving a streak of moisture behind.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, please. Please, Dylan.”

  The head of his cock homed in on my pussy, nudging into my heat, teasing me. I was so wet, he didn’
t have to take it slowly. But he did, easing his way in with subtle, rocking thrusts that filled me so gradually I was incoherent with need by the time he filled me to the root. He stayed there, unmoving except to brace one hand on the window beside mine, his cock stretching me almost to the point of pain. Somehow, I managed to fight my instincts to move against him. He must have known what a struggle it was, because he dipped his head to mine and said, “Good girl. Now you get your reward.” His strong white teeth bit the shell of my ear, the tiny flash of pain welcome in the midst of so much pleasure. His free hand closed over my breast, squeezing and teasing my hard nipple, sending shooting sparks straight to my clit. When he began to thrust, I think I screamed from the glory of it.

  I forgot all about being shy, or quiet, or still. I moved against him, arching my lower back to take as much of his cock as I could, moaning and crying out from the sheer liquid ecstasy of his length splitting me open.

  Dimly, I heard Dylan let out his own groans behind me. My orgasm had been building for so long I didn’t realize how close it was until it hit. Every touch, every tease since the restaurant had layered on top of one another until I was drowning in my own hyper-aroused body. It seemed like only a few breaths between when he entered me and when I came, my pussy clenching down on his cock so hard it hurt, screams torn from my chest, my release so strong I almost blacked out.

  My limbs went weak; the only things holding me up were Dylan’s hand on my breast, my palms against the glass, and his hard cock inside me. I was still coming, my pussy pulsing around him, my hips rolling in involuntary thrusts. Dylan’s teeth locked onto the side of my neck in a grip of possession as he pounded out his own orgasm, filling me with his release.

  9

  Dylan