by Amelia Wilde
The door opens behind me and I shoot up from my chair.
Graham’s eyes light up. “Holy God. You look like an angel.”
“I feel insane.”
He comes to me and pulls me in close. Every breath I take is filled with him; his clean, spicy scent, the fabric of his new tuxedo. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m terrified.”
“My brother won’t bite.”
“I’m not terrified of him. I’m terrified of after.”
“Sweetness, I’ve already had you.”
“Oh, God,” I groan. “Not like that. Legally—”
Graham’s eyes are electric. He grips my jaw with his hand, lifting my face, and my body stills in his grasp. “Take that idea out of your mind,” he says, his voice calm and even. “If our wedding is a set of chains, I’d gladly wear them for the rest of my life.” My heart moves into overdrive. “I love you, Bellamy. If I haven’t said it before, then let me say it now. I love you.”
“I love you.” I whisper it into his face and see an opening there, the last of his shields coming down.
He takes in my trembling limbs. “This won’t do. You need to be the blushing, happy bride.”
“I’m trying, but—”
“Surrender.” I’m frozen in his hands; I’m not trying to move at all, but every inch of me shakes. “Give me your surrender.”
“I don’t have anything left.” The panic comes again, a wave I can’t get out from under. “I’ve given everything to you.”
Then Graham is in motion, his strong arms lifting me, dress and all, to the side of the room, to a low leather bench. “Hands and knees.”
“What?” My voice is a high squeak. “I’m in my dress—”
“Hands and knees, sweetness.” His hand on the back of my neck is sheer control. I scramble up onto the bench. “We don’t have much time.”
On my hands and knees in front of him, my body stops shaking.
Graham lifts my dress, tucking it up around my waist, and gives an appreciative grunt when he sees the matching lace panties. “Exquisite.” He tugs them down and off, then puts them in his pocket.
“I need those,” I protest.
“Quiet.”
I am still, voice and body, and he is in control. It’s an unbelievable relief.
Graham’s fingers stroke between my legs, gathering the wetness there, and I push back against him. “Stay still,” he commands, and it lights a fire between my legs, the effort of remaining in place. “Oh, you like that,” he murmurs. “I’m so glad I came prepared.”
Prepared for what? I want to ask, but I am silent at his command.
“You need to be centered,” Graham says, his fingers dipping into my superheated core. My pussy tries to keep them inside, trying for more, but he pulls them back out again.
And presses them higher, to my asshole.
It’s so shockingly filthy that I let out a strangled gasp, but his hand on the small of my back leaves no room for argument. “Relax.”
I arch my back and blush at the image I must be presenting. Wedding dress. Pure white. Ass in the air. His finger...there.
He works it inside, breaching my defenses, and I am reduced to nothing but nerves on fire. It’s a strange pressure, but my mind takes it and turns it to a dirty pleasure; scandalous, if anyone were to know.
“Good girl,” he says, and I shudder beneath him.
Then he withdraws the finger.
It’s replaced a moment later with something hard and cold.
My juices drip down the inside of my thigh, right onto the leather bench.
“Push back,” he orders.
I do.
It’s bigger than his finger, wider, and oh—oh—I have to stretch to get the thickest part inside.
Then it’s seated, pressing out against my walls, and I have never been more needy in my life.
Graham’s hand hovers in front of my face, and I take it and stand up.
He kisses me, hot and hard, then straightens up. He checks his clothes. He straightens his tie. I ache for him, and a silvery gratefulness spikes through every inch of me.
“That should keep your focus where it belongs, sweetness.” He goes for the door. “I’ll see you at the altar.”
I watch him until he’s gone. This man—this man who’s all heartbreak and command, all pain and pleasure, and realize he’s given me my first wedding gift. All I can think about now, with his toy between my cheeks, is him—my want for him, the way I need him to bend me over the first available piece of furniture and take me, as soon as possible. As his wife.
The door opens, and Everest pokes her head in. “You ready?”
“I—” Underneath my dress is the biggest scandal of my life. I’m red at the thought of it, but I can’t be red now. I’m going to be photographed. I take a deep breath in and let it back out, willing the heat to leave my face. “I’m ready.”
My wedding dress brushes against my naked flesh as I follow her out into the hall, and a hard reminder with every step that I already belong to Graham. This is only a performance for everyone else. God, he’s brilliant. With one stroke, he’s made this ours. He’s made me his.
My bridesmaids are in a bunch outside the chapel entrance, and they light up when they see me, even though they watched me get ready, helped me step into my dress.
And President Blackpool, in his dark tuxedo, arm extended.
I put my hand through the crook of his arm as the music begins, and he looks down at me.
“You’re too good for my brother,” he jokes.
“He’s too good for me,” I tell him, and then I go to meet my husband.
37
Graham
It’s excruciating to look at Bellamy during the ceremony. Her skin is deeply blushed, and her smile is radiant—so radiant it’s all I can do not to take her now, right in front of the congregation, right in front of the priest.
There is none of her earlier fear. Her nerves have settled under my hands.
A crackling buzz settles over all the sound in the chapel—the rustle of guests in the seats, the drone of the service, the call-and-answer. Even our vows are liquid, waves of her crashing into my hearing, and I’m sure I stumble over one or two of the words. Laughter reverberates from the soaring ceiling back down on our heads, a happiness I’ve never deserved.
“You may kiss your bride,” says the priest, his voice reaching to the very back of the chapel, and the moment my lips touch hers, everything is clear.
Bellamy opens to me, audience be damned, and there’s a moment of breathless silence followed by whoops and applause.
“You put on a good show,” I murmur into her ear, aware of the camera taking our picture.
She laughs, her head tipping toward my shoulder. Does she know what a gorgeous line this will create, her in her white dress, me in my black suit, up at the front of this soaring chapel? She might have been aware of it when all this began, but now it seems like second nature. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“What? Brought you a wedding gift? It’s a lovely piece of...jewelry.”
We go down the aisle arm in arm, and for once Bellamy doesn’t question any of it. She waves like she was born to be here, in this church, with me.
Our wedding party follows us out and we form a reception line. Jessica is first to greet us, her eyes teary. “That was beautiful.” She kisses us both on the cheek. “Stunning. Best wedding I’ve ever been to.”
“Aside from ours.” Alex cuts in to shake my hand, to kiss Bellamy’s cheek. The rest of our friends are right behind him, hugging her like they’ve known her all their lives, and it makes all of me feel warm and whole. Fuck. Do I have to be grateful to Andrew for this?
He’s the first out of the church and the first through the line, blue eyes stormy. He shakes my hand firmly and looks me in the eye. “Congratulations. Beautiful service.”
When he steps over to Bellamy, she raises her chin in the air. “Thank you so much for coming,
Mr. President.”
I want to double over with laughter, but I keep it together. My parents are next, effusive and laughing, darting their eyes over to the photographer when there’s no telltale click. These photos are going to run in at least one outlet, probably an exclusive—Brian’s handling all that. I know I signed off on something.
My parents and Andrew are like the first droplets of rain in a storm, and after that it’s a rush of people, a riverbed overflowing with congratulations. They clap me on the back so hard my shoulder gets sore, but the real ache is Bellamy, standing so close, and so clothed.
I have to get her alone.
Finally, we get to the end of the line, and Bellamy’s bridesmaids have gathered her things from the bridal suite. From here, it’s a short ride to the reception.
We’ll ride alone.
“Got everything?”
“I think so,” Cate says, her arms full of Bellamy’s bag and the shoes she wore when she left the penthouse this morning. “We could probably do one more sweep to see if—”
“Good.”
I take Bellamy by the arm and steer her outside.
It’s warm, for the first week of April, and the sunlight is delicate outside the national cathedral. Bellamy looks up at me with worry knitted into her forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Go. Let’s go.” I give a jaunty wave to the photographers penned in on the sidewalk, then pull open the back door of the SUV as gallantly as I can manage. Bellamy’s hand trembles on mine while she steps in, and I climb in after her.
Jameson is up front, next to the driver, and I slap my hand against the back of the seat. “We’re good.”
“Congratulations, sir,” he says, a knowing smile on his face.
The next place my hand lands is the button to raise the privacy barrier.
Bellamy sits perfectly still until it’s at the ceiling, and then she launches herself toward me. “You look upset.” Her voice is strained, her face pale with worry.
“I’m not upset. Come here.”
I lift her, dress and all, onto my lap, and sigh. This is what I’ve been waiting for all day. She runs her hands through my hair while I run my hands up her bare thighs to her bare pussy. Bellamy throws her head back, her lips parting in a silent gasp, and then she sucks in a breath. “Graham—we can’t.”
“We can, and we will.”
She leans forward and becomes a tigress, her mouth ravenous on mine, and when I hold her down, the slightest pressure makes her scratch at my shoulders underneath my shirt. “It was cruel, what you did.” Her lips move against my neck and she bites down, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough that my cock jumps in my pants. “That was filthy.”
I take her jaw in my hand and am rewarded with a wave of wetness. “And look at you. You’re hot and wet for it. You need it. You crave it.”
Two fingers inside of her, and she’s already riding the wave up to a delicious, delirious orgasm. “Wait.”
“Wait?” Her gray eyes are huge. “No, please don’t make me wait.”
“Wait.”
I take my fingers away and she lets out a whimper of disappointment, but it’s only so I can unzip my pants, let my cock spring free, and lift her hips away from mine.
“Oh, fuck.” Bellamy braces herself against my shoulders. All this time, and she’s still tight. Her opening is swollen and lovely and I pull her down, inexorably, onto my crown.
Her breasts rise under the demure neckline of her dress as she takes me in. As I impale her, her body stretching around me, her body finally surrendering to the invasion. She pulses and clenches around me and I circle her hips with my hands, holding her in place.
Bellamy swirls those hips as best she can, getting my crown to hit that rough, secret spot inside of her, and I grit my teeth.
I’m not going to come.
Yet.
I take her hair in my hand and tug it backward so that she has to look into my eyes. “Have you been a good girl?”
“I don’t—” She swirls harder, hips rocking, the sound of her sweet wetness gentle in the air. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s see.”
I reach behind her.
The handle of the plug is still there, nestled between her creamy cheeks. “You have.”
I twist it, pushing it deeper inside. She moans.
“I can feel it,” I say into her ear. “I can feel it inside you while I fuck you.”
“Dirty,” she gasps. “So dirty.”
“Tell me you love it, sweetness.”
“I love it.” Her eyes are hazy with heat. “I love you. I love you, Graham. I love you.”
She says this to me while I twist and tug at the plug in her ass, and that’s it—that’s the last moment I can hold back from her. It’s so deliciously filthy, watching her face as I do it, that I know I can’t live without it.
Even if she can.
Even if she’s another person who will see the good in everyone but me, I can’t walk away from this.
“Graham, I—”
“Come.”
The moment I give her permission, she erupts, loud enough that I know Jameson can hear.
I don’t care. I’m too swept up in my own climax, underneath the white cloud of her dress. Bellamy falls forward, her forehead on my shoulder, and shudders with the last of her release.
There’s a gentle knock at the privacy divider.
Shit—we’re here.
How long has the car been stopped?
Bellamy lifts her head.
“You’re going to make me go to the reception like this, aren’t you?”
“So wicked.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “And yes.”
38
Bellamy
I am delirious with wedding joy.
I’ve soaked it all in—the fairy lights strung over the reception hall, the laughter of new friends and old friends enjoying each other, and Graham’s face in every camera flash—and they’ve combined like happiness punch to flood my veins with a champagne drunk that’s mostly in my head. I stopped drinking long before we left the reception hall so Graham wouldn’t have to carry me out.
He carried me into the Presidential Suite at the hotel anyway.
He carried me here, laid me on the bed as reverently as he would a queen, and lifted my dress like a wench in the barn, the plug hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.
Now his head dips between my legs, tongue hot and stroking over every inch of my folds.
I’m delirious with that, too.
Graham holds my legs apart with an iron grip. I’m writhing in that grip, my body wrung out from pleasure, and yet he’s still licking, fucking me with his tongue. We’re not done yet. We’re not done until he says we’re done.
He drives his tongue into me again and I arch back against the comforter.
Something did shift when we got married. It was not a performance, those promises, even if we’re still discovering what it means to be together.
Right now, it means that I am fearless in his hands. Belonging to Graham Blackpool is the most dangerous risk I’ve ever taken, but there’s safety in that belonging, too.
He bears down on my clit, sucking and swirling his tongue over the swollen flesh and I dissolve into the heat of release.
My hands slide down to his hair. “Fuck. Fuck.”
He lifts his head away from my pussy while I’m still coming down from the high. “Language, sweetness.”
“I’m not sorry.”
Graham circles my opening with two fingers, lazily, as if we have all the time in the world. “Would you like to be sorry?”
My heart flares. This is not a game we’ve ever discussed playing before. It’s not a game I’ve thought of playing before. I can sense immediately it would be contained within the circle of his arms, within the walls of our room—of all the rumors and whispers I’ve seen splashed across the papers about Graham, a full-on BDSM lifestyle is not one of them. He won’t have me crawling through the streets a
t his feet.
But in here?
“Yes. Make me sorry.”
He makes me sorry.
He strips off my wedding dress and bends me over his knee, and I brace for a spanking. I’m hot for a spanking. I know it the moment I feel his cock, hard like steel through his pants, against my side.
It never comes.
Instead, he commands me to keep my legs spread, wide, obscene, and bent over, he does things to me with his fingers that make my juices run down the insides of my legs.
“Look at you. Filthy,” he comments, as if he’s a million miles away, as if I am nothing to him. The falseness of it—I know I am not nothing, I am everything, or most of everything—makes me squirm in his lap.
He brings me to the edge of an orgasm, then takes his hand away.
Then another.
Then another.
Until I’m gripping his pants in both fists, teeth gritted, breath short and ragged. “Please.” I spit the word at his feet, less a prayer than a curse.
“Please what?”
“Please. Fuck me.”
“Ah,” Graham says, as if this is just one of many things he could do with his time. “On your back like a little queen or bent over the bed?”
Another gush of wetness. “Bent over. Like this—”
He scoops me up in one movement and takes me to the bed. The comforter is wedged against my hips and he bends me over, hand firm on my back, until my pussy is totally exposed to the air once again. I hear his zipper and a clink as his pants fall to the floor, and the whisper of his other clothes adding to the pile. His crown shoves up against my entrance.
“Your’e my wife now,” he says, his thumb rubbing over the small of my back.
“Please, husband.” I close my fists over the comforter. “Fuck me.”
“Show me how much you want it.”
I reach my hands back and spread myself for him.
He groans, low and animal, and thrusts forward.
God, I’ll never get sick of this—the way it always feels new, always feels like the first time, because he’s so big, because I have to open myself entirely for him. He’s unrelenting and I crave it, love it, shake and tremble around it all the way in and all the way back out.