Each time it grew a little dirtier until I worried he was going to clear the wedding table with a sweep of his arm and lay me down on it. But when Kristin told us the band would be starting our first dance song soon, and a symphony of knives tinkling against crystal rang out, Bennett simply leaned over and said, “If you put your tongue in my mouth again, I’m leaving this fucking wedding and taking you to bed, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Well, I’ll then keep it chaste, Mr. Mills. Because I want cake.”
His eyes fell closed and he leaned forward, gently touching his lips to mine. How did he manage to blend sweet and commanding so seamlessly?
We walked to the center of the dance floor amid hushed silence. The first few chords of the song began and Bennett gave me a devilish grin before pulling me close with both hands gripping my ass. The room exploded in raucous cheers and I looked up at him, shaking my head as if it bothered me.
It so fucking didn’t.
Without shoes, I was so much shorter than he was, and still sometimes hated not being able to see him eye to eye, even when we were dancing at our wedding. I stood on my tiptoes, swayed in his arms, and after only about half a minute I felt him reach around my waist and lift me so we were face-to-face, my feet dangling several inches off the ground.
“Better?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“Much.” I twisted my fingers in his hair and leaned to slide my mouth over his.
Camera flashes exploded around us and I could imagine hundreds of pictures of Bennett holding me, spinning me slowly, my still-dirty feet telling anyone who would look at the picture in the future what kind of wedding day we’d had: perfect.
The song drew to an end, but it was several long beats after the final notes before Bennett put me down.
“I love you,” he said, letting his eyes roam my entire face before coming to settle on my lips.
“I love you, too.”
“Holy shit. You’re my wife.”
Laughing, I said, “We’re married. That’s insane. Who let this happen?”
He didn’t even break a smile. Instead, his eyes grew heavy, his voice even lower. “I’m going to disrespect the fuck out of you later.”
The entire surface of my skin felt flushed and silvery.
He released me, letting me slide down his body and groaning quietly as my hip pressed against the length of his cock, half hard already. “I’m tempted to disrespect you now,” he said. “But my wife wanted cake.”
We drifted apart a little as another song started and I felt my father’s hand press to my back. Bennett turned, taking his mother in his arms. As we danced with our parents, we caught each other’s eyes over their shoulders and grinned, giddy. I felt like closing my eyes and letting out the loudest, happiest shout ever heard.
“Your mom would have had a great time today,” Dad said, kissing my cheek.
I nodded, smiling. I missed my mother in this sort of hollow-throb way. She hadn’t ever been the cool mom, or the fashionable mom; she was the sweet mom, the hugger mom, the overprotective mom. She would have hated Bennett at first, and the thought made me laugh out loud. Mom would have assumed he was a prick and that I could find someone more giving, more connected, more emotionally available. And then she would have seen him look at me in an unguarded moment, would have seen him trace a fingertip from my temple to my chin, or kiss the back of my hand when he didn’t think anyone was looking, and realize I’d found the one man other than my dad who loved me more than anything on the
planet.
Catching Bennett in these private moments had been what won my father over to Bennett’s side, eventually. After our disastrous Christmas visit to Bismarck over a year ago, where Dad grilled Bennett endlessly and finally walked in on me riding him like a rowdy cowgirl in my childhood bed, Dad came to stay with us in New York for a week. Bennett, predictably, had been working like a fiend for the first few days, and Dad grumbled endlessly about how a man should provide for his family not only in material ways but also emotional.
But then one night, when Bennett got home well after midnight and Dad got up out of bed to get some water, he found us on the couch, my head in Bennett’s lap and his fingers running gently through my hair as he listened to me ramble on about every detail of my day. Bennett had been exhausted, but, as usual, he insisted I spend time with him, no matter how late. Dad admitted the next morning that he had stood, mesmerized, watching us for a full five minutes before he remembered himself and left to get his water.
I caught him giving Bennett a look over my shoulder and then heard my husband’s deep, real laugh—the one that bubbled up from low in his belly and came out sounding like the quietest, happiest sound.
“What are you two up to?” I asked my dad, pulling back to look at him.
“Just giving my new son some nonverbal advice.”
I gave my father a warning look and then caught Bennett’s attention as my father turned to me. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Ask your husband what that was all about.”
Dad pulled me into a hug, kissing my cheek, before Bennett came to my side, bending to whisper, “Your dad just indicated he wants five grandkids.”
My screech of horror was drowned out by the heavy bass blasting through the speakers, signaling to the guests that the real party had started. Crowds rushed to the dance floor and we took the opportunity to go get a drink of water. Will passed us on our way, flanked by my aunts.
They sandwiched him between them good-naturedly and Will’s head fell back in laughter. “For the love of God, Hanna, where are you?” he yelled.
Across the room she lowered her fruity drink, held up her hand decorated with a beautiful engagement ring, and called out, “Is that what this ring means? That I come to your rescue?”
He nodded fervently, shouting, “Yes!”
Finally, after a nice, long bit of staring at the poor boy, Hannah walked to him and pulled him away from my laughing aunts and into her arms. I smiled, turning back to Bennett.
“Can we leave now?” he asked, eyes dropping to my mouth.
The crowd had barely thinned, and I knew the party would probably continue on for another few hours, but right then all I wanted was to get upstairs and get my husband out of his tux.
“One more hour,” I said, pulling back his jacket sleeve to glance at his watch. It was only eight thirty. “One more hour and then I’m all yours.”
After what ended up being three hours—three hours of dancing and drunken toasts, of Max and Will carrying Bennett to the bar for a final round of “man shots,” of pure, wild celebration—Bennett came up behind me at the bar where I stood talking to Henry and Mina, and slid his arms around my waist.
“Now,” he whispered, kissing my ear.
I leaned back into him, smiling at my brother- and sister-in-law. “I think that’s my cue.”
There were no flower petals to throw in our wake, no handfuls of rice. Instead, Will and Henry grabbed handfuls of cocktail napkins and drunkenly chucked them at us as we ducked away from the bar and waved to our guests.
“Good night everyone! Thanks for coming!” I called out above the catcalls and whistles.
Bennett pulled me forward, waving over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“It was so good to see you all!” I yelled, still waving to our family and friends.
He practically dragged me away before lifting me and throwing me over his shoulder. The approval of our guests was communicated with roaring applause and another stack of napkins that caught Bennett in the back of the head.
He carried me all the way to the lobby and then slid me down his body, kissing my neck, my chin, my lips. “Ready?”
I nodded. “So ready.”
But when I turned toward the elevators, he stopped me with a big hand wrapped around my forearm. And then his other hand pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.
&nbs
p; “What . . . ?” I asked, a wary smile spreading slowly across my face. “What are you doing with that in the lobby?”
“I’m whisking you off somewhere.”
“But we have a room upstairs,” I whined quietly. “With a big giant bed and several of your ties to get kinky with, and,” I dropped my voice, “the bottle of lube in the drawer.”
He laughed, bending to run his nose along my jaw. “There’s also a duffel bag in the limo outside that has several of my ties to get kinky with, the bottle of lube from the drawer, and a few other things.”
“What other things?”
“Trust me,” he said.
“Where are we going?” I asked, tripping after him when he tugged my hand and led me forward.
“Trust me.”
“Do we have to fly?”
He playfully smacked my ass, growling, “Christ, woman, trust me,” in my ear.
“Am I going to have orgasms tonight?”
He turned pulled me close to his side and said, “That’s the plan. Now shut up.”
Chapter Eight
Bennett helped me climb into the back of the limo and then slipped the blindfold over my face, tying it firmly behind my head. It was wide and tight; the bastard had anticipated my plan to peek, and the silken fabric covered half my face. I was left in total darkness.
But beside me, I could sense when he shifted closer, could smell the clean, crisp sagey smell of him when he leaned in, sucked gently on my collarbone.
“Are you going to fuck me in this car?” I asked, reaching out blindly for him. I found his arm and pulled it around me.
His rumbling chuckle vibrated along my collarbones, from one side to the other, and I felt him reach for the hem of my wedding dress and slowly drag it up my legs.
Bennett’s fingertips tickled their way past my knee, along the inside of my thigh and to the thin white lace barely covering my pussy. He slid a knuckle under the fabric, dragging it back and forth over the already-slick skin beneath.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Goddamnit, Chlo.” He pulled back, sliding two fingers into me, pumping them deep. “I’m not feeling particularly gentle tonight.”
Arching my neck, I gave his mouth better access to the most vulnerable part of my throat, whispering, “Good. I don’t want you slow and sweet.”
“But it’s our wedding night,” he argued with mock sincerity. “Shouldn’t I gently lay you on a feather bed and bring you endless, loving pleasure?”
I reached for his hand, pressed it harder into me. “You can do that when I’m bruised and sore afterwards, in the middle of the night.”
His laugh was so dark, and communicated such barely restrained need that it sent shivers down my back. I felt his breath on my ear when he asked, “So I have permission to be rough?”
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. “Encouragement, even.”
“Maybe a little filthy?” When I answered with a nod, he growled, “Tell me.”
I exhaled, a shaking, tense breath. “I want you filthy. I want you wild and impatient tonight. It’s how I feel.”
He twisted his wrist, and pushed a third finger into me so deep I felt the cool of his wedding ring against my skin, and I cried out from the sensation of the pressing metal, of being stretched tight. His thumb made teasing, maddening circles just around my clit, expertly never quite touching exactly where I wanted it. Traffic sounds grew to a crescendo and then ebbed into silence, and the steady thump of bridge spacers sounded beneath the wheels.
“Are we leaving Coronado?”
“Yes.”
“Are we getting on a plane?” I asked again.
“Does my hand not feel good?” Irritation simmering in his voice.
“. . . what?” I asked, confused.
“Are you distracted by the street, rather than the three fingers currently fucking you?”
“I—?”
He pulled his hand out and reached for my shoulders, pulling me off the seat and dragging me so I kneeled on the floor. I felt him shift around to pull me closer, and I realized I was positioned between his legs. The sound of his belt, his zipper, and his pants being shoved down his hips cut through the quiet.
“Come here,” he said on an exhale, cupping the back of my head. “Suck.”
Despite the single rough word, his touch grew careful as I began to lower my mouth over him, as if he wasn’t sure how to blend his pent-up need to come with the reality of our brand-new marriage. We’d talked for cumulative hours about how things would be in this very moment—the two of us finally alone, married, and faced with the reality that it might be different—but now that we were in it, I could tell Bennett was a little torn.
We’d said no way would it feel different: it was just two rings, just a piece of paper.
We’d said we’d never stop being hard on each other, or start having easily bruised feelings.
We’d promised anything could always happen between us in the bedroom. We swore we’d never hold back, or be afraid to ask for whatever we needed.
But as I worked his length with my lips and my tongue, I could sense that Bennett’s hands were fisted at his sides, not in my hair. His hips were pressed firmly into the seat beneath him, instead of rising up, arching toward my mouth.
So I did the first thing that came to mind: with a quiet sucking sound, I pulled my mouth off his cock and sat back on my heels.
His breaths came out in sharp gusts, but other than the sound of the road passing beneath us, the car fell silent.
Finally, his voice rose from the quiet in a controlled rumble: “What happened?”
What happened? So tame, Bennett.
In this moment, I hated not seeing his face, but I knew he understood the point I was making when he took a deep breath and asked, “Why the fuck did you stop?”
There he is.
“You know why.”
Strong hands lifted me off my heels and sat me back until my butt hit the floor of the limo and my spine rested on the seat opposite him. One of Bennett’s knees planted on the seat beside my head and without saying a word, he pressed the crown of his cock to my lips, forcing my mouth open.
“Suck,” he said, and this time the word was coated in anger and need. I barely had time to adjust to the feel of him before a tight fist curled in my hair, holding me steady as he began to move in short jabs, not going too deep, at least not yet. Finally, his hands released my hair and left me only long enough to frame the side of my face, holding me steady for his longer, deeper strokes.
The car rolled to a stop and Bennett slammed a palm on the intercom button, managing a sharp “Wait here” before returning his hand to my face, groaning hoarsely.
His rumbling “Fuck, Chlo” sparked my lust, and I reached up to wrap my arms around his hips, whimpering at the powerful snap of his thrusts, the hard contractions of muscles in his ass.
I couldn’t see a thing, but each time he moved deeply and I felt the soft hair against my face, I wanted to suck as hard as I could so that when he pulled back I would wring as much pleasure out of this moment as I could for him. I felt desperate to give him this.
“So fucking good,” he said, his voice raspy, and I could tell from his movements that he was growing close. “Those perfect fucking lips. Feeling your tongue on me.”
I slid one hand between us, cupped his balls, and stroked just behind, teasing.
“Yes,” he hissed, hips jerking.
With a final push inside, he came, cock rigid and releasing his orgasm down my throat. He cried out as I swallowed around him, slowing his movements until only the tip of him rested against my tongue. I tilted my head up to him when he pulled out, and felt the soft glance of his thumb across my bottom lip.
Wordlessly, Bennett reached down and adjusted my blindfold before bending and kissing me deeply, his tongue sliding over mine.
/>
“Tell me you like my taste,” he whispered.
“I love your taste.”
And then he pulled my dress up, moving his hand between my legs and under the lace of my underwear, as if confirming what I’d said was true.
“I fucking love your mouth.” He leaned forward, laughing against my lips. “And I love fucking your mouth.”
His touch was gentler now, exploring rather than giving pleasure. He grunted quietly, moving his hand away from me, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled up his pants, straightened his clothing.
Taking my hand, he murmured, “Come on, Mrs. Ryan. We’re here.”
We were definitely in a hotel. I could tell by the sounds of elevators, suitcases rolling across travertine floors. I could hear the way voices grow hushed as we walked past, and I imagined how we must look: Bennett carrying a blindfolded and barefoot bride in his arms and with a duffel bag full of who-knows-what slung over his shoulder, carrying me barefoot and blindfolded in my wedding dress.
“Are we in a hotel?”
“Shh,” he whispered, lips to my temple. “We’re almost there.”
He carried me as if I weighed nothing, his strides even and steady. I pressed my lips to his neck and asked, “Is everyone looking at us?”
He turned his head, laughing quietly in my ear. “Definitely.”
Once we stepped into the elevator, it smelled familiar. Was it possible we were back at the Hotel Del and he had just done an elaborate ruse to trick me? But if he did, why?
We rode up in silence and I adjusted my grip on his neck, trying to listen to the number of floors we passed, to any sign of where we were. Beneath my knees, his left hand squeezed me reassuringly.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded just as the elevator dinged and the doors opened, but Bennett didn’t move. I realized there’d been someone else in there with us. How had it been for them, I wondered, to be watching us as we went up to wherever our final destination was, knowing we were clearly headed to our wedding night?
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