Page 195 of Wild Then Wed
My mouth finds hers like gravity, like instinct. Like maybe if I don’t kiss her right now, I’ll stop breathing.
She tastes like peppermint and whatever kind of sweet hell that lip gloss is made of. She’s soft and warm and already gasping against me as I press her back into the door, my hand wrapping lightly—possessively—around her throat.
Her fingers dig into my sides, her lips parting as I swipe my tongue along the slick curve of her bottom lip, catching the gloss and her moan all at once.
She makes a sound low in her throat, breathy and wrecked, and it goes straight to my gut.
Fuck, I need her.
Right here. Right now. Against this goddamn door.
She pulls back, lips kiss-bruised and breathing hard. “Sawyer, we don’t have time for this. We’re going to be late.”
I glance at my watch. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”
She arches her brow.
I smirk. “I only need five to make you come.”
That gets me a look. One corner of her mouth lifts, smug and teasing. “That long, huh?”
I laugh and kiss her again, my hands locking around her waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of her hips as I spin her toward the vanity. I guide her back until the edge catches her thighs, then I lift her, setting her down as a few makeup brushes clatter to the floor. She doesn’t seem to notice or care. My mouth never leaves hers, my tongue sliding against hers in a slow, filthy promise. I’ve been ravenous since the second she stepped out of that bathroom. Before then, if we’re being honest.
Her legs part slightly when I step between her thighs, the heat of her already searing through my slacks. My grip tightens in the silk of her dress, hiking it up inch by torturous inch until it bunches around her waist. Her breath hitches—half shock, half surrender—and fuck if that sound doesn’t go straight to my cock.
“We’re seriously doing this right now?” Her voice is low, breathless, fingers curled in the fabric of my shirt like she already knows the answer.
I kiss the underside of her jaw, just beneath her ear. “We’re seriously doing this right now. You’re my wife, Wren. That means this pretty pussy belongs to me.”
Her hands slide up under my jacket, nails dragging lightly along the back of my neck. Maybe wewillbe late, because we have thirty minutes and I want to use every single one of them. Maybe we’ll walk into that gala five minutes behind the rest of the room.
But right now? I don’t give a single fuck.
Wren’s fingers are working the top buttons of my shirt free, her gaze locked on mine. And then—fuck—her mouth is on my throat, her tongue dragging a wet, hot path up to my jaw. My grip on her thighs tightens, spreading her wider as I slide my hand beneath her dress, searching for whatever’s underneath.
Lace.
Delicate and barely there. My fingers skim over it before slipping beneath, and she’s already soaked. Silky, warm, her hips arching into my touch like she can’t help it.
“Fuck, Wren,” I growl against her ear. “You know what I want to do to you in this dress?”
She lets out a breathy gasp, and I don’t wait for an answer.
“I want to bend you over that bed, push this dress up around your waist and fuck you until you’re screaming. I want to feel you come with those heels still on.” I drag my fingers through her slick center, and her whole body shudders. “I want to ruin you so badly you forget where we’re even supposed to be tonight.”
She pants, her lips brushing my neck as I pull her thong down, watching it slide over smooth, golden thighs. I want my hands on her everywhere.
I stroke her again, slick and perfect, before bringing my fingers to my mouth. “Sweet,” I murmur, tasting her. “Just like I fucking remembered.”
Her eyes lower to my belt, working it open. The button next. Then the zipper. And then—finally—her fingers wrap around my cock, her thumb swiping over the head in a way that makes my hips jerk.
“You like being this hard for me, don’t you?” she purrs, her voice dripping with wicked amusement.
I grit my teeth, my hand tangling in her hair as she strokes me, torturous and slow. “You’ve got no idea, Wren.”
“Is this what you do in bed?” she asks, her grip tightening just enough to make me groan. “When you think about me?”
“Not just in bed, Peach.” My voice is gravel, my control fraying. “In the shower. At my desk. Every time I close my damn eyes.”
