by Tracy Wolff
But Chloe seems to be in as big a hurry as I am. She’s wearing ridiculous heels—picked out by Tori, I’m sure—but she’s still managing to walk fast enough that I barely have to adjust my stride.
I texted Geoffrey when we were waiting for the waiter to return the check, so he’s right at the top of the driveway as we burst through the hotel’s circular doors.
“How was dinner?” he asks, as he holds the door open for us.
“Fine,” I growl, all but shoving Chloe into the backseat.
She’s giggling, and hiking up her skirt before Geoffrey even gets the door closed. A quick look at his face tells me that he’s doing his best to keep his eyes averted, but there’s a knowing smirk on his face that I decide not to hold against him. After all, he did resist the temptation to look at my wife’s glorious legs—which makes him a better man than I am, certainly.
I glance toward the front of the limo, make sure the privacy screen is in place—it is—and then I’m yanking Chloe into my lap.
She laughs a little breathlessly as she settles against me, her sex pressed against my cock as her legs settle on either side of my hips. And then her mouth is on mine, her lips and teeth and tongue devouring me even as she rocks her hips against mine.
“Fuck, Chloe, baby.” My hands settle on her ass, try to hold her in place. She’s hot and wet—so hot and wet that I can feel her through the silk fabric of my pants. “Slow down, love. We’ve got all night.”
“I don’t want to slow down. I want—I want—” The words are broken, breathless, and they shoot straight through me until it’s all I can do not to tear her panties off and slam myself inside of her as she rips her mouth from mine. Then her lips are gliding down my jaw, skimming across my cheek, pressing into the sensitive spot beneath my ear.
I shudder, my hands clenching on her thighs.
Chloe gives an answering whimper, her hips rocking fast and furious against mine as she tears at my tie and the top buttons of my shirt. She’s rough, out of control, almost violent and I love her like this. Love how frantic she is. Love how much she needs me. For the first time, it seems like it might be close, like the desperation I feel for her doesn’t outweigh hers for me nearly as much as I thought.
She finally gets my tie off my neck and then the top three buttons of my silk dress shirt are flying off under her hungry fingers. I don’t give a fuck about the shirt, don’t give a fuck about anything but my gorgeous wife. How can I when Chloe is in my lap, eyes wild and skin flushed, as frantic for me as I always am for her.
I lift my hips at the same time I press down on hers, reveling in the way her mouth goes slack and her eyes go blurry. I move to capitalize on her distraction, to strip her underwear off and turn her over so that she’s beneath me when I thrust into her. But before I can do any more than think of moving, she skims her fingers down my throat and grabs my shirt with both hands. Then she, literally, wrenches it apart.
Fabric rips, the rest of the buttons fly in all directions, and Chloe slips the shirt—and the suit jacket I’m wearing on top of it—off my shoulders. I nearly lose it then, my cock so hard that for a second I’m afraid I’m going to come before I ever get inside of her.
I reach for control with a shaky hand, tell myself that our first time making love as a married couple isn’t going to end with me coming in my pants like a teenager with his first girl. It almost works, too, but then Chloe’s hands are smoothing over my chest, her fingers tracing the dark lines of my tattoo before moving down to toy with my nipples.
The last shreds of my control shatter. I groan, let my head fall back against the cool leather of the seat as I arch into her touch. It’s obviously the invitation Chloe is looking for, because she’s on me in a second, licking and kissing and sucking her way down the column of my throat.
“Fuck, Chloe, baby,” I say again. They’re the only three words I’m capable of saying right now and I repeat them like a mantra. Or a lifeline. “Fuck, Chloe, baby—”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” she murmurs against my collarbone. “Isn’t it working?”
“It’s working,” I gasp as she slips a hand between us and strokes at my dick through the fabric of my pants. “It’s work—Fuck, Chloe, baby—”
“Fuck, Ethan, baby,” she murmurs against my mouth. She’s mocking me, making fun of how far gone I am, but there’s such delight in her face as she does it that it only makes me hotter. I love that she’s happy, love even more that she’s as completely into this as I am.
I arch against her, under her, groaning as my cock slides against her sex. She moans, too, and for a minute it’s like we’re back in high school. That’s the last time I’ve come this close to getting off by dry-fucking a woman.
But Chloe isn’t just any woman. She’s my woman. My wife. The words send through me a surge of possessive lust so strong that it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to tear open my trousers, move her panties to the side and fuck her until she screams my name.
Any other time I would do it. Any other time, she would welcome it. Hell, she might welcome it now. But this is her show. She’s made it clear that she’s the one in charge of what happens here and I am more than happy to cede to her. How can I not do anything she wants? Seeing her like this—beautiful, empowered, determined—turns me on like nothing else could.
Because this Chloe is secure. This Chloe feels safe with me. This Chloe knows her own worth and is as different from the Chloe I tried making love to on the beach a few days after we met as I am from the man who blindly believed the lies fed to him by his family.
That day, she’d been scared, horrified, expecting me to hurt her as she relived the horrors of the past. That she’s come so far in such a short time—that she loves me enough to risk the pain and the heartbreak that come with opening herself up to me and our dangerously entwined pasts—humbles me like nothing else could.
For a moment, the thought of Chloe’s past—of Brandon—swamps me with rage and threatens to pull me out of the lust-induced stupor I’ve fallen into. But even as my jaw clenches, even as my hands curl into fists, Chloe is there.
Her fingers tangling with mine.
Her mouth pressing hot, wet kisses to my shoulders, my throat, my pecs.
Her tongue tracing the lines of my tattoos as her fingers stroke across the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.
My mind empties of everything but her. Shivers race down my spine even as heat slams through the rest of me. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. The twin sensations swamp me, pull me under, until I’m drowning in her. Drowning in the dark honeyed taste of her. The warm vanilla scent of her. The soft, breathless sound of her.
“Fuck, Chloe, baby, please.” I add another word to my mantra even as what’s left of my mind—and my soul—shatters into a million shards. Chloe has torn me apart, has destroyed everything I was before her, everything I ever thought to be. And here, now, with her ring on my finger and her mouth on my body, she is remaking me. Forging me anew in the flames of her desire, her strength, her love.
Her hands are fumbling with my belt buckle now, and I can’t take it anymore. I have to touch her. I have to—
“Uh-uh,” she tells me, pulling her mouth from where she’d been sucking on my abs. “Lie there and take it. It’s my turn now.”
“I can’t,” I tell her, not even caring that I’m begging a little at this point. “I need—”
She shoots me a look from under her lashes that has need skating along my every nerve ending, slicing into me like razor blades. “I know exactly what you need, Ethan Frost. So back off and let me give it to you.”
And then she’s undoing my belt buckle and the top catch of my pants. Pulling down the zipper. Sliding her hand into my boxers and stroking my dick. My heart nearly stops.
There’s a part of me that knows it’s ridiculous. I’ve made love to Chloe hundreds of times since that first time all those weeks ago. I know her body as intimately as I know my own. She knows mine the same way. And yet
, still, after touching her and being touched by her in nearly every way imaginable, she still makes me breathless. Still stops my heart with a simple stroke of her hand.
“Fuck, Chloe, baby, please.” I am begging now, full on begging, and I don’t even care. I don’t care about anything but being inside my wife. Her mouth, her pussy, I don’t even care at this point. I just need—
She bends her head and takes me in her mouth, her tongue stroking lazily across the bottom of my cock as she slides me all the way to the back of her throat and then nearly all the way out again.
“Fuck.” My hands scrabble for purchase on the leather seats of the limo, but I can’t get a grip. On the seats, on my body, on the love I have for this gorgeous, gorgeous woman.
She does it again and again, one hand rubbing against my stomach in a manner that I think I’m supposed to find soothing while the other strokes my balls in a rhythm so good—so perfect—that I swear I can feel my eyes rolling back in my head.
She’s sucking me deep, her tongue doing so many wicked, wonderful things to me that I know it won’t be long before I lose the last little bit of control I have over my body. But this isn’t what I want, no matter how good it feels. I want—I need—to be inside Chloe the first time I climax after marrying her. I need her to come right along with me. I want to do this marriage right from the very beginning. And for me, right is making sure Chloe feels as good as I do.
Tangling my hands in her hair, knocking pins out left and right, I pull her back gently.
She looks up at me through dazed, sex-glazed eyes and she looks so good—so fucking good—that for a moment my resolve shatters. “What’s wrong?” she asks hoarsely, her tongue darting out to lick her swollen lower lip. “Don’t you want—”
And just that simply, I snap.
Wrapping my hands around her arms, I drag her up off the floorboards and back into my lap.
I slam my mouth onto hers.
Thrust my tongue into her mouth.
Suck her tongue into mine.
She moans, digs her nails into my bare shoulders. The small bite of pain only makes the pleasure more intense.
I yank her wedding gown all the way up to her waist, rip her white lace panties off her body. I’m desperate, dying, so determined to be inside of her that I can barely think, barely breathe.
I force myself to pause, though, to run my fingers along her sex to check if she’s as ready as I am. She is, wet and hot and ready, so ready.
“Ethan, please.” It’s her turn to beg, her turn to move restlessly against me.
I think about drawing it out, about torturing her the way she’s been torturing me, but the truth is I’m too far gone. If I go down on her right now I’m going to come all over the car’s supple leather seats—something I’m pretty sure Geoffrey won’t appreciate.
And so I give her what she wants. What we both want. I grab her hips in my hands, lift her up and then lower her slowly, slowly, slowly onto my cock.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How can she feel better than I remember? Hot and wet and tight, so tight, as her pussy clenches rhythmically around me.
Though my body is screaming at me to move, to fuck her, to take her, to make her mine forever, I pause for a moment. Two. My head falls forward, and I rest my forehead against Chloe’s as we both just breathe. As we take in the fact that we made it. That we’re here and we’re together, in this life and the next.
I want to stay like this forever.
But need is an urgent thrum in my blood, screaming at me to move, to take, to give. Chloe must feel the same way because she’s started rocking against me, her sweet, lush body sliding over my cock again and again and again.
I press my mouth to hers, whisper against her lips, “This is going to be fast.”
“Thank God.” She clenches around me again.
How she can make me laugh when I’m strung out in an agony of desire, I don’t know. It’s just part of the glorious mystery that is my wife.
I slip a hand between us, stroke my thumb in a circle over her clit. Once, twice, then again and again until she’s moaning, shuddering. She braces her hands on my shoulders and then, head back, eyes closed, she starts lifting and lowering herself on me in a rhythm that makes my eyes cross and my dick throb for relief.
My hands clutch her hips, urge her to move faster, to take me deeper. To give me everything that she has, everything that she is. Chloe’s whimpering now, a breathless, sexy noise that takes me right to the edge.
“I love you,” she gasps, as her eyes open and find mine. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The words have become her own mantra and they light me up from the inside as she repeats them again and again and again. They also send me careening over the cliff of my own restraint, send me hurtling into an orgasm so intense that for long seconds I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t breathe.
All I know is that Chloe is with me, her beautiful body clenching at mine as she wails my name.
Through it all, one thought repeats again and again and again. Chloe is mine, forever.
Chapter 9
By the time the car stops in front of the Atlantis, Chloe and I have managed to put ourselves back together. Okay, that might be a little bit of an overstatement—she looks like she spent the last half an hour getting fucked six ways from Sunday and I’m pretty damn sure I look the same. But at least her dress is down and my pants are zipped—at this point, I figure that’s all anyone can ask for.
The second Geoffrey opens the door, we scramble out like a couple of kids. His eyes widen a little when he gets a look at us, but then he averts his face from my wife and his countenance falls back into its normally inscrutable lines. I make a note to tip him even more generously than I usually do. God knows, the kid has earned it this trip.
“Will you be needing me any more tonight, Mr. Frost?” he asks as he closes the car door behind us.
It’s my turn to smirk at him. “No, I don’t think my wife and I will be going anywhere else this evening. But thank you for everything today.”
“It’s my pleasure, sir. Congratulations again on getting married. You, too, Mrs. Frost.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead, even as he addresses her. Something I appreciate, considering the fact that my wife looks even sexier than she usually does.
Chloe gasps, and I reach for her, thinking she’s tripped in those ridiculous shoes of hers. But she hasn’t. Instead, she’s standing there, beaming at the both of us.
“What’s up?” I ask, bending down to brush yet another kiss against her swollen, upturned lips.
“He called me Mrs. Frost.” She kisses me back, then grins hugely at Geoffrey, who appears a little dazzled as her eyes meet his. I don’t blame the kid—I’ve felt the same way from the moment she refused to drink that blueberry smoothie. “You’re the first person, ever, to call me Mrs. Frost, Geoffrey. Thank you.”
He grins back at her. “You’re welcome. But I’m sure I won’t be the last.”
If possible, her smile gets even bigger. “Definitely not.” Impulsively, she leans forward and hugs him.
He stiffens for a second, looks at me in shock. I just shrug. Chloe might be rich now, but she’ll never be like the wealthy women he’s used to. It’s one of the many things I love about her.
“Good night,” she tells him as she steps back.
“Good night, Mrs. Frost.” This time we’re all three smiling as he says the words that make my wife so happy.
As we make our way up to our room, I’m tempted to take out my phone and check the media outlets, see if anything has hit yet about Chloe’s and my wedding. But I’ve got my best publicity people on it—I trust Stu and his team to handle it. Besides, right now I’ve got much better things to do than worry about the press. Things that involve peeling my wife out of her dress and laying her out on the bed so that I can kiss every single inch of her glorious body—twice.
But when we get to our suite, she brushes a kiss across my lips and whispers, “I’ve g
ot a surprise for you,” right before she disappears into the bathroom.
I can’t help being intrigued. Chloe’s never been the lingerie type—which is fine with me as I prefer her naked anyway. Still, knowing that her wild-and-crazy best friend helped her pick out whatever she’s going to be wearing…I’d be a fool if I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her all dressed up. Or dressed down, as the case may be.
As she changes, I walk over to the electric fireplace and turn it on. It’s the most intimate seating area in the suite, with only a small loveseat facing it, with a chair on either side. Room service has moved one of the chairs to the side, and replaced it with a white-clothed table sporting a bottle of iced champagne, a plate of chocolate strawberries and a bouquet of bloodred roses.
Sebastian’s orders? I wonder, as I reach for the small card sitting there. Then smile when I open it and realize, no, this is Tori’s doing. Knowing Chloe will be touched, I leave the card on the table for her to read before popping open the bottle of champagne.
I can hear the shower running now, and for a moment I think about climbing in with Chloe. Making love to her in the shower is one of my favorite activities in the world. It comes right after making love to her on the beach, making love to her on my patio, making love to her in my bed…
And yes, I am completely single-minded when it comes to my wife.
Deciding to let her have her time in the shower so as not to ruin the surprise of the lingerie she’s got planned, I grab the bottle of champagne and wander into the bedroom with some vague idea of turning down the bed. But the hotel’s turndown service has already done that—no big surprise. What is a surprise, however, is the large, black box sitting on the pillow on my side of the bed.
It has a sparkly blue bow and a small card on it and I can’t help wondering if this is another wedding present from Tori. But as I get closer, I realize it’s addressed To My Husband. Chloe. I can’t stop the smile that stretches across my face.
