“Just because I’m going to let you grind on my face doesn’t mean you can forget your manners, my darling.”
“Fuck off,” she spluttered, making Haydn climb back up her body and kiss her into polite submission. Except for the part where she wrapped her hand around his very insistent cock and made him jack obscenely against her.
He almost finished that way, his jaw tense, the muscles in his arms and chest tight with strain and the thrill of the hunt, but he wasn’t a man to be easily defeated.
She was already so wet that when he licked through her folds she heard it, that rude slick clicking sound. His accompanying groan was positively pornographic. He lapped her up, and the new sensation of the beard against her thighs, against her softest skin destroyed her sense of balance. She might as well have been levitating, tethered to the earth, to the bed by the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his lips and the race car engine roar of her approaching orgasm—destination stardust.
Somewhere in all of that, she’d sucked on his neck hard enough to leave a mark and he’d flipped her over and entered her from behind. It was all a lovely erotic blur in the same way as standing here in this dress was a Cinderella moment.
An incredibly impractical one.
“Wouldn’t you prefer me in a towel?” she asked.
He gestured towards a box on the floor. “I’d prefer you try the shoes while I get dressed.”
“Get dressed, it’s almost midnight. Where are we going?”
He gave her tangled hair a tug. “You’ll see.” And left the room.
Could she really take this for a spin in public? She couldn’t wear underwear, well, not the kind she owned, and you could virtually see her nipples nestled in silk. She was one false move away from a wardrobe malfunction. She’d need to do something with her hair because the I’ve-just-had-a-lot-of-raunchy-sex look wasn’t necessarily presentable in public. She’d need more than the dash of lipstick and mascara she’d worn during the day and truth be told, it had been a big day. The park, the seaplane, lunch, the bridge climb, all that glorious beard sex. All that extraordinary Haydnness.
She’d be happy to curl up next to him and pretend to watch a movie he wasn’t in.
But there was no reason not to try on the shoes.
Crisscross straps and a heel that should be torturous but a footbed that was angled and padded so well the sandals were surprisingly comfortable. Like the dress, they were a gift. Extravagant. Unnecessary, but he looked so happy when she’d agreed to try the dress on she’d been powerless to resist.
She followed him into the room he was using as a dressing area. “Where are we. . . Oh.” All the spit in her mouth dried up. He had a tux on, was tying the black tie. It was the same tux he’d worn in Cannes. It didn’t matter where he was taking her. She’d go watch jelly wresting in a skeevy pub with him dressed like that, if that’s what he wanted.
“Not far. Somewhere we can dance.”
“Won’t we be seen?” He’d done so much to avoid being easily accessible and she sure didn’t want to share him when he looked like the quintessential movie star.
He slapped some aftershave on, a citrus smell. “I’ll see you. You’ll see me. And there’ll be a band, but they’ll be cool.”
Bring on the musical jelly wrestling.
A half hour later, hair in a hastily conceived messy bun and her face made-up but still not enough to cover her look of astonishment, they were in the elevator. Haydn had hold of her hand and she read his expression as smugly charming, which was stupidly sentimental but what could she do, all the romance had softened her capacity for realism. Whatever he was up to, he was pleased with himself and excited for her.
There was no one about on the floor they got off at. There was no one in the hotel ballroom, except Rick and a five-piece band. But there had easily been a hundred people here not long ago. There were fragrant table centers still in place, there were empty coffee cups, scattered tent cards with names written on them and half-eaten portions of profiterole wedding cake.
“Weekend wasn’t complete if I didn’t take you dancing and this was the best I could do on short notice without causing a scene,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips.
“You’re next level.” Ridiculously, fabulously. Ruinously.
“Too much?” he asked, mouth quirked ruefully as he straightened up.
“In the best way,” she replied, a hand to his smooth face.
“Teela, you look. Wow.” Rick said, joining them. “I owe you,” he said to Haydn.
“He thought I wouldn’t be able to get you into the dress. Cost him fifty bucks,” Haydn said, while he led her towards the stage the band were set up on.
“I’m only worth a fifty?”
She regretted the words meant in jest and born of feeling awkwardly awestruck as soon as they left her mouth. They were petty, not funny. It hadn’t helped her jittery state that Rick’s eyes bugged out of his head when he saw her. Haydn had spent a small fortune on the dress and shoes and his budget for the weekend was unlimited. It was a relief that the comment got lost in a barrage of introductions Rick led.
Haydn signed a guitar, posed for photos and recorded a voice mail for the lead singer’s daughter. Teela took it all in with champagne-like bubbles in her chest that made her feel giddy. He’d done this for her. Found the dream dress. Got the shoes right. Crashed a wedding venue, asked the hotel clean-up crew to standby, paid the band overtime.