One Night Stand Bride

Well then. Looked like the honeymoon was starting early. She had no problem with that and she was nothing if not ready to ignore the fact that the bride and groom were still dashing for the door fifteen minutes after the reception started but with this plan, they’d be back in a few minutes. At least ten. Maybe once wouldn’t be enough. Was married sex better than one night stand sex? Oh God, she couldn’t wait to find out.

Breathlessly, she followed him, ignoring the multitudes of people who called out to them as they scouted for this hypothetical closet with a door that locked. In a true wedding day miracle, off the kitchen there was a linen closet full of spare tablecloths and empty centerpieces. No one saw them duck through the door, or at least no one who counted. They passed a member of the waitstaff who pretended he hadn’t noticed their beeline through the back rooms where guests typically didn’t tread. Whether it was a testament to his discretion or the fact that Hendrix and Roz were tied to powerful families, she didn’t know. Didn’t care.

All that mattered was the door had a lock. She shut it behind her with a click and flipped the dead bolt, plunging the room into semidarkness. Maybe there was a light but before she could reach for it, Hendrix pinned her against the door, his mouth on hers in an urgent, no-holds-barred kiss. No time to search for a light. No time to care.

Her knees gave out as the onslaught liquefied her entire body, but he’d wedged one leg so expertly between hers that she didn’t melt to the ground in a big hot puddle. She moaned as his tongue invaded her mouth, heated and insistent against hers. He hefted her deeper into his body as he shifted closer.

Too many clothes. She got to work on his buttons, cursing at the intricacy of his tuxedo. Shame she couldn’t just rip the little discs from the fabric but they had to reappear in public. Soon. Giving up, she pulled the fabric from his waistband so she could slide her hands under it.

Oh, yes, he was warm and his body was still drool-worthy with ridges and valleys of muscle along his abs that her fingers remembered well. He pressed closer still, trapping her hands between them, which was not going to work, so she shifted to the back as he gathered up her skirts, bunching the fabric at her waist. Instantly, she regretted not making him take the time to pull the dress off. She wanted his hands everywhere on her body, but then she forgot to care because his fingers slid beneath the white lacy thong she’d donned this morning in deference to her wedding day.

“I want to see this thong later,” he rumbled in her ear as he fingered the panties instead of the place she needed him most. “It feels sexy and tiny and so good.”

“It feels in the way,” she corrected and gasped as he yanked the panties off, letting them fall to her ankles. She toed off the fabric and kicked it aside. She needed him back in place now. “Touch me. Hurry.”

Fast. Hard. Frenzied. These were the things she wanted, not a speech about her undergarments. This was sex in its rawest form and she knew already that it would be good between them. She hoped it would put them on familiar ground. Eliminate confusion about what they were doing here.

“What’s your rush, Mrs. Harris?” He teased her with short little caresses of his fingertips across her shoulder, down her cleavage, which ached for his attention, but had far too many seed pearls in the way for that nonsense.

“Besides the hundreds of people waiting for us?” Her back arched involuntarily as his fingers found their way beneath the tight bodice of her dress to toy with her breasts. Heavenly heat corkscrewed through her core as he fingered her taut, sensitized nipples.

“Besides that.”

“You’re my rush,” she ground out. “I’m about to come apart and I need your hands on me.”

She needed oblivion like only he could give her, where all she could do was feel. Then it didn’t matter that he was totally on board with a closet quickie for their first time together as husband and wife. Neither of them did intimacy. It was what made their marriage so perfect.

“Like this?” His hand snaked between them to palm her stomach and she wiggled, hoping to get it lower. He complied inch by maddening inch, creeping toward the finish line with a restraint more suited for a choirboy than the bad boy she knew lurked in his heart.

He’d licked her in places that had never been touched by a man. He’d talked so dirty while doing it that she could practically give herself an orgasm thinking about it. They were having sex in a closet with five hundred oblivious people on the other side of the wall and he had every bit of the skill set necessary to make it intoxicating. She needed that man.

“Hendrix, please,” she begged. “I’m dying here.”

“I’ve been dying for weeks and weeks,” he said and she groaned as he wandered around to the back, wedging his hand between her buttocks and the door to play with flesh that certainly appreciated his attention but wasn’t the part that needed him most.

Practically panting, she circled her hips, hoping he’d get the hint that the place he should be focusing on was between her thighs. “So this is my punishment for not letting you have your way with me until now?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. This is my reward,” he murmured. “I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms again so I could feel your amazing body in a hundred different ways. Like this.”

Finally, he let his fingers walk through her center, parting the folds to make way, and one slid deep inside. Mewling because that was the only sound she could make, she widened herself for him, desperate for more instantly, and he obliged with another finger, plunging both into her slickness with his own groan.

“I could stay here for an eternity,” he whispered. “But I need to—”

He cursed as she eased her way into his pants, too blind with need to bother with the zipper. Oh, yes, there he was. She palmed his hot, hard length through his underwear and it wasn’t enough. “I need, too.”

Urgently, she fumbled with his clothes and managed to get the buttons of his shirt partially undone, hissing as he withdrew his magic hands from her body to help. But that was a much better plan because his progress far eclipsed hers and he even had the wherewithal to find a condom from somewhere that she distinctly heard him tear open. That was some amazing foresight that she appreciated.

Then her brain ceased to function as he boosted her up against the door with one arm, notched his hard tip at her entrance and pushed. Stars wheeled across her vision as he filled her with his entire glorious length. Greedily, she took him, desperate for more, desperate for all of it, and he gave it to her, letting her slide down until they were nested so deep that she could feel him in her soul.

No.

No, she could not. That was far too fanciful for what was happening here. This was sex. Only. Her body craved friction, heat, a man’s hard thrusts. Not poetry.

Wrapping her legs around him, she gripped his shoulders, letting her fingers sink into the fabric covering them because even if it left marks, who cared? They were married and no one else would see his bare shoulders but her.

He growled his approval and it rumbled through her rib cage. Or maybe that was the avalanche of satisfaction cascading through her chest because Hendrix was hers. No other woman got to see him naked. It shouldn’t feel so good, so significant. But there was no escaping the fact that they were a unit now whether he liked it or not.

They shared a name. A house. Mutual goals. If he didn’t like peanut butter and jelly, he should have come up with another plan to fix the scandal.