Big Man's Bride (Big Men Small Towns 1)

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Caleb rasps in my ear. His voice is taut, and I can tell he’s as effected as I am. He starts to fuck me faster, repeating “So good” into my ear again and again. His finger leaves my clit and he puts it in my mouth. “Suck it,” he says through gritted teeth, and I do. I suck his finger and it makes him groan. The taste of myself on his finger sends a jolt through me, and my hips start meeting his at a faster pace.

His forehead rests on my own, and his eyes stare deep into mine. His face is the sexist combination of exertion and lust. My lips fall open as my orgasm crests, and my hands reach down, grabbing his ass, and holding on as tight as I can. Caleb hisses in pain but it barely registers to me. The storm of pleasure doesn’t stop. I’m lost to it. And to him. The only thing that I can do is hold onto Caleb like he’s my anchor. It’s hard for me to accept that he can make me feel this way—like my body is the lock and he’s the only one that has the key.

But as he fucks me into orgasm after orgasm, I choose to hold on tighter, determined to get all the pleasure I can while I have him.8CalebI wake up to the sun on my face, even though I know for a fact that I closed the curtains last night. After getting my hands on Ally, I realized I didn’t want anyone to see her except for me. The photographer will have gotten more than enough, and the gossip sites will pay him loads for the wedding pictures he did take.

And last night…

Last night was beyond indescribable. I’m exhausted in the best way, and I stretch, turning over to look at Ally, and surprised when she’s not in bed with me. She must be the one that opened the curtains then. That’s disappointing. I was curious if my new bride liked morning sex as much as she liked my face buried between her legs. As much as I liked my face buried between her legs.

She tasted amazing, and I wouldn’t mind making that a regular part of my routine. Especially if she’s going to make sounds like the ones that she made last night. I can’t remember ever clicking that quickly with someone in bed.

The smell of breakfast cooking downstairs reaches the bedroom. Eggs and maybe bacon? My stomach growls. That tracks. Neither of us ate dinner last night after the wedding. We were busy with other things. What time is it, even?

Checking my phone, I’m surprised to find that it’s already late. Nearly eleven. No wonder I’m hungry. And not only for food. Maybe after breakfast I can convince Ally that we need to spend our honeymoon in bed.

I’m grinning to myself as I pull on some clothes. There’s a possibility that I’m enjoying this a little too much. We got married so we could each get what we want, but the sex, if it’s going to be like it was last night, that’s a definite bonus.

Downstairs, Ally is standing at the kitchen island. The plate in front of her is stacked with eggs and bacon, and there’s a cup of coffee next to her. She’s wearing shorts and a baggy sweatshirt, and her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. If it’s possible, she looks even sexier than in the dress that I peeled off her last night.

Looking around the kitchen, there’s no sign of anymore food. The dishwasher is running and the coffee pot is empty. And probably most notably, Ally doesn’t even look up at me.

“Good morning.”

She doesn’t respond at all, scrolling on the phone that’s in one hand. I try to mimic last night, coming up behind her and grabbing her hips, kissing her neck. But she might as well be made of stone for all she responds. “Is there any more breakfast or were you intending to share?” I point at her plate.

Ally holds the phone up so I can see what’s on the screen, and I freeze. It’s the leaked pictures of us, just like I planned—like I wanted—to happen. The two of us smiling at the altar, me carrying her down to the river, and the two of us in the window, her dress clearly about to hit the floor.

She thrusts her hips back into mine, making me take a step back, and grabs her plate and coffee. “Fend for yourself, rich boy,” she says, disappearing out the back door onto the porch.

An unexpected wave of guilt hits me. I should have told her. Warned her. Or at least given her my reasoning for why the photos needed to be leaked. I’m overwhelmed with relief that I chose to keep the more private moments actually private. I can’t imagine what I was even thinking, suggesting that the photographer get intimate pictures of our wedding night. She may be angry at me now, but if the other pictures I’d planned were all over the internet, I don’t think she’d ever talk to me again. Yesterday, I didn’t care that much what the consequences were. But today, I care very deeply that Ally doesn’t hate me. How can so much change in less than a day?