Remy (29 page)

My body tight with desire, I scoop my arms beneath her. “You get a bed tonight, Mrs. Tate,” I whisper.

“Mrs. Dumas-Tate,” she says as she opens the top buttons of my shirt and drags her lips along the stubble of my jaw.

“Whatever. You’re mine.”

She agrees with a sound against my throat, and a lick of her tongue. My blood is bubbling with need as I set her down on the bed, then I get busy stripping off my shirt. While I get rid of the cuff links and jerk it off my shoulders, my eyes run over those full breasts, fuller than ever, her nipples larger for my son to suck. And me.

I’m burning down to the pit of my stomach.

Beneath my zipper my cock is fully hard, and all I have to do is jerk open my pants button and it explodes through the zipper. Brooke is trying to squirm out of her big dress and I decide I need her naked before I do anything else.

I reach out and pull the skirt and she squeaks and laughs when the fabric tears again and now easily slides down her body. “Oh, I knew this dress wouldn’t survive you, I
knew
it!” she cries happily.

We laugh together, and as soon as she’s in nothing but panties, scooting back on the bed, I finish stripping and then stand there, at the foot of the bed, naked and so fucking hard I can barely see straight, and I look at her with my heart pumping in my chest and my skin buzzing from her nearness.

I look, and look and look. At my bride. My woman.

She grows impatient and crawls over to me in those wet lace panties. She kisses the length of my cock, the tattoo behind it, up the squares of my abs, up to my neck, and works her way to my lips. “I’m so hot, I’m shaking for you.” She caresses my cock.

I fist her hair in my hand and draw her back an inch, slowly dragging my tongue along her lips. “Then give me.” She smiles against my mouth and then moans and opens up so our tongues meet, and I lay her back on the bed littered with rose petals. Grabbing a handful of rose petals on the bed beside us, I flatten her on her back and raise my fist above her to sprinkle the rose petals over her.

She catches her breath as they fall on her body, her hair splayed dark behind her as she runs her fingers up my biceps, my shoulder, caressing me as I caress those rose petals and drag them up and down her body.

A mew leaves her lips and her eyes drift shut, and I keep dragging all the petals under my hand up to cup one tit, rubbing the petals over her nipples. The room is fragrant of rose petals but Brooke smells best of all. I know when she’s completely wet and ready for me, and she’s ready now.

“Remy . . .”

Pulsing to bury myself in her, I stretch my body out next to hers and take her in my arms, and whisper against her mouth, “It’s our official wedding night.”

“Yes.” She rubs her hands up my chest and looks at me with half-closed eyes.

“And I want to make it last.” I press my lips to her several times, without tongue, kissing the corner of her lips, the top, the bottom . . . then the center. “I want to freeze you right here,” I huskily murmur, “in my arms, where nothing can touch you but me.” As I drag my hand down her side, she shudders, letting me pet and kiss her, and she kisses me back with slow, wanton thrusts of her tongue. “Nothing, just you,” she agrees.

“That’s right,” I rasp.

“But I’m so wet,” she breathes.

“And you know I like it,” I murmur, petting her pussy with my hand before I ease her on top of my body so that she’s splayed above me and I can kiss her and grab her ass, and feel her pussy close to my cock while I have that juicy ass clenched in my hands and our mouths won’t leave the other alone.

She grows restless as we kiss and starts rocking her body, and I roll her to the side so I can ease a hand between our bodies and pet her pussy over her panties. I kiss her shoulder, then go downward, up the rise of one breast, to a puckered pink nipple. I drag my tongue out to lick it, then I head down to her navel and taste every inch of skin I can, feeling how her abdomen rises and falls as she pants but lets me do whatever I want with her.

She buries her face in my hair as I nuzzle and lick her belly button, and she grabs a rose petal and drags it over my shoulder, silken smooth as she trails it over the muscles of my back. Rising, I grab another fistful of petals and drag both hands over her body, so she feels all of them against her. “I love you,” she says, looking into my eyes, watching me cup her face. “I know,” I rasp. “And I love you.”

Our bodies are so hot, we’re perspiring and damp as we keep petting. She knows each of my muscles, but it always feels like she’s memorizing me. I know every inch of her body, but I want to live in every inch, kiss, lick, eat, bite, every inch.

I do, and then she’s writhing and fisting her hands in my hair, mewing, “I’m going to come.”

“Yes you are,” I murmur, and I seize her by the waist and I drag her down to my erection, watching the little pulse flutter at the base of her throat as she takes me. Groaning, I duck to dip my tongue into the crevice at the bottom of her throat as the head of my cock goes in.

The breath ripples out of her lips, and she grips my biceps and mews softly.

“Do you like it?” I rasp.

“I like everything you do to me.”

I lower my head and bite her near her shoulder, the sweet, smooth curves of her bottom in the cup of my hand as she slides lower and lower. She tries to go down the last inch, and I stop and lift her so I can lick her nipple.

I give it a good, long lick, then I blow air over the puckered tip. Her eyes pop open in surprise, and she shivers and starts rocking against me. “Remington,” she pleads, tilting her hips to my erection.

I roll her over to her back. “What do you want?”

Cheeks flushed with arousal, her eyes are brilliant gold. “I want my husband,” she says, sliding her fingers up my pecs. “Right now. All of him.”

I take her legs and part them open as I bend over, the damp spot between her legs driving me wild. But first I move my mouth down her thigh to kiss the scar on her knee, then I work my mouth back up. “You want his cock but what about his tongue.” My mouth hovers above her pussy and I lick the damp spot.

She gasps my name and grips the back of my head, cupping me. “Yes,” she breathes, moaning.

“Where do you want it,” I murmur, and I slide a finger into her panties and then into her sex while I roll her clit with the tip of my tongue, nothing but that thin, wet fabric between us. Her folds are slick and swollen. I insert one finger, then two, as I push my tongue over her clit. She comes and drenches my fingers, and I pull them out and make her suck them.

With a hungry noise, she pushes me onto my back. I fall willingly and pull her on top of me. Her thighs straddle mine and she moans at the contact of our skin. She rubs her sex against my dick through the underwear and caresses her fingers up my chest. I groan and sit up to squeeze her breasts in my hand, a primal nature to conquer and roll her around and fuck her coursing through me, winning over. I roll her over, then reach between us to play with her pussy as I lick one nipple. She tastes as good as she fucking smells, and I bury my head in her neck and inhale as her thighs spread wide beneath my weight, and I hold her lingerie open so I can tease her folds with the head of my cock.

She moans again and rocks her hips. “Oh yes.” Her legs spread wider open beneath me, hot and inviting. She tilts her hips and sinks her nails into the flesh of my back. “Remy,” she tells me in my ear, reverently, as if I’m her god and this, us, here, is our real church.

“We’re mating all night,” I tell her, looking into her face and rubbing the head of my cock along the fleshy part of her lips.

“All night,” she agrees.

Gripping the lace between her legs, I rip open her panties. “I’m coming inside you.”

“Yes.”

I pull her arms up and shove up inside. “Inside my wife.”

“Yes,” she pants against my ear, thrashing as I fill her. “Oh,
yes
.”

Pinning her down by the hips, I groan and start moving in her, our bodies hot, slicked with sweat. She moans, I groan and pulse inside her, our bodies moving together, fast and hungry for more, slapping as she tilts her hips upward and I push downward, wanting as close as I can get.

I tongue her ear, her neck, then her nipples, one at a time, my hands rasping up her sides, her fingers gripping me closer, her lips in my ear as we lose it, out of control.

I love you,
she gasps

She thrashes and shudders beneath me, coming fast and hard, and as her pussy clenches my cock, I start ejaculating inside her, clenching my arms around her shaking body and letting her take me with her. I growl softly in her neck, biting the curve of her neck as I go off inside her for a third time, and she moans in pleasure until we’re both panting and sated, my tongue rubbing out the spot I just bit.

I shift to spare her my weight when she whispers, “Don’t pull out. Please. I need you in me.”

I roll to my back and bring her with me, and she sighs and cuddles, catching her breath while I slide my hands down her body and to her ass. I nudge her head back with my nose, murmuring, “I still want you,” and when she looks up, I take her mouth and start kissing her, using my hands on her ass to start rocking her over my cock.

With a guttural sound in her throat, she grabs my hair and pushes her tongue hungrily against mine, starting to ride me.

“That’s right, baby,” I croon, grabbing her hips and moving her on me, sucking her tongue, nipping at her bottom lip. “That’s right, take me, ride me, show me how much you need me.”

She sits back and rides me harder, and I rise up to feast on her tits and clench her ass cheeks as she moves recklessly on me. “Remy,” she gasps, and I know she’s close. She’s hot and wet and tight as fuck around me, and I groan as my body tightens and the pleasure gathers at the base of my spine.

I stick my tongue into her mouth with a heavy groan, and we kiss and caress each other until we come. When she sags against me, she keeps me inside her and tucks her face into my neck, and I bury my nose into her hair and smell her. We don’t speak for some time, but we don’t need to. I know her, and she knows me. I’m inside her, and she’s wrapped around me. Our bodies say it loud and clear.

We lay in bed for a while, quiet. Brooke alternates between kissing my throat and teasing a fingertip round and around my nipple, while I smell her hair and neck, and quietly pet my little firecracker.

I wake up snuggled into his hard body the next morning, and he smells like he does, and he makes me feel like he does, and I realize I still haven’t shown him his wedding present. My tummy grips with nerves and excitement when I remember I haven’t showed him my wedding present. Butterflies.

He always gives them to me.

I feel like a virgin every, single, time, he touches me, and kisses me, and makes love to me.

Quietly and with a chest overflowing with happiness, I look up to find him with his eyes closed, but a smile on his lips. I smile because I know he’s awake . . . as relaxed as I am. “Mr. Remington Tate, you got yourself married yesterday,” I whisper as I run my fingers up the hard muscles of his tan chest, up the thick tendons of his throat, his scruffy jaw, those beautiful dimples, teasing past the closed eyes, and to the standing-up ends of his spiky black hair, caressing him quietly while inwardly I’m swooning.

Watching him waiting for me at the altar yesterday, as I walked slowly—painfully slowly—up to him in my father’s arms when all I wanted was to run; he took my breath away.

Remington in a black tuxedo, his hair as dark and spiky as ever, his broad shoulders filling his jacket, fitted to his narrow waist and hips, and the way those dancing blue eyes watched me as I walked up to him . . .

Nothing existed as I stared into his eyes. Nothing ever exists for me when I stare into those eyes. It’s not the color, or the hue, it’s what I see in them. Every marvelous, complex thing that makes up Remy.

“Our baby will be six months soon, and you still give me butterflies,” I whisper quietly.

He’s a man. He might not know about butterflies, but I know enough for the both of us. And I’ve got a zoo full of them right now as he opens his eyes and looks at me. With those same blue eyes I want to stare at all day.

He angles his head to mine and feathers a kiss across my lips, and warmth surges through my being as his rough, delicious voice ripples through me, “You’re mine. My obsession. My dreams. My hope. My heart,” he whispers, his rough hands running up the sides of my body like they did all night.

“Tell me I’m your Real again, Remington,” I plead, trailing my fingers up his jaw as he looks at me.

“You’re my Real, little firecracker. You’re my everything.”

My stomach tightens when I remember the song he played me. The suite still smells of roses. I’ve heard the guys banter with him, telling him to get me something other than roses, something less old-fashioned. He won’t budge. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about it, only what he believes they mean, and he uses them to talk to me. To tell me he loves me.

Remington is big on actions, even if he might not know it. He’s always proving, in so many ways, who he is, and what he feels. And I’ve done something . . . that I hope talks to him. Just like his roses and his songs talk to me.

Tummy clenching in anticipation, I turn to the nightstand and get one of my hair bands, which I tie around my wrist when I don’t use it to pull my hair in a ponytail. “Will you help me put this on?” I ask, passing it back as an excuse.

He sits up and lifts my hair, and I love how he lifts my hair with one hand while apparently trying to figure out how to use it with the other.

Then the movements stop, and a complete silence falls.