Each time it grew a little dirtier until I worried he was going to clear the wedding table with a sweep of his arm and lay me down on it. But when Kristin told us the band would be starting our first dance song soon, and a symphony of knives tinkling against crystal rang out, Bennett simply leaned over and said, “If you put your tongue in my mouth again, I’m leaving this fucking wedding and taking you to bed, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Well, I’ll then keep it chaste, Mr. Mills. Because I want cake.”
His eyes fell closed and he leaned forward, gently touching his lips to mine. How did he manage to blend sweet and commanding so seamlessly?
We walked to the center of the dance floor amid hushed silence. The first few chords of the song began and Bennett gave me a devilish grin before pulling me close with both hands gripping my ass. The room exploded in raucous cheers and I looked up at him, shaking my head as if it bothered me.
It so fucking didn’t.
Without shoes, I was so much shorter than he was, and still sometimes hated not being able to see him eye to eye, even when we were dancing at our wedding. I stood on my tiptoes, swayed in his arms, and after only about half a minute I felt him reach around my waist and lift me so we were face-to-face, my feet dangling several inches off the ground.
“Better?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“Much.” I twisted my fingers in his hair and leaned to slide my mouth over his.
Camera flashes exploded around us and I could imagine hundreds of pictures of Bennett holding me, spinning me slowly, my still-dirty feet telling anyone who would look at the picture in the future what kind of wedding day we’d had: perfect.
The song drew to an end, but it was several long beats after the final notes before Bennett put me down.
“I love you,” he said, letting his eyes roam my entire face before coming to settle on my lips.
“I love you, too.”
“Holy shit. You’re my wife.”
Laughing, I said, “We’re married. That’s insane. Who let this happen?”
He didn’t even break a smile. Instead, his eyes grew heavy, his voice even lower. “I’m going to disrespect the fuck out of you later.”
The entire surface of my skin felt flushed and silvery.
He released me, letting me slide down his body and groaning quietly as my hip pressed against the length of his cock, half hard already. “I’m tempted to disrespect you now,” he said. “But my wife wanted cake.”
We drifted apart a little as another song started and I felt my father’s hand press to my back. Bennett turned, taking his mother in his arms. As we danced with our parents, we caught each other’s eyes over their shoulders and grinned, giddy. I felt like closing my eyes and letting out the loudest, happiest shout ever heard.
“Your mom would have had a great time today,” Dad said, kissing my cheek.
I nodded, smiling. I missed my mother in this sort of hollow-throb way. She hadn’t ever been the cool mom, or the fashionable mom; she was the sweet mom, the hugger mom, the overprotective mom. She would have hated Bennett at first, and the thought made me laugh out loud. Mom would have assumed he was a prick and that I could find someone more giving, more connected, more emotionally available. And then she would have seen him look at me in an unguarded moment, would have seen him trace a fingertip from my temple to my chin, or kiss the back of my hand when he didn’t think anyone was looking, and realize I’d found the one man other than my dad who loved me more than anything on the
planet.
Catching Bennett in these private moments had been what won my father over to Bennett’s side, eventually. After our disastrous Christmas visit to Bismarck over a year ago, where Dad grilled Bennett endlessly and finally walked in on me riding him like a rowdy cowgirl in my childhood bed, Dad came to stay with us in New York for a week. Bennett, predictably, had been working like a fiend for the first few days, and Dad grumbled endlessly about how a man should provide for his family not only in material ways but also emotional.