He carried me all the way to the lobby and then slid me down his body, kissing my neck, my chin, my lips. “Ready?”
I nodded. “So ready.”
But when I turned toward the elevators, he stopped me with a big hand wrapped around my forearm. And then his other hand pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.
“What . . . ?” I asked, a wary smile spreading slowly across my face. “What are you doing with that in the lobby?”
“I’m whisking you off somewhere.”
“But we have a room upstairs,” I whined quietly. “With a big giant bed and several of your ties to get kinky with, and,” I dropped my voice, “the bottle of lube in the drawer.”
He laughed, bending to run his nose along my jaw. “There’s also a duffel bag in the limo outside that has several of my ties to get kinky with, the bottle of lube from the drawer, and a few other things.”
“What other things?”
“Trust me,” he said.
“Where are we going?” I asked, tripping after him when he tugged my hand and led me forward.
“Trust me.”
“Do we have to fly?”
He playfully smacked my ass, growling, “Christ, woman, trust me,” in my ear.
“Am I going to have orgasms tonight?”
He turned pulled me close to his side and said, “That’s the plan. Now shut up.”
Chapter Eight
Bennett helped me climb into the back of the limo and then slipped the blindfold over my face, tying it firmly behind my head. It was wide and tight; the bastard had anticipated my plan to peek, and the silken fabric covered half my face. I was left in total darkness.
But beside me, I could sense when he shifted closer, could smell the clean, crisp sagey smell of him when he leaned in, sucked gently on my collarbone.
“Are you going to fuck me in this car?” I asked, reaching out blindly for him. I found his arm and pulled it around me.
His rumbling chuckle vibrated along my collarbones, from one side to the other, and I felt him reach for the hem of my wedding dress and slowly drag it up my legs.
Bennett’s fingertips tickled their way past my knee, along the inside of my thigh and to the thin white lace barely covering my pussy. He slid a knuckle under the fabric, dragging it back and forth over the already-slick skin beneath.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Goddamnit, Chlo.” He pulled back, sliding two fingers into me, pumping them deep. “I’m not feeling particularly gentle tonight.”
Arching my neck, I gave his mouth better access to the most vulnerable part of my throat, whispering, “Good. I don’t want you slow and sweet.”
“But it’s our wedding night,” he argued with mock sincerity. “Shouldn’t I gently lay you on a feather bed and bring you endless, loving pleasure?”
I reached for his hand, pressed it harder into me. “You can do that when I’m bruised and sore afterwards, in the middle of the night.”
His laugh was so dark, and communicated such barely restrained need that it sent shivers down my back. I felt his breath on my ear when he asked, “So I have permission to be rough?”
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. “Encouragement, even.”
“Maybe a little filthy?” When I answered with a nod, he growled, “Tell me.”