The car rolled to a stop and Bennett slammed a palm on the intercom button, managing a sharp “Wait here” before returning his hand to my face, groaning hoarsely.
His rumbling “Fuck, Chlo” sparked my lust, and I reached up to wrap my arms around his hips, whimpering at the powerful snap of his thrusts, the hard contractions of muscles in his ass.
I couldn’t see a thing, but each time he moved deeply and I felt the soft hair against my face, I wanted to suck as hard as I could so that when he pulled back I would wring as much pleasure out of this moment as I could for him. I felt desperate to give him this.
“So fucking good,” he said, his voice raspy, and I could tell from his movements that he was growing close. “Those perfect fucking lips. Feeling your tongue on me.”
I slid one hand between us, cupped his balls, and stroked just behind, teasing.
“Yes,” he hissed, hips jerking.
With a final push inside, he came, cock rigid and releasing his orgasm down my throat. He cried out as I swallowed around him, slowing his movements until only the tip of him rested against my tongue. I tilted my head up to him when he pulled out, and felt the soft glance of his thumb across my bottom lip.
Wordlessly, Bennett reached down and adjusted my blindfold before bending and kissing me deeply, his tongue sliding over mine.
“Tell me you like my taste,” he whispered.
“I love your taste.”
And then he pulled my dress up, moving his hand between my legs and under the lace of my underwear, as if confirming what I’d said was true.
“I fucking love your mouth.” He leaned forward, laughing against my lips. “And I love fucking your mouth.”
His touch was gentler now, exploring rather than giving pleasure. He grunted quietly, moving his hand away from me, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled up his pants, straightened his clothing.
Taking my hand, he murmured, “Come on, Mrs. Ryan. We’re here.”
We were definitely in a hotel. I could tell by the sounds of elevators, suitcases rolling across travertine floors. I could hear the way voices grow hushed as we walked past, and I imagined how we must look: Bennett carrying a blindfolded and barefoot bride in his arms and with a duffel bag full of who-knows-what slung over his shoulder, carrying me barefoot and blindfolded in my wedding dress.
“Are we in a hotel?”
“Shh,” he whispered, lips to my temple. “We’re almost there.”
He carried me as if I weighed nothing, his strides even and steady. I pressed my lips to his neck and asked, “Is everyone looking at us?”
He turned his head, laughing quietly in my ear. “Definitely.”
Once we stepped into the elevator, it smelled familiar. Was it possible we were back at the Hotel Del and he had just done an elaborate ruse to trick me? But if he did, why?
We rode up in silence and I adjusted my grip on his neck, trying to listen to the number of floors we passed, to any sign of where we were. Beneath my knees, his left hand squeezed me reassuringly.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded just as the elevator dinged and the doors opened, but Bennett didn’t move. I realized there’d been someone else in there with us. How had it been for them, I wondered, to be watching us as we went up to wherever our final destination was, knowing we were clearly headed to our wedding night?
When we reached another floor, Bennett stepped out and carried me down what felt like the longest hallway ever.