Remy(82)

She gasps in delight as I rip and pull it off her leg, baring her skin from the tip of her feet, up higher. I lick her toe, then trail my tongue up the arch of her foot while my hands slide up her lean, long legs to tug the rest of her stocking free. I hear her start to pant, and when I’ve bared all her legs under her dress, I have a perfect view of the damp spot on her panties as I suck one pink-painted toe. My eyes blur from the force of my need, and I part her thighs and hear her catch her breath as I release her foot and bury deeper under her skirt to lick her over her panties.

“Remy,” she groans, as I lick the damp spot on the lace. She’s never worn lace before and I can see her pussy lips, pink and snug under the material. Groaning low and deep, I urge her legs wider apart and give her one thorough lap of my tongue, then I emerge from under her skirt, and rise to my feet, so fucking hot I’m about to turn to cinder.

Brooke’s chest is heaving and she’s leaning weakly backward, looking dazed and in love and beautiful with the top of her dress pulled down to her waist. Her body is twisted at an awkward angle as she braced herself, her dark hair falling behind her, and she’s catching her breath from the licking I gave her. Her round, pretty tits are as juicy as they’ve ever been, her nipples jutting out and almost screaming for my mouth. “Remington,” she says, almost pleadingly.

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.