Page 61 of Sinful Bride

So fucking close.

“I, Pasha Fyodor Chekhov, vow to love you for every breath of every second I have in this life. You are my everything, Daphne. I give you my heart, my soul, my life. Everything that I have, everything that I am, is yours.”

My mouth hovers over hers.

“I love you. I will never stop loving you. I loved you from the moment you stole that first kiss from me, and I pray to God that my final moment will just be that again.”

When our lips finally touch, it’s better than the ceremony. Daphne’s soft moan comes out more like a whimper of need.

I’m all too happy to give her exactly what she wants.

We’re naked faster than I thought possible. Time keeps skipping and jumping forward, only little blips of it registering in my conscious mind.

The rustle of my tuxedo jacket as Daphne’s frantic hands peel it from my shoulders.

The harsh cough of her zipper as I pull it down.

Breaths. Hers. Mine. Fingers touching and roaming and intertwining.

It’s been weeks. Three whole dick-straining weeks of watching her prance around our home, all luscious curves and soft skin and utter torment.

Now, she’s here, she’s mine, and she’s panting beneath me as I struggle to kick my shoes, pants, everything off.

“I’m still…” Daphne’s voice suddenly trails off and she looks away. “I’m sorry. I just remembered.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“So what are you—Pasha!”

I flip her over, relishing her surprised scream. As soon as she’s on her belly on the bed, I blanket her with my torso. “If you think, for one second, I’m not going to make love to my wife on our wedding night, you’ve lost your goddamn mind. I’ll be careful enough. But just barely. Just very fucking barely.”

I may not be able to penetrate her tonight, but I’ll be damned if either of us sleeps before she screams my name.

I smile at the way her skin shivers with pleasure at my touch as I trace my fingertips along her bare ribs.

I tease my fingers underneath the strap of her lacy white thong. Gentle, gentle—and then I take a fistful of what little material there is and rip it free of her with a pop, casting it aside like it offended me.

Daphne yelps again and tries to rise up, but I press her back down with a flat hand to the small of her back.

“You move when I say you can,” I snarl. I fill my hands with her thighs and spread her open for my tongue, gliding it from the tip of her clit all the way to the very back where my thumbs keep her open.

“Oh… God…” Daphne moans.

“My name’s Pasha.”

She starts to laugh, but I cut that off with another slow, deep swipe of my tongue. Again, and again.

I could roll her over for a better angle. I know that. But there’s something about keeping her right here, right where she can’t do anything but enjoy what I’m doing to her, that has me throbbing even harder than if I took the easy route.

She tastes fucking divine. For a man who’s ached for her for weeks and is just now finally getting her sweet nectar on my tongue, it’s nothing but the purest honey.

The sweetest fragrance.

The most delicious moans.

Her stitches are healed over, but I’m still careful when I press my tongue deeper inside her. This is a slow, sensual lovemaking meant to convince her I do, truly and sincerely, love her with every fiber of my being.

The rougher moments will be for the times I need to remind her who she belongs to.

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