Page 26 of Accidental Vegas Vows

My throat closed in, my chest pounding.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe I could be honest with myself.

Breath stuttering, I let my fingers think for me. They reached for his shirt, up to the split in the fabric where his chest poked through, and fumbled with the buttons. One popped, and then another, and he hummed his approval against my mouth.

Fuck.

This wasn’t what I should have been doing.

I should have been signing my name on a piece of paper.

I should have been walking out the door.

I should have been halfway home.

I should have been lying to myself.

Something raw and aching blossomed in my chest as I threw an arm around his neck, cementing him to me as I returned the fervor of his kiss. I pulled harder at the line of buttons on his shirt, my extremities shaking as I tried to pop another out of its hole, but his hand came down swiftly on top of mine. He tugged with one quick motion, and the sound of little mother-of-pearl buttons cascading across the tile floor filled the massive space.

I wanted him. God fucking dammit, I wanted him, wanted this, wanted to stop waiting.

“There you are,” he said, the words almost guttural as they rumbled his chest. His shirt hung open, the ends tucked into his slacks, and I pulled the tails free. “Didn’t even need a drink.”

My hand flushed against his collarbones, I dragged it down along his pecs, over the solid ripples of each ab. I broke from the kiss and looked between us at his exposed flesh. I hadn’t had the chance to fully take him in when I was drunk out of my skull, and looking at him now, all muscle and tanned skin and the slightest tuft of peppered chest hair, was enough to make my head swim more than it already was.

His lips trailed to my neck, and I found myself reluctantly tearing my gaze from his chest and tilting my head back, giving him further access. Nimble, steady hands worked carefully at the buttons of my blouse, his lips trailing in their wake and moving down across my collarbones. He popped each one open, his ringed fingers brushing against the bare skin of my chest and stomach.

“Look at me,” he ordered, lifting himself to his full height. Bright blue eyes met mine, but his pupils were wide enough that I could barely see a sliver of the intoxicating color. “The moment you say stop, we stop. Do you understand?”

The knot in my throat tightened as his free hand traced the edges of my lips and trailed down, down over my chin, down the slope of my neck. His fingers curled around my throat, caging me — he didn’t apply an ounce of pressure, but the presence alone was enough to send my pulse to new levels. He could squeeze. He could cut off my oxygen. He was big enough to fucking kill me if he wanted. From the look in his eyes, I could tell it wasn’t a threat. It was an offer.

“Do you understand?” he asked again, his fingers tightening just the smallest bit, not enough to hurt me in the slightest.

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Good girl.” His free hand loosened my shirt from where it was still tucked in around my waist, freeing the thin material. My breath caught as his fingers dragged across my stomach, wrapped around the buckle of my belt, and began their removal. “You like this, don’t you?”

I blinked up at him in confusion, the warring in my mind beginning to calm. He squeezed his fingers a little more before relaxing them, giving me the context of his question, and it was as if every other thought in my mind that didn’t surround what I wanted him to do to me ceased. The part of me that had been screaming to run and keep myself away from him just… disappeared. I should have been frightened, but instead, the space between my thighs was aching. There was a comfort, a corrupted hunger, in letting myself be vulnerable here. “Yeah,” I croaked.

“Thank fuck,” he rasped. He held me to the wall, and with one quick motion at the back of my slacks, he pulled down sharply, tugging them and my underwear over the swell of my ass and partway down my thighs. “Because you look so fucking pretty with my hand around your throat.”

My cheeks heated as I kicked off my heels, dropping myself a couple of inches and giving up just that little bit of leverage. A moment later and my slacks and underwear were abandoned on the floor, and he was hoisting me up, up, up — forcing my legs around his waist and my pussy against his bare lower stomach. He took the weight of me, releasing my neck to hold me instead.

He kissed me, and I let myself sink into it, let myself close my eyes and turn off the outside world. I could feel his steps beneath me, felt it as we climbed up the stairs, his hands too focused on my skin and the latch of my bra to care about the handrail. I could barely focus on my surroundings — the dark gray walls of the staircase faded into dark gray walls of a hallway that faded into a wider space with more and more windows, the low light of twilight filling the room.

I only realized we were in a bedroom when my back met an intensely comfortable mattress and the softest sheets I’d ever felt.

I wasn’t sure where my shirt had gone. I wasn’t sure where my bra had gone. I was entirely bare beneath him, the two sides of his shirt hanging limply as he towered over me at the edge of the bed, his suit trousers still in place.

Until he fisted the buckle of his belt.

I could barely remember what his cock looked like. I’d seen it back in Vegas, held it, stroked it the same way I’d seen it done in porn, but I’d been so close to blacking out that the memory was blurry. I’d imagined it since, tried to piece together the memories to form an idea of it while I touched myself in the shower, but the moment his slacks unzipped and he pulled them down, I knew that my mind hadn’t done justice to whatever hid beneath the raging bulge in his boxers.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he rasped, his eyes locked between my thighs. “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re ruining my sheets.”

His button-up fell over his shoulders and he abandoned it beneath him. My mouth went dry as my cheeks heated, and I tried to lift my rear. “I-I’m sorry?—”

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