Page 27 of Accidental Vegas Vows

Large, ring-covered hands grabbed at my hips and shoved me back down into the plush sheets, making me lose my breath. “I wasn’t complaining, princess.”

He leaned over me, holding me in place with his hands, the soft light of twilight glinting off his watch as his lips pressed against the inner side of my knee. The fabric of his boxers shifted, his cock twitching, and with every kiss he planted against my skin growing closer and closer to the dripping space between my thighs, I couldn't help but want to reach out to him. I wanted to touch it again, wanted to see it without the warped haze of alcohol tainting my memory.

Who the fuck was I around him?

The second his tongue slid across my clit and his contented grunt filled the air, my mind went blank. Autopilot took over, and it didn’t care about who I was, my morals, or pleasing my parents.

He feasted on me, every glide of his tongue feeling like Goddamn heaven, and I couldn’t help myself. I fisted the sheets, writhed, moved my body in ways that felt right against his lips. Using my toes, I crept my foot up to the hem of his boxers, desperately trying to push it down. I wanted more. Fuck, I wanted it all.

One hand came to rest on the waistline of them just beside my foot, and the other snaked its way across my skin until his fingers pressed against my opening.

I shifted my hips forward.

His answering chuckle vibrated against my clit, and that in combination with what I could only assume were two fingers sliding inside of me, made me lose it.

My head tipped back, and through squinted eyes, I could barely make out the shape of an ornate headboard at the top of the bed, and?—

Oh, God.

Oh, fuck.

It was a fucking mirror.

Outlined in dark stained wood, it reflected everything. Even over the mound of pillows, I could see myself laid out like a damn starfish, completely bare, one foot on his hip and one knee up, my hands fisting the sheets. I could see his face between my legs, could see his fingers start to tug on the waistband of his boxers. I could see them slip down his legs.

His eyes met mine in the reflection, and I swear, his lips tipped up into a smirk.

“Oh, my God,” I breathed, letting myself look down my body at him instead of the mirror. I could feel my release already beginning to build, and the moment another two fingers slipped inside of me and the burn of the stretch mixed with the pleasure of his tongue, I was damn sure he’d throw me over the cliff far too soon. “Damien.”

His head obscured what the mirror didn’t. I couldn’t see his cock, couldn’t see what his hand was doing, and I found myself caught between what I wanted to watch — his mouth on me or his hand in the mirror. But before I could commit to either, his lips broke from me, his fingers curling inside as he licked his damp lips.

And I could see him.

Even in the low light, it was enough to send me spiraling.

It wasn’t the length that had me catching my breath. No, it was the width, the girth of him, that shook me a little more than I’d imagined. I’d seen similar sizes to him before online, but right now, in this fucking room where his fingers were buried inside of me and both of us knew damn well where this could lead, I hadn’t imagined something that looked like it could tear me in two.

But the memory from the bathroom in the bar became clearer now. This was what I couldn’t wrap my fingers all the way around. His free hand wrapped around the base of it, making the veins bulge even more than they already did. The swollen, deep red tip leaked and dripped onto the edge of the bed as he lifted himself to his full height.

I salivated. Any hesitation I still harbored reared its head briefly before fizzling away.

“Please.”

His thumb grazed against my clit briefly, making my spine twitch. “Well, that’s a welcome change,” he chuckled. “I’m not the one begging this time.”

I didn’t care if it brought me back down to the level he’d been on that night. I wanted him. God fucking dammit, I wanted him, and he wasn’t giving it to me, and I could barely think through the pleasure that wasn’t quite enough to get me to that edge anymore. I haphazardly reached for him, brushing the tips of my fingers along the underside of his tip, and the sound he made as he sucked in air through his teeth only made me want it more.

But I wasn’t expecting the hesitation from him. “We don’t have to.”

His fingers began to retreat, and I grabbed for his forearm, keeping him in place. I almost couldn’t believe the words that came from my mouth, couldn’t believe that I could be the one to speak them. “I want to. Please.”

His answering grunt as he climbed onto the bed was the confirmation I was desperately seeking. He reached across me and I let his fingers retreat, the emptiness that followed feeling wrong on too many levels, and watched as he pulled open the bedside drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“Lube,” he said, plucking out a glass bottle with a pump top.

“But I’m… uh, wet.”

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