Page 13 of Bride Bargain

Elliot dips the tip of his thumb beneath my sleep shirt, pressing it against bare skin. My whole body turns molten, and I go so still, desperate to see what he’ll do next. Silently pleading for him to keep going.

“Okay?” Elliot’s voice is pure gravel. He watches me closely, navy blue eyes so intent, as the pad of his thumb rests lightly against my sternum.

It’s an innocent touch. Barely anything at all.

And my insides squirm formore, more, more.

“Y-yeah.” I nod quickly. “Keep going.Please.”

And I didn’t mean to add that last part—would have told you I’m way too proud to beg—but when Elliot hears it, it’s like a jolt of electricity travels down his spine. He straightens, eyes flashing, and slides his whole thumb beneath my shirt, breaching the outer layer of my clothes.

Goosebumps ripple down my arms.

Elliot has never touched me like this. Hell, before our wedding, he’d barely touched me at all.

Now his chest rises and falls, and he is laser focused on the spot where our bodies meet; that tiny point of skin-to-skin contact. He strokes me so gently, with so much reverence, but as the moment stretches on he presses firmer, gets greedy, wantsmore.

“Elliot,” I whisper, and when he looks up at me, his eyes are almost pure black. “You don’t have to hold back.”

His throat shifts as he swallows, and without warning, my new husband grips my hips and yanks me to the edge of the sofa. A surprised laugh bursts out of me, and I grip his shoulders for balance, even as my legs settle on either side of his waist.

A needy pulse throbs between my thighs. Is this really happening? Snaking my hands behind Elliot’s neck, I pinch my own wrist to be sure.

…Ow.

Okay, yeah, this is real. This isn’t some delicious fever dream. Elliot Ramsay, my best friend and boss, is pressing my knees wider so he can shift closer to my core. Elliot, the man who refuses handshakes and doesn’t like the sensory overload of a crowded elevator, is ducking his head and capturing my lips with his.

And—god.

The heat of him. The hungry press of his mouth against mine, stern and demanding; the way his head tilts so he can kiss me deeper, harder,more.If you’d asked me to imagine Elliot’s first kiss, I’d have guessed he’d be detached and clinical. Going through the motions so he could get it over with.

Joke’s on me, because Elliot lets out a ragged groan and slips his tongue past my lips. He grips my hips and yanks me half off the sofa, rubbing our trembling bodies together, and he’s hard and hot as sin.

Thank god he wants this too, at least enough to try it once. Thank god he wants it withme, because I might have grown old and frail and gone to my grave never knowing how it feels when every cell in my body comes alive at once, singing out in harmony.

Elliot kisses me until my head spins and my lips are raw. He kisses me until my jaw aches and my throat is dry and my legsare so shaky, I may never walk again. Then, and only then, does he hook his thumbs in the waistband of my leggings and tug them down an inch.

He pauses. Pulls back enough to look at me—and when he sees how utterly ruined I am, Elliot lights up brighter than ever before.

“Can I?” He’s breathless, but clearly still has plenty left in the tank. Guess I’ll need to work on my stamina if this ever happens again, because I’m a boneless wreck right now. “I want to taste you, Claire.”

My nod is dazed, but I manage to shift my weight and help Elliot get my leggings off. He whips my fluffy socks off too, scowling with distaste at their texture before flinging them at the wall, and it’s soElliotthat I want to laugh and cry.

His knees must hurt after kneeling so long, but Elliot shifts back without a single wince to get a better angle of attack. He grips my thighs and kneads them, apparently thrilled with how squishy they are, before pressing them wider.

Jeez.

Never been exposed like this, the most private parts of me bared to the cool air, held open for someone else’s inspection. It’s so vulnerable, my neck tightens—and I might snap my legs closed, except this isElliot.

Elliot, who I trust with my life.

Elliot, who’s staring between my legs like he’s discovered the holy grail.

And you know, it’s impossible to feel embarrassed about the state of my bikini line when my hot, muscly boss growls with hungry approval.

“You don’t have to—” I start to say, because Elliot can be funny about textures and tastes and all sorts of things, and the last thing I want is to weird him out or overload him. Butthen hot breath puffs against my slit, and a warm tongue slides through my folds, andholy shit this is happening.

My toes curl. My back arches. I grab at the sofa cushions, my knees, my own bedraggled braid, before settling on Elliot’s hair. It’s thick and dark and soft and springy, and I weave my fingers through it and cling on for dear life as he eats my pussy.

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