The way my wife looks today.
The way my wife smiles today.
The way my wife nuzzles our smiling son as she says, “Goodbye, Racer, be good with Grandma and Grandpa. . . . ”
“Gah!”
I pat the top of Racer’s round little head and kiss his chubby cheek. “That’s right, devil, you heard her.”
“Leave him to us,” Brooke’s mother tells us outside the church, while the team looks on from a couple feet away. Brooke’s sister, Nora, is clutching the bouquet she just caught to her chest, and Pete looks ready to puke at her side because of his feelings for her. Coach is grinning like he never does, while Diane is standing with her arm linked to his, and Riley can’t stop glaring at Melanie’s new boyfriend, who clearly doesn’t give a shit.
Me . . . I’ve had it with the suit, with being kept away from my bride in our own home, with kissing her meekly by the altar and without using my tongue and my teeth or putting my hands on her ass. As Brooke waves to Melanie and yells, “Racer, Mommy loves you!” I pull her into the back of the limousine and reach around her to slam the door, and I finally have her all for me.
She turns, panting, to look into my eyes, her cheeks blushed pink, her eyes sparkling in excitement, and no, I will never forget today.
I reach for her while she simultaneously tries climbing on my lap and I grab her waist to help her, but she squeaks as she tries flattening the billowing skirt of her dress and we fail to get her comfortably on top of me. “I loved this dress until this moment when it won’t let me get close to you,” she complains.
“Shit, I’m so hard for you, come here.” Sliding my hand under the fall of her hair, I grab her by the neck and dive hungrily for her lips, kissing her, my tongue anxious to be touching hers. I want more. And she instantly gives me more, thirsty for me, moaning softly.
Keeping our mouths attached, I gather her closer as she strokes my hair. “I can’t wait,” she breathes. “For you to tear this dress off me.”
“I’ll send those fucking buttons flying.” My mouth waters as I drag my thumbs down her cheeks. “And I’m going to feast on you like a fucking banquet.”
“Oh yes, please.” She sets her nose on mine and sighs, her fingers playing in my hair. “We’ve never left Racer for more than two hours before. I feel like a bad mother.”
I shake my head, nuzzling her as I do. “If we don’t want to leave him and go on a honeymoon yet, you at least have to let me steal you for an evening.” I kiss her jaw. “You’re the most tender, playful mother I know, Brooke.”
She laughs. “Oh, and how many do you know?” she teases, reaching up to poke both my dimples. “To compare me to?”
Really? I know none. But the mother of my son.
God, they’re so fucking perfect, and they’re both mine.
I sometimes watch them from across the room, and my chest swells as they play around with each other. Brooke has a canny sixth sense that always knows when I stare. She always looks up, her eyes warm and sparkling with happiness at me, and I come over and pull them close to me, kissing and nuzzling them both.
“I know my mother wasn’t like you,” I whisper to her now, kissing the tip of her nose.
“And you, there’s no father like you.” She caresses the bow at my neck. “I love you so much, Remington.” She presses her face into my neck and tries getting closer to my side, dragging in a deep inhale, her voice thick, “You look so hot in that tuxedo, I’m dying to have you all to myself.”
“I get you all for me too.” I tighten my arm around her waist as I buzz my lips over her hair.
Maybe taking a honeymoon currently is impossible, especially when neither of us wants to leave Racer, but I need my wife tonight.
Quietly I kiss her forehead and her nose. Running my eyes over her features, I tip her head and scrape my thumb across her lips. “I need this,” I rasp, and set my mouth on hers.
She rubs my tongue to hers and sighs as I slip my fingers into her hair and loosen the crystal clips scattered throughout. Pulling each raindrop-shaped crystal from her hair, I tuck them into my jacket pocket while I slowly savor her mouth and kiss her all the way to the hotel, until neither of us is breathing right by the time we arrive.
The moment we walk into the lobby, a dozen curious stares land on us, and they’re soon followed by claps and cheers as I take her by the hand and lead her to the elevators.
“Many years, man!” someone shouts.
“Cheers to the bride and groom!”
Brooke laughs, and I’m chuckling too as I pull her into the elevator with me and then bury my face in her neck, smelling her as we head to the top floor.
“I want to eat you,” I growl, sliding my fingers under her hair again. Her eyes darken as she reaches for my free hand and spreads it over her heart.
“Are you going to kiss me here?” She forces my fingers to curve around the round flesh of one perky little tit.
I nod.
Then she lifts that same hand to her mouth and sets a kiss on my palm. “And here?”
I nod again.
Her smile matches mine in mischief as she slides my hand down her abdomen and to the bell of her skirt, then she laughs and pushes up on her toes. “What about . . . there?”
I tip her head back. “Your pussy is getting kissed tonight for sure.”
Her lips curve in pure delight and I have to take them and kiss her, stopping only when we hear the Ting.
When the doors roll open, I scoop her in my arms and she squeaks in surprise as I head to the double doors down the hall. “Remy!”
“This is what husbands do the first night. No?”
She links her fingers at the back of my collar and nods.
I duck my head low to whisper in her ear as we reach our door. “As your husband, I do whatever the hell I want,” I say, sliding the key into the slot while I add, “And right now, I’m going to do you.” I push open the door, take us inside, and kick it shut behind me, then I set her to her feet, facing the room.
I click on the lights, and Brooke lets out a soft, surprised gasp.
Rose petals of every color are littered across the carpet. A hundred vases are scattered throughout, bursting with red bouquets, white bouquets. I wanted a fucking rose garden for my wife, and this is what the guys could help me do.
As Brooke stares quietly around, every inch in the room is either green, yellow, white, red, pink, some roses in buds, some blooming, some with stems, some scattered on the furniture without them, I quietly come up from behind her and set my headphones on her head, and click Play on my iPod.
“Everything” by Lifehouse begins. A hand flies to her chest when she starts listening, her pink mouth opening slightly and her eyes instantly tearing.
My chest swells and my throat feels itchy, my eyes stinging like the day Racer was born, and in that one instant, only hours after Brooke accepted to marry me—they became my family and the center of my world. Now my wife stands in this room I filled with roses for her, and I have. NO. WORDS. No fucking words to tell her. The way I need her. The way I want her. The way I love her. How every day I wake up a happy man, and go to sleep a happy man, sure that I can’t love her any more than I already do. But every day, the impossible happens, and I love her more. Her smiles, her strength, her dedication to our son, to me, everything about her is perfect for me.
She starts sobbing softly as she keeps listening to the song, clutching her stomach as if it hurts to hear the lyrics.
You’re all I want, you’re all I need, you’re everything . . . everything . . .
My eyes burn as she cries softly, and I’m flooded with tenderness as I step before her. I lift my palm to catch the tears of one cheek, and press my lips to the other, kissing her tears dry. “No crying,” I murmur into her skin, and she squeezes her eyes shut as more tears fall, her arms trembling as she wraps them around me.
“No crying. I want to make you happy,” I murmur, pulling off the headphones and tossing them aside as I repeat it in her ear. I want to make you happy. She shudders quietly, sniffing, and I frame her face in my hands so my thumbs can dry the rest of her tears as I look into her eyes. The only eyes that really see me. The tender, hungry, and passionate gold eyes of the woman I love. I caress my thumbs on her cheeks. “Not just happy. I want to make you the happiest woman alive.”
“I am,” she says, sniffling, wearing her heart in her eyes as she looks at me. “It’s why I’m crying.”
With a soft groan, I pull her to me and go kiss her ear. “Every day you make me the luckiest man alive,” I whisper, sliding my fingers up her back and tracing the buttons of her wedding dress, impatiently popping them open, one by one. She nuzzles my neck and kisses my throat when suddenly, she pulls away from me and starts backing across the suite, a new playfulness in her gaze.
“You want me?”
One of my eyebrows shoots up. “You doubt it?”
I start following, my hunter kicking into gear, all my instincts rearing up and priming my body to chase and catch her. I’m not about to let her get very far. “Come here,” I growl, reaching out and pulling her close. She lets out a squeak a second before I kiss her, hard and deep as I run my hand down the buttons on her back, grab the fabric, and rip it. Buttons fly, landing over the rose petals on the floor. She moans when I slide my hand through the tear and touch soft, bare skin. “Hmmm.” I lick up her neck as I pull her arms out of the sleeves of her dress and yank the top down to her waist.
She pulls off my bow tie and slides my jacket over my shoulders. “I’m so ready for you, you can consider all day foreplay,” she says.
“I don’t think so,” I laugh, then I pin her hands at her sides and lace my fingers through hers, keeping her fingers from going anywhere as I kiss her mouth, slow and languorously. “Let’s start stripping you.”
Grabbing her by the hips, I prop her on the back of a couch and push her skirt up so I can reach one silver glittery shoe. I unbuckle all the little line of crystal buckles, then I toss one shoe aside and work on the next. Once it falls next to the first, I run my hand up her stockings and find the perfect spot to rip.
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.
“But I’m so wet,” she breathes.
“And you know I like it,” I murmur, petting her pussy with my hand before I ease her on top of my body so that she’s splayed above me and I can kiss her and grab her ass, and feel her pussy close to my cock while I have that juicy ass clenched in my hands and our mouths won’t leave the other alone.
She grows restless as we kiss and starts rocking her body, and I roll her to the side so I can ease a hand between our bodies and pet her pussy over her panties. I kiss her shoulder, then go downward, up the rise of one breast, to a puckered pink nipple. I drag my tongue out to lick it, then I head down to her navel and taste every inch of skin I can, feeling how her abdomen rises and falls as she pants but lets me do whatever I want with her.
She buries her face in my hair as I nuzzle and lick her belly button, and she grabs a rose petal and drags it over my shoulder, silken smooth as she trails it over the muscles of my back. Rising, I grab another fistful of petals and drag both hands over her body, so she feels all of them against her. “I love you,” she says, looking into my eyes, watching me cup her face. “I know,” I rasp. “And I love you.”
Our bodies are so hot, we’re perspiring and damp as we keep petting. She knows each of my muscles, but it always feels like she’s memorizing me. I know every inch of her body, but I want to live in every inch, kiss, lick, eat, bite, every inch.
I do, and then she’s writhing and fisting her hands in my hair, mewing, “I’m going to come.”
“Yes you are,” I murmur, and I seize her by the waist and I drag her down to my erection, watching the little pulse flutter at the base of her throat as she takes me. Groaning, I duck to dip my tongue into the crevice at the bottom of her throat as the head of my cock goes in.
The breath ripples out of her lips, and she grips my biceps and mews softly.
“Do you like it?” I rasp.
“I like everything you do to me.”
I lower my head and bite her near her shoulder, the sweet, smooth curves of her bottom in the cup of my hand as she slides lower and lower. She tries to go down the last inch, and I stop and lift her so I can lick her nipple.
I give it a good, long lick, then I blow air over the puckered tip. Her eyes pop open in surprise, and she shivers and starts rocking against me. “Remington,” she pleads, tilting her hips to my erection.
I roll her over to her back. “What do you want?”
Cheeks flushed with arousal, her eyes are brilliant gold. “I want my husband,” she says, sliding her fingers up my pecs. “Right now. All of him.”
I take her legs and part them open as I bend over, the damp spot between her legs driving me wild. But first I move my mouth down her thigh to kiss the scar on her knee, then I work my mouth back up. “You want his cock but what about his tongue.” My mouth hovers above her pussy and I lick the damp spot.
She gasps my name and grips the back of my head, cupping me. “Yes,” she breathes, moaning.
“Where do you want it,” I murmur, and I slide a finger into her panties and then into her sex while I roll her clit with the tip of my tongue, nothing but that thin, wet fabric between us. Her folds are slick and swollen. I insert one finger, then two, as I push my tongue over her clit. She comes and drenches my fingers, and I pull them out and make her suck them.
With a hungry noise, she pushes me onto my back. I fall willingly and pull her on top of me. Her thighs straddle mine and she moans at the contact of our skin. She rubs her sex against my dick through the underwear and caresses her fingers up my chest. I groan and sit up to squeeze her breasts in my hand, a primal nature to conquer and roll her around and fuck her coursing through me, winning over. I roll her over, then reach between us to play with her pussy as I lick one nipple. She tastes as good as she fucking smells, and I bury my head in her neck and inhale as her thighs spread wide beneath my weight, and I hold her lingerie open so I can tease her folds with the head of my cock.
She moans again and rocks her hips. “Oh yes.” Her legs spread wider open beneath me, hot and inviting. She tilts her hips and sinks her nails into the flesh of my back. “Remy,” she tells me in my ear, reverently, as if I’m her god and this, us, here, is our real church.
“We’re mating all night,” I tell her, looking into her face and rubbing the head of my cock along the fleshy part of her lips.
“All night,” she agrees.
Gripping the lace between her legs, I rip open her panties. “I’m coming inside you.”
“Yes.”
I pull her arms up and shove up inside. “Inside my wife.”
“Yes,” she pants against my ear, thrashing as I fill her. “Oh, yes.”
Pinning her down by the hips, I groan and start moving in her, our bodies hot, slicked with sweat. She moans, I groan and pulse inside her, our bodies moving together, fast and hungry for more, slapping as she tilts her hips upward and I push downward, wanting as close as I can get.
I tongue her ear, her neck, then her nipples, one at a time, my hands rasping up her sides, her fingers gripping me closer, her lips in my ear as we lose it, out of control.
I love you, she gasps
No, fuck, no, I love you.
She thrashes and shudders beneath me, coming fast and hard, and as her pussy clenches my cock, I start ejaculating inside her, clenching my arms around her shaking body and letting her take me with her. I growl softly in her neck, biting the curve of her neck as I go off inside her for a third time, and she moans in pleasure until we’re both panting and sated, my tongue rubbing out the spot I just bit.
I shift to spare her my weight when she whispers, “Don’t pull out. Please. I need you in me.”
I roll to my back and bring her with me, and she sighs and cuddles, catching her breath while I slide my hands down her body and to her ass. I nudge her head back with my nose, murmuring, “I still want you,” and when she looks up, I take her mouth and start kissing her, using my hands on her ass to start rocking her over my cock.
With a guttural sound in her throat, she grabs my hair and pushes her tongue hungrily against mine, starting to ride me.
“That’s right, baby,” I croon, grabbing her hips and moving her on me, sucking her tongue, nipping at her bottom lip. “That’s right, take me, ride me, show me how much you need me.”
She sits back and rides me harder, and I rise up to feast on her tits and clench her ass cheeks as she moves recklessly on me. “Remy,” she gasps, and I know she’s close. She’s hot and wet and tight as fuck around me, and I groan as my body tightens and the pleasure gathers at the base of my spine.
I stick my tongue into her mouth with a heavy groan, and we kiss and caress each other until we come. When she sags against me, she keeps me inside her and tucks her face into my neck, and I bury my nose into her hair and smell her. We don’t speak for some time, but we don’t need to. I know her, and she knows me. I’m inside her, and she’s wrapped around me. Our bodies say it loud and clear.
We lay in bed for a while, quiet. Brooke alternates between kissing my throat and teasing a fingertip round and around my nipple, while I smell her hair and neck, and quietly pet my little firecracker.
PRESENT
SEATTLE
Brooke
I wake up snuggled into his hard body the next morning, and he smells like he does, and he makes me feel like he does, and I realize I still haven’t shown him his wedding present. My tummy grips with nerves and excitement.Butterflies.
He always gives them to me.
I feel like a virgin every, single, time, he touches me, and kisses me, and makes love to me.
Quietly and with a chest overflowing with happiness, I look up to find him with his eyes closed, but a smile on his lips. I smile because I know he’s awake . . . as relaxed as I am. “Mr. Remington Tate, you got yourself married yesterday,” I whisper as I run my fingers up the hard muscles of his tan chest, up the thick tendons of his throat, his scruffy jaw, those beautiful dimples, teasing past the closed eyes, and to the standing-up ends of his spiky black hair, caressing him quietly while inwardly I’m swooning.
Watching him waiting for me at the altar yesterday, as I walked slowly—painfully slowly—up to him in my father’s arms when all I wanted was to run; he took my breath away.
Remington in a black tuxedo, his hair as dark and spiky as ever, his broad shoulders filling his jacket, fitted to his narrow waist and hips, and the way those dancing blue eyes watched me as I walked up to him . . .
Nothing existed as I stared into his eyes. Nothing ever exists for me when I stare into those eyes. It’s not the color, or the hue, it’s what I see in them. Every marvelous, complex thing that makes up Remy.
“Our baby will be six months soon, and you still give me butterflies,” I whisper quietly.
He’s a man. He might not know about butterflies, but I know enough for the both of us. And I’ve got a zoo full of them right now as he opens his eyes and looks at me. With those same blue eyes I want to stare at all day.
He angles his head to mine and feathers a kiss across my lips, and warmth surges through my being as his rough, delicious voice ripples through me, “You’re mine. My obsession. My dreams. My hope. My heart,” he whispers, his rough hands running up the sides of my body like they did all night.
“Tell me I’m your Real again, Remington,” I plead, trailing my fingers up his jaw as he looks at me.
“You’re my Real, little firecracker. You’re my everything.”
My stomach tightens when I remember the song he played me. The suite still smells of roses. I’ve heard the guys banter with him, telling him to get me something other than roses, something less old-fashioned. He won’t budge. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about it, only what he believes they mean, and he uses them to talk to me. To tell me he loves me.
Remington is big on actions, even if he might not know it. He’s always proving, in so many ways, who he is, and what he feels. And I’ve done something . . . that I hope talks to him. Just like his roses and his songs talk to me.
Tummy clenching in anticipation, I turn to the nightstand and get one of my hair bands, which I tie around my wrist when I don’t use it to pull my hair in a ponytail. “Will you help me put this on?” I ask, passing it back as an excuse.
He sits up and lifts my hair, and I love how he lifts my hair with one hand while apparently trying to figure out how to use it with the other.
Then the movements stop, and a complete silence falls.
I hold my breath as he sets my hair band down on the mattress, and then he brushes my hair aside to reveal the back of my neck with both hands. Ever so slowly, slowly seducing my body, my mind, and my heart, like only he can, he traces the curve of my nape with the rough pad of one of his fingers.
Delicious tingles run through my body as he lowers his dark head to my neck, the deep male pleasure in his voice unmistakable. “What’s this,” he murmurs, licking it softly.
I feel his tongue rasp over my skin, and my heart flutters for him.
“Whatever it’s on, it means it’s yours,” I breathe. He buries his head in the side of my throat and smells me, murmuring, “That’s right,” then he turns me around by the chin so he can take my mouth and kiss me, long and hard. Remington Tate. My love, my husband, my baby’s beautiful father, kissing me gently as his fingers trace the tattoo on the back of my neck that says simply
