Chapter 7
Maddie
The silk strap slips again, and I don’t bother fixing it.
It’s not like this night can get more humiliating.
I should be curled in bed, pretending this never happened.
Instead, I’m chest to chest with a stolen groom, in my wedding-night lingerie—white silk, delicate lace, meant to be peeled off by a man who didn’t even show up.
The only reason I’m wearing it is because it’s what got packed.
And because I want him to see me like this.
Not Derrick.
Ben.
The thought makes me bite down on my lip hard enough to sting.
“You have a lot to learn about me, Madeline,” Ben grits out after a deep, slow breath. “I’ve spent years learning how to maintain control, but that doesn’t mean you should be testing just how far you can push me.”
He moves—closing the last of the distance between us, hand wrapping around the plush blanket and drawing it away from my body.
“We are married,” he says, voice low and final. “Whether you like it or not.”
The air between us feels electric, every inch of my skin aware of his nearness. My pulse is loud in my ears, and I hate that part of me is responding to it—heat pooling low in my belly, breath catching in my throat.
“You think this is what I wanted?” I whisper back. “You think this was my dream wedding?”
His mouth curves, not into a smile but something sharper. “Looks to me like you need something else entirely.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You need a good fuck, Maddie.”
The words slam into me, bold and obscene, and instead of being offended, I feel the ground tilt under me.
I force out a scoff. “Please. I never expected one on my wedding night anyway.”
His gaze darkens, slow and dangerous. “Is that a challenge?”
Hands at my hips, Benedict Bronson turns me abruptly, pulling my ass back into his hips. Instinctively I arch back, looking for friction, wet with wanting to be touched. One of his massive hands presses flat against my belly, the silk between our skin.
“You forget that it’s a man you married, not a boy.”
I don’t get the chance to answer before his hand delves lower, dipping beneath the white lace panties and teasing my pussy. He growls, feeling how wet I am already, and I answer with a mewl of frustration—at how annoyed I am with myself, and how badly I want him.
All at once Benedict releases me and I turn, ready to tell him off—ready to go to bed wanting. But his mouth crashes onto mine, and the kiss is nothing like I imagined—it’s hotter, rougher, tasting of scotch and something that’s all him.
I gasp, and his tongue slides in, claiming, teasing, making my knees go weak. He walks us back slowly, bare toes finding purchase on the plush rug, until I’m up against the wall. His body is solid against mine, heat radiating through the thin barrier of silk between us.
My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away. His hand skims down my side, over the curve of my hip, and hooks under my thigh, hitching it up so I’m flush against him.
“Ben—”
“Shut up,” he growls against my mouth, and I do. Because thinking is impossible when his hand is on my skin, when his chest is pressing into my breasts, when every nerve ending is screaming yes.
The kiss turns frantic, messy, years of restraint condensed into seconds. His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head just enough for him to deepen it until I’m dizzy. No man has ever touched me like this—demanding, controlled.
The sharp pull of fabric cuts into my hip, and then my panties rip at the waist, Ben casting them to the side. I grind my hips against the hard length of his erection and he pulls back, holding me firmly until my feet are on the ground, even though I’m swaying with lust.
Eyes locked on mine, he undoes his belt. The loud clank of it is the only sound in the room aside from my panting. My eyes drop at the snick of the zipper. He takes himself in hand, cock long and thick and throbbing along the vein running up his shaft.
“Go to the couch.”
I obey without even thinking, slipping past him, almost stumbling before I get to it, looking back over my shoulder for his next instructions.
Ben shucks off his pants, cock bouncing to attention as he straightens. The suite is dark, but as he steps through slivers of moonlight it’s not hard to see the precum glistening at his tip, the ridges of his muscles cutting deep at his hips.
Another gush of heat between my thighs, wet and embarrassing as he approaches. His hands caress my hips.
Then he smacks my ass.
“Bend over.”
“I—”
Before I can protest, he presses gently at my lower back, and my body bends for him. I think of the few times I’ve done it like this, uncomfortable and unsatisfied, but Ben runs his fingers along my soaked pussy from behind and I whimper.
His cock nudges at my entrance. He doesn’t just slip in, and I widen my stance, anticipating pain when he rams into me.
But he doesn’t.
Hand still on my lower back, Ben pumps shallowly, his cock slowly and insistently stretching my entrance as I moan, head falling forward.
It’s a teasing, distracting sensation, waves of buzzing pleasure rolling over my body.
His fingers tighten on my ass as he thrusts a little deeper. Just enough to make me gasp out:
“Please.”
“I’m right aren’t I?” he murmurs, thrusting slowly and shallow, the sound of my pussy trying to take his cock obscene. “You need a good fuck, don’t you, Maddie?”
“Mmm,” I moan in agreement. “Please, Ben, I—”
“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
He bends over me, cock sliding in slowly until he’s seated to the hips. The satisfying stretch, a slow burn that makes my pussy pulse with need, makes my vision blur.
“I want you to fuck me,” I gasp, trying to grind my ass against him as he chuckles in the dark.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, he pulls back and slams into me again.
It’s rough. Fast. Almost painful, but tipped in pleasure. His hands find purchase at my hips, my waist, at one point cupping my breasts and pulling me straight up against me as he pumps into me ferociously.
His other hand locks at my jaw, tipping my head back.
He bites the junction of my neck and shoulder, then tweaks my nipple, reaches down and plays my clit with the perfect amount of pressure and rhythm.
“Come for me, good girl.”
It’s a shock of heat and pleasure so sharp it steals the sound from my throat. My fingers dig into his forearm, holding on as my whole body clenches around him.
And somewhere in the haze, the thought cuts through—clear and terrifying.
I’m in trouble.
Because it’s only been hours since I married this man, and I’ve already crossed a line there’s no coming back from.