Chapter 43 #2
“Threshold,” he explained, already striding toward the cabin door. “Gotta carry the bride over the threshold. It's tradition.”
“We did this a year ago!”
“Did we? We don’t remember it, so it doesn't count.” He shifted me in his arms, adjusting his grip so my dress wouldn't drag. “This is the official threshold carrying. The one that goes in the record books.”
“There are no record books for threshold carrying.”
“There should be. I'd be a champion.”
He somehow managed to open the door without setting me down, a feat of dexterity I decided not to question, and carried me over the threshold into the warm, lamplit interior of our cabin.
The fireplace had been lit while we were at the reception, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
A bottle of champagne sat chilling in an ice bucket on the coffee table, two crystal flutes waiting beside it.
But Dallas didn't stop in the living room.
He kept walking, carrying me through the space I'd stumbled out of that morning in confused ignorance, straight to the bedroom door.
“In a hurry?” I asked, my voice coming out breathier than intended.
“I've been watching you in that dress for six hours.” His own voice had dropped. “I've been thinking about getting you out of that dress for six hours. So yes. I'm in a hurry.”
“The dress was your idea.”
“And it was an excellent idea. You look incredible. You've looked incredible all day, and I've had to share you with other people.” He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot. “I'm done sharing.”
Dallas set me down at the foot of the bed, his hands lingering on my waist. We stood there for a moment, just breathing each other in. The silence felt charged, electric, full of promise.
“Hi,” he said again, that word that had become our shorthand for a thousand deeper things.
“Hi.”
His fingers found the zipper at the back of my dress. “Can I?”
“Please.”
He turned me gently, brushing my curls aside to expose my neck that I let down hours ago. I felt his lips there first before his fingers found the zipper and began to draw it down. The dress loosened around me, the structured bodice giving way as the zipper descended.
“I love you,” he murmured against my skin.
“I know.” I turned in his arms, letting the dress slip from my shoulders. “I love you too.”
His eyes darkened as he took me in, standing there in nothing but the lingerie I'd packed for our anniversary. White lace. Delicate straps.
“Davina.” My name came out strangled. “You're…”
And then his mouth was on mine, and there was no more talking, no more banter, no more anything except the two of us.
The champagne buzz had nothing on the intoxication of his kiss.
It was a year’s worth of love and a day’s worth of pent-up longing unleashed all at once.
His mouth was demanding, possessive, tasting of expensive champagne and the singular, addictive flavor of him.
My dress was a puddle of silk and lace at my feet, leaving me in just the delicate white lingerie.
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths coming in ragged sync. “God, you're beautiful,” he breathed, his voice gravelly with want. His hands slid up my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the lace. A shiver raced down my spine.
“All day,” he continued, his lips tracing my jawline, down the column of my throat. “All damn day, watching you laugh, watching you dance, watching everyone else get to touch you... I've been going out of my mind.” His teeth grazed my collarbone, and a soft, desperate sound escaped me.
His fingers found the clasp of my bra. With a deft flick, it released, and the delicate garment joined my dress on the floor.
The cool cabin air hit my heated skin, and then his hands were on me, cupping my breasts, his fingers circling my already taut nipples.
“Mine,” he growled, the word a vibration against my skin as he took one pebbled peak into his hot mouth.
The sensation was blinding. My head fell back as I arched into him. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle suction, the slight scrape of his teeth, it was a direct line of fire straight to my core. I was already aching, already wet and throbbing for him.
He sank to his knees in front of me, his hands sliding down my stomach, his eyes locked on mine with a hunger that made my knees weak.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of my panties and slowly drew them down my legs.
I stepped out of them, standing bare in front of him, completely exposed in the flickering firelight.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his hands smoothing up my calves, my thighs. “My wife.” He said the word like a prayer, like a vow. He parted my thighs, and the cool air hit my damp heat, making me gasp. And then his mouth was on me.
It wasn’t hurried. It was… worship. A slow exploration that had me trembling. His tongue traced my flesh with agonizing patience, licking away the evidence of my desire for him. He savored me, his hands gripping my hips to hold me steady as he laved and suckled, learning every sensitive contour.
“Dallas...” I moaned, my hands bracing on his broad shoulders.
He hummed against me, the vibration shooting a bolt of pure pleasure straight through my center. My legs began to shake. He focused then, his tongue finding my clit and circling it with a relentless, perfect pressure. He slipped two fingers inside me, finding that spot that made my toes curl.
The orgasm built quickly, a tidal wave of sensation that he coaxed higher and higher with every flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.
I was babbling, a stream of yes and please and don't stop.
The coil snapped, and I came with a broken cry, my body convulsing around his fingers as he drank me in, drawing out every last shuddering wave until I was boneless and panting.
He rose, catching me as my knees gave way, and laid me back onto the bed on top of the rose petals. He stripped off his clothes with an urgency, and then he was there, gloriously naked and hard, hovering over me. The scent of my pleasure was on his lips when he kissed me, deep and claiming.
“My turn,” I whispered against his mouth, pushing at his shoulders. I wanted to taste my husband.
I reversed our positions, urging him onto his back.
I worshiped him with my eyes first, the hard planes of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen, and finally, the thick length of him straining toward his stomach.
I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly, relishing the way his eyes fluttered closed and a groan tore from his throat.
I bent my head, letting my tongue flick out to capture the bead of precum on the tip of his cock, savoring the taste of him before taking him into my mouth.
I swirled my tongue around his head, teasing him as I explored him with my mouth. His hands fisted in the sheets. “Take it all, Davina,” he groaned. I ran my tongue up the length of him before covering the head of his cock and sinking down, taking as much of him as I could.
I set a slow, deep rhythm, using my hand where my mouth couldn't reach. I loved the sounds he made and the way his hips twitched. I looked up at him through my lashes, watching his face contort in pleasure, knowing I was doing this to him. That I was the reason he was unraveling.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained. “Too close. I need to be inside you.”
He pulled me up, his kiss frantic and desperate as he positioned himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against my sensitive flesh. “Eyes on me,” he demanded, and my eyes snapped to his. “I want to see you when I make you come. Again.”
And then he pushed inside.
It was an exquisite burn, a filling stretch that had me gasping his name. He buried himself to the hilt, and we both went still. Our breaths mingled, and my heart hammered against his.
He began to move. Long, deep strokes that hit that perfect, deep place inside me with every thrust. The room filled with the sounds of our ragged breathing and the soft slap of skin on skin. He kissed me as his pace began to quicken.
“You feel… incredible,” he gritted out, his forehead beading with sweat.
He shifted, rolling us over so I was straddling him. “I want to watch you,” he said, his hands on my hips, guiding me. “Ride me. Take what you need.”
I rose and fell, setting a pace that built the pressure inside me again. His hands found my breasts, pinching and rolling my nipples. I rode him harder, my own pleasure mirrored in the intense, hungry look on his face.
“That's it,” he encouraged, his voice rough. “Come on my cock.”
His words were the final trigger. The second orgasm ripped through me, a powerful, crashing wave that made me cry out, my body clenching around him.
His grin was wicked in the dim light. Two down.
The promise in those words pulsed through me, a current of anticipation.
His hand on my ass was firm, claiming. My entire body still hummed from the last two shattering climaxes, yet a new, deeper hunger was already stirring, awakened by his look, his touch.
I’m not done with you.
He didn’t say it, but I heard it. I felt it.
I pushed myself up, my body feeling both heavy with satisfaction and light with renewed desire. The rose petals stuck to our damp skin. I looked down at him, my husband, sprawled across our bed. He was a feast, and I was starving.
“My turn to lead,” I said, my voice husky.
His eyebrow quirked, a silent question.
I slid off the bed, my legs unsteady, and took his hand. I didn’t pull him toward the door. I pulled him toward the open balcony door, where the deep indigo night and the whisper of the vineyard awaited.
“Vina?” he asked, though he was already following, his larger hand engulfing mine.