Chapter 41
HARLOW
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. I stumbled into the hallway, heels dangling from one hand, Owen’s jacket draped over my shoulders. My feet ached.
“I can’t believe Syn tried to teach Elvis how to twerk,” I said, still giggling.
Owen snorted, his arm secure around my waist as we made our way down the corridor. “I can’t believe he actually attempted it. That jumpsuit was not designed for that kind of movement.”
“The sequins were flying everywhere.”
“Pretty sure Trystan still has one stuck in his hair.”
I laughed, the sound echoing off the walls.
Everything felt lighter tonight. The weight I’d been carrying for months had finally lifted.
We spent the evening at some ridiculously overpriced restaurant on the Strip, all of us crammed into a private booth, champagne flowing freely while Kailyn slept peacefully in her carrier, unbothered by the chaos around her.
It was perfect.
At our door, I fumbled in my clutch for the keycard while Owen pressed kisses along my neck.
“You’re not helping,” I murmured, tilting my head to give him better access.
“I’m providing moral support.”
I finally found the card and tapped it against the reader. The light flashed green. Before I could push the door open, Owen’s hands were on my waist, spinning me around.
“What are you…”
He scooped me up, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. I let out a surprised yelp, my heels clattering to the floor as I grabbed his shoulders for balance.
“Owen.”
“Tradition,” he said, that infuriating grin spreading across his face. “I’m carrying my wife over the threshold.”
“We already went through this door earlier today.”
He kicked the door open with his foot and carried me through the suite without stopping. Past the bathroom where my makeup was still spread across the counter, straight into the bedroom where the massive king-sized bed waited, sheets still rumpled from this morning.
He dropped me on the mattress and I bounced slightly against the pillows, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.” I reached up to tug him down toward me.
He resisted, standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes roaming over me in a way that still caught me off guard.
“We should pack.” Even as I said it, my fingers found the buttons of his shirt. “Our flight’s at noon tomorrow, and I haven’t even started organizing…”
“We’re not going to Tennessee.”
My hands stilled, and my eyes met his, narrowing slightly. “What?”
Owen lowered himself onto the bed beside me, propping himself up on one elbow. “I changed our flights. We’re staying in Vegas for a few more days with everyone else.”
I blinked at him, trying to process. “But...”
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I figured we could use a few more days before we go back to the real world.”
My throat tightened. “Owen...”
“Plus, Jax mentioned something about wanting to take us all to see the Grand Canyon.” He waved his hand vaguely.
A laugh bubbled out of me. “You changed our entire trip because Jax wants to see some rocks?”
“I changed our entire trip because my wife deserves more than a rushed goodbye and a red-eye flight.” He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against mine.
“I changed it because I want to wake up next to you tomorrow without an alarm. I want to have breakfast in bed and explore the Strip and watch you lose money at the slot machines.”
He grinned, and I couldn’t help it… I kissed him.
I rolled him on top of me. His weight was familiar now, comforting in a way I never expected.
“I love you,” I murmured against his lips.
“I love you too.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark in the dim light. “Mrs. Taylor.”
A shiver ran through me at the name. My name now.
“Say it again.”
“Mrs. Taylor.” He pressed a kiss to my jaw. “Harlow Taylor.” Another kiss, lower, against my throat. “My wife.”
I arched into him, my fingers threading through his hair. “I’m never going to get tired of hearing that.”
“Good. Because I’m never going to get tired of saying it.”
When he kissed me again, there was no hesitation.
Just heat and hunger. His mouth slanted over mine, his tongue sweeping past my lips, tasting of the sweet champagne we’d been drinking all night.
I met him with equal passion, my hands framing his jaw, my fingers sliding into the soft hair at his nape.
God, I needed this. The rush, the connection, the pure physical proof that he was mine and I was his. My legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him down, and I could feel him even through the layers of our clothes.
“Off,” I gasped against his mouth, fumbling with his shirt buttons. “All of it. Now.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my lips. “So demanding, Mrs. Taylor.”
But he obeyed. He sat back on his heels and ripped the shirt open. Buttons pinged against the nightstand and carpet. I didn’t care. I surged up to run my hands over his chest, his shoulders, the defined planes of his stomach. His skin was hot beneath my palms, his heart racing.
His hands curled around the hem of the white dress I’d changed into after the wedding, and I lifted off the bed, raising my hands over my head as he removed it. He tossed it to the floor.
His hands went to the straps of my bridal lingerie, a lacy, blush-colored set I’d bought just for tonight.
He didn’t bother with clasps. He hooked his fingers in the delicate fabric and pulled.
The sound of it tearing was a sharp, erotic punctuation in the quiet room.
The cool air hit my breasts, and then his hands replaced the lace, his palms rough and possessive as he cupped me, his thumbs circling my nipples until they tightened into aching points.
“Perfect,” he growled, lowering his head to take one into his mouth.
The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle suction, the scrape of his teeth, made pleasure shoot straight to my core. I arched off the bed with a cry, my hands clutching at his head. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until I was writhing, little whimpers escaping with every exhale.
His pants and boxers followed, kicked aside in a hurry. His hands gripped my hips, rolling the matching lace panties down my legs. He tossed them over his shoulder.
We were both naked now, skin to skin, and the feel of him pressed against me was almost too much. He was heavy and solid, and I welcomed every ounce of his weight.
He shifted then, his hands guiding me. Instead of settling between my legs, he rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him so I was straddling his chest.
His eyes gleamed up at me. “I want to taste you. I want to feel you come on my tongue before anything else.”
Heat pooled low in my belly as I braced my hands on his shoulders, my hair falling around us like a curtain. Slowly, I moved up, positioning myself over his face. I watched him, saw the dark hunger in his gaze as he looked up at me.
He didn’t wait. His hands gripped my hips, anchoring me, and then his mouth was on me.
The first touch of his tongue was a shock of pleasure. A long, slow lick from my entrance all the way up to my clit, where he swirled before applying the perfect amount of pressure. My head fell back, a moan tearing from my lungs. I rocked against him, instinctively seeking more.
He gave it to me. His tongue became relentless, licking and sucking, tracing patterns I couldn’t follow, alternating between broad, flat strokes and focused, pinpoint flicks right on the most sensitive spot.
One of his hands slid from my hip, his fingers delving lower, finding my entrance.
One finger, then two, slid inside me, curling upward.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. My hips began to move, riding his face in a slow, then frantic, rhythm.
“Oh, fuck… Owen... right there... don’t stop.”
I was unraveling, the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers. My thighs shook and my vision blurred at the edges.
The pressure built to a breaking point. And then it shattered.
My orgasm crashed over me, a violent, breathtaking wave that seized every muscle in my body. I convulsed above him, a raw cry ripping from my throat as the ecstasy pulsed through me, again and again, each wave triggered by the continued, gentle lapping of his tongue.
He gently lifted me off, his mouth and chin glistening. I slid down his body, my limbs weak, until I was kneeling between his legs.
My turn.
I didn’t speak. I just took him in my hand, wrapping my fingers around his thick cock and feeling the velvety heat of his erection, the thick vein pulsing along the underside.
Leaned down, I took him into my mouth, swallowing him deep.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and his hands fisted in the sheets.
I set a punishing pace, still buzzing from my own climax, a raw, needy energy driving me. I wanted to give him that same loss of control. I bobbed my head, using my tongue, my lips, my throat. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked hard. His hips jerked off the bed, thrusting in short, shallow movements.
“Harlow... fuck...” he choked out. His hands came to my head, not forcing, but guiding, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Just like that. So fucking good.”
His muscles were taut, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He was getting closer.
But then his hands were on my shoulders, pulling me off with a sudden, firm tug. I looked up, confused, my lips swollen.
“Not yet,” he breathed, his chest heaving. “I want to be inside you when I come. Ride my cock, baby.”
He guided me back up, turning us so I was straddling his hips. I positioned myself above him, reaching down to guide him to my entrance. I was so wet, so ready, still throbbing from my first orgasm.
I sank down onto him, and all I could focus on was the way his cock filled me, so completely, stealing the air from my lungs. I paused, fully seated, just feeling him throb inside me, letting the stretch and the fullness settle deep.
I began to move.
I started slow, rolling my hips, grinding down against him, finding the angle that made us both gasp. His hands gripped my waist, his thumbs digging into the hollows of my hip bones. I set the rhythm, rising and falling, taking him deeper with every drop.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his eyes glued to where we were joined. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
His words spurred me on. I moved faster, my breasts bouncing, my hair whipping around my shoulders.
The slap of skin against skin filled the room.
I could feel another orgasm building, deeper, more consuming, born from the fullness and the friction and the sheer visual of him beneath me, watching me with pure lust.
“I’m close,” I panted, my movements becoming erratic. “I’m gonna…”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “Come on my cock, Harlow. Now.”
That was all it took. The second climax tore through me, even more intense than the first. My inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, a blinding, white-hot pleasure. I collapsed forward, my hands splayed on his chest, my body shuddering uncontrollably.
Before the last tremor had even faded, he was moving. In one powerful motion, he rolled us over, pinning me beneath him. He never slipped out, he just started fucking me, his hips driving into me with deep, hard strokes that pushed me right back up into the peak of my orgasm, prolonging it.
“Mine,” he grunted with every thrust. “You’re mine.”
I could only cling to him, my legs locked around his waist, my nails scoring his back as he took me, pushing me through the lingering ecstasy and into something new, something raw and primal. I felt him swell inside me, felt his rhythm falter. His thrusts became shorter, harder, desperate.
“I’m coming... Harlow...”
His body went rigid above me. A guttural sound was torn from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, and I felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside me. He shuddered through it, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his forehead damp against my shoulder.
There was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the frantic beating of our hearts.