21. Lars
I don’t remember making it back to the suite.
What I do remember is the door shutting behind us. I remember her laugh breaking against my mouth as I pressed her back into it. I remember my hands everywhere, her waist, her thighs, the bare skin at her back—like if I didn’t keep touching her, I might wake up and this would all disappear.
Vegas shines outside the windows, the lights of the strip bleeding into the dark, but in here there’s only her—only us.
My mouth trails down her neck and back up to her ear. “Fuck, Bella. You’ve made a mess of my mind.”
The words are true, but there’s part of me that hates that I spoke them out loud.
“Lars,” she breathes against my mouth, fingers clawing at my arms, and the sound of my name like that—soft and wrecked—undoes me. I lift her, carrying her the last few steps to the bed.
She watches me as I stand, eyes dark, lips swollen, dress shifted up her thighs.
“As gorgeous as you are in that dress, take it off,” I command,
Her eyes shine in the low light of the room as she slides the straps of the dress down her arms. She lowers the zipper at the side and then lifts her hips to shimmy it down her legs.
She’s so beautiful, her smooth skin being revealed inch by inch as she strips away the red silk.
I unbuckle my belt and unbutton my shirt; clothes discarded to the floor.
My cock is thick, aching to be inside her.
She affects me in a way no one has before, with the way her skin warms under my hands, the way she leans into my touch. The way she turns pliant under my gaze.
She lies on the bed in just her thong, and I reach down, stroking my cock.
Her eyes narrow in on the movement, and she leaves the bed.
She slowly leaves the bed to stand in front of me, dropping to her knees.
Her hand replaces mine, and she gazes up at me with a look in her eyes that could steal my very soul.
“I want to taste you, Lars.” She moves her hand and I could come right then and there with her on her knees for me. “Will you fuck my mouth…husband?”
A low curse leaves me as I cup her jaw, forcing my thumb into her mouth, opening it wide.
“Tongue out, show me you want my cock.”
Her tongue juts out, and I guide my dick into her mouth.
Her lips close around the tip and her moan vibrates through my cock, straight to my balls.
She slides off, then her eyes never leave mine as she flattens her tongue along the underside of my shaft and licks from base to tip, collecting the bead of pre-cum from the head.
I curl my hands into her hair, and she takes me back in, sucking, her tongue swirling as her head moves.
“Shit, you’re doing so good, Neomi.” My hips begin to rock, and I know I’m not going to last much longer. I reach down, gripping her hair to slide her off, then guide her back to her feet. I lace my fingers into her hair, pulling her lips to mine.
“I don’t want to come like this, little bride.”
I reach down and swipe my fingers against her clit.
“I want to come deep inside this perfect little cunt. Lie down.”
She crawls onto the mattress, ass in the air, but I flip her onto her back to face me, her legs curve around my hips instinctively. I hover over her, breath heavy, forehead dropping to hers.
“Condoms are in—” she starts, but I stop her with a kiss.
“No, Bella. No more condoms,” I say against her lips as I reach down, sliding the head of my dick through her slick heat. “Nothing between us now.”
Her eyes dart between mine. “So, you just assume I’m clean and on birth control?”
“Are you clean?” I ask.
She nods, her hips rocking, searching for friction. “Yes, are you?”
“Yes.” I dip my head down and circle her nipple with my tongue and feel it harden between my teeth. “And I don’t give a fuck about birth control.”
“Well, I do.” I bite her nipple and she takes an aggravated breath. “I’m on the pill.”
I move to her other breast, licking, sucking. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Her eyes widen, but I don’t give her time to protest, lining up my cock with her entrance and pushing inside.
The connection is overwhelming. Skin to skin.
I’ve never gone bare with a woman and the sensation of her warm, tight, wet pussy clenching around my dick hits me so hard I have to brace myself on my arms to keep from losing it right there.
She gasps my name, back arching, and I swear to God I see stars.
“Fuckkkkkk,” I breathe, pressing my face into her neck. “My wife is so wet, so ready for me. I’m going to make this pussy mine, Neomi. I’m going to paint your walls with my cum.”
She tightens around me like my words affect her. Her nails dig into my shoulders as I start to move, slow and deep, every slide of my cock inside her drawing out a gasp as I stake my claim.
I thrust harder, kissing her mouth, her jaw, beneath her ear, whispering her name. She meets me in every movement, every breath, every sound she makes when I sink deeper.
“God, Lars, I’m going to come.” Her voice is raspy.
“Come for your husband, Bella. Soak my cock.”
“Fuck!”
“Shit, I’m close, Bella.” My hips move faster, chasing my orgasm. “Call me your husband again. Say it.”
Her head tilts back, her perfect tits bouncing in time with my hips. “Come with me, husband.”
That does it. I’m spilling into her as soon as the name leaves her lips.
“Fuck yes. Fuck!” I say through clenched teeth.
I feel her walls pulsing around my cock as I ride through the crest with her, watching in wonder as she comes, her body shaking underneath mine. I stay there long after, unwilling to pull away, hand sliding up her side, thumb tracing slow circles against her skin.
She smiles lazily, eyes heavy, utterly unguarded. And I’m not sure if it was the night, the tequila, or her body, but I know right now that I’m falling in love with her.
Fuck. My fucking head.
The thought of opening my eyes makes my skull throb in warning, my body sending up flares like it’s negotiating a ceasefire. Dry mouth. Heavy limbs. Regret humming just under the surface.
Goddamn Vegas.
I’m halfway through replaying fractured images of last night—bright lights, too many drinks, Neomi’s laugh, the sweet older couple—when I feel her shift against my side.
“Lars, you’re breathing too loudly,” she complains, rolling onto her back while my arm stays trapped beneath her neck. She groans softly. “Jesus. Why do I feel like I’m going to die?”
I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Sunlight unapologetically slices through the gap in the curtains, bouncing off glass and marble and whatever sins we committed after midnight. I squeeze my eyes shut again.
“What time is it?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Too early,” she says, then swears under her breath. “The last thing I remember is shots at the craps table. Please tell me you can call room service and order coffee and toast. Maybe bacon.”
My stomach turns traitorous. “Don’t talk about food.”
She pushes herself upright slowly, the sheet slipping to her waist, revealing her bare skin and the soft curve of her breasts. For a moment, my hangover recedes enough for me to take in the view.
I place my hand on the breast closest to me, testing the theory that her body might be the cure for the pain in my head.
She swats my hand away without even looking. “Absolutely not. We are not doing that right now.” She shifts gingerly on the mattress and winces. “I’m sore anyway. Damn it, Lars. How rough were we last night?”
I drag my forearm over my eyes. “I could kiss it and make it better.”
She laughs, then immediately groans. “I don’t know how you’re even thinking about sex. I can barely move. How are we supposed to fly home like this?”
Fly home. The words cut clean through the fog. My eyes snap open fully this time.
“Shit,” I mutter. “We have a flight.”
I reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen until the numbers come into focus. “It’s eight-thirty. We’ve got a couple of hours.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, the room tilting. “I’ll call down for breakfast.”
As I steady myself, my gaze drifts across the suite. My suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair. Her heels are abandoned near the door. Chips ranging from five-dollar plastic to serious money spill from a dish on the dresser.
And then I see it.
A piece of paper on the nightstand. My focus narrows. My pulse kicks.
Then I notice the weight on my hand—a ring.
Oh, fuck.
“Neomi,” I say, my voice sharp now, the haze burning off in a rush. “Why the fuck is there a ring on my finger?”
I turn toward her.
She’s staring at her own left hand, fingers splayed, a matching platinum band catching the light. All color drained from her face.
“Lars…” Her voice wobbles. “What did we do last night?”
I grab the paper from the nightstand, my grip tight enough to crease it, and turn it over. For one small, idiotic moment, I close my eyes and will it to be anything else. Maybe it’s a receipt. A joke or proof of some overpriced Vegas nonsense we’ll laugh about later.
But it isn’t. It’s a marriage license.
My name. Her name. Our signatures sprawled in messy handwriting.
I extend the paper toward her. She takes it with both hands, eyes flying over the page before snapping back to mine, wide and blazing.
“Shit,” she breathes. “Lars…we got married?”