Chapter 6
RILEY
He carries me over the threshold like I weigh nothing. My heels dangle in the air, and I cling to his neck as the door to the penthouse suite clicks shut behind us with a soft, final sound.
The room is absurd. Floor-to-ceiling windows allow the Strip to glow into the suite like a living firework display.
A bed larger than my entire server room.
Dark wood, light marble, muted lighting from invisible sources.
On the side table, a bottle of champagne sits in a silver chiller, two glasses beside it, as if someone knew there’d be a wedding tonight.
The air smells like expensive leather, fresh flowers, and a hint of Vaughn himself—warm, masculine, a trace of tequila and adventure.
Vaughn sets me down on the edge of the bed.
As my feet hit the soft carpet, I kick off my heels.
Without the extra inches, I shrink, and he suddenly towers over me.
His gaze rests on me, heavy and focused, and something in my stomach tightens—not fear, but a sweet, hot pull I’ve never felt so clearly.
“Champagne?” he asks, gesturing toward the bottle.
“If I drink one more drop of alcohol, I’ll probably forget the last of my decency,” I answer. My voice sounds breathless.
“Maybe that’s exactly the point,” he replies, opening the bottle. The cork pops against the ceiling. Foam runs over his fingers. He pours two glasses and hands me one.
I drink. The bubbles tickle my nose. I set the glass on the nightstand and study the man I married less than half an hour ago.
He stands before me, his jacket tossed onto a chair, shirt sleeves rolled up.
His forearms are strong, sinewy, veins tracing paths under his skin.
The white feather I tucked behind his ear has been lost somewhere between the chapel and the hotel.
“You’re staring,” he says softly.
I stand up and walk toward him. My heart is hammering so loud he must be able to hear it.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I whisper. “And for the first time in my life, I couldn't care less.”
Vaughn doesn't move. He just stands there, waiting. He doesn't force me. He doesn't rush me. He leaves the choice to me.
So I make it.
I reach for his shirt and pull him down to me. Our lips meet, and this time, it’s not an elevator kiss or a Ferris wheel kiss. It’s a kiss that knows exactly where this is going. Hungry. Direct.
My fingers fumble with his buttons. One by one. My hands shake slightly. Not from fear, but from something that feels like the second before you jump out of a plane.
He pulls back from my mouth and looks at me. His gaze is searching.
“Riley.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t ask me that,” I whisper. “If you ask, I’ll start thinking. And if I start thinking, I’ll go back to my old life. So don't ask. Just do it.”
Then he reaches behind me and slides the zipper of my dress down. Slowly. Inch by inch, the fabric peels away from my skin like a layer being shed. The dress glides over my hips and pools in a green heap at my feet.
I stand before him in black underwear. No push-up. No lace ensemble. Practical black cotton I put on this morning because I hadn’t even remotely expected anyone but me to see it tonight.
He looks at me like I’m something precious he wants to commit to memory.
“You are…” he says quietly.
I arch an eyebrow. “If you say beautiful now, I’ll lose all respect for you.”
“I was going to say: dangerous.”
I tilt my head. “I’m standing here in cotton underwear. That’s the opposite of dangerous.”
“Then take it off.” He pulls his shirt over his head, and I see muscles that weren't built for show, but for function. A scar over his left ribcage tells a story I don't know yet.
He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me the three steps to the bed and lays me down. The mattress gives way beneath me like a cloud. He kneels over me, his eyes dark with intent.
There’s something I should tell him.
“Vaughn.” My voice is softer than I intended. “I’ve never done this before.”
He pauses, his entire body going still. The muscles in his arms tense.
“Never?” he asks quietly.
“Never.” I hold his gaze. “And if you stop now, I swear I’m filing for divorce before the sun comes up.”
He closes his eyes for a second. Maybe I’m imagining it, but when he opens them again, the expression is a fraction softer. And yet deeper, as if this information did something to his resolve.
“I’m not stopping,” he says. “But I’m slowing down.”
He kisses my neck. My collarbone. The space between my breasts.
His fingers hook into the clasp of my bra.
He opens it with one hand—of course he does—and the fabric falls away.
The cool air brushes my skin, and I flinch.
His mouth follows, warm and damp, his tongue circling until I let out a low gasp. My fingers dig into his hair.
His hand moves lower. Across my stomach. His fingers hook into my panties and pull them down. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. The fabric glides over my thighs, my knees, my ankles. Then I’m naked.
Completely naked. In front of a man I’ve known for a few hours.
My instinct screams at me to cover up, to press my knees together, to pull the duvet over my body. Instead, I let my legs fall open and look him in the eye.
He kneels between my thighs, watching me with a look that burns. Then he lowers his head, his mouth finds the most sensitive part of me, and my mind shuts off.
It’s like someone flipped a switch. His tongue moves slowly, circling, precise, and my body reacts with a force that startles me. My hands find his hair, my fingers gripping the strands. I moan, and the sound coming from my mouth feels foreign to my own ears.
He takes his time. He’s patient in a way that drives me insane. Every time I think I’m about to lose it, he slows down, pulls back, and starts over. My thighs tremble. My breathing is a total wreck.
“Vaughn,” I pant. “Please.”
The word 'please' has never left my mouth in that tone. It isn't polite; it’s a plea coming from a depth I didn't know existed.
He sits up and unbuckles his belt. The metallic sound of the buckle echoes through the suite. He sheds his pants, and I see him. His entire body. And for the first time in my life, I don't find human anatomy clinical. I find it breathtaking.
He reaches for a condom on the nightstand, tears the packaging, and rolls it on. Then he positions himself over me. His forearms rest beside my head. His face is right above mine.
“Look at me,” he says softly. “The whole time.”
I look at him. My hands are on his shoulders, my fingers feeling his muscles tighten. He enters me slowly. Inch by inch. It burns. A sharp, stinging ache that knocks the air out of my lungs. My fingers dig into his skin.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
I breathe. The pain recedes. It’s replaced by a sensation of fullness that occupies me completely, leaving no room for thoughts or analysis or statistics. Only Vaughn. Only his body inside mine. Only the point where we are connected.
He moves. Slowly at first. Controlled. His eyes never leave mine. I see his jaw tighten, a vein in his neck pulsing. He’s holding back. For me.
But I don't want him to hold back.
“More,” I say.
He picks up the pace. His hips drive against mine. The rhythm becomes faster, deeper. I cling to his back, my legs locking around his waist. Every thrust sends a shockwave through my body, gathering in my core like water behind a dam.
I moan his name. Over and over. Vaughn, Vaughn, Vaughn—as if it’s the only word left in existence. His forehead presses against mine. His breath is hot on my lips. He grips my hips, shifting the angle, and suddenly he hits a spot that triggers an explosion.
The climax rolls over me like a wave too big to withstand. My entire body tenses, my muscles tightening around him rhythmically. My back arches off the bed. A sound escapes my throat that’s half-scream, half-sob. The world dissolves into white sparks.
Vaughn follows seconds later. He thrusts deep one last time, holding there as a low groan breaks from his chest. I feel his body trembling above me. His arms give way, and he sinks onto me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
We lie still. His heartbeat hammers against my ribs. My own pulse thrums in my ears. His face is buried in my neck, his breath hitting my skin in short, warm bursts.
I stare at the ceiling. The lights of the Strip throw colored patterns across the white plaster.
Vaughn sits up. He brushes a strand of hair from my face. His gaze is strangely soft.
“You okay?” he asks.
“More than okay.” I turn my head and kiss his palm. “Everything is fantastic. I’m drunk, married, and no longer a virgin. In that order.”
He laughs softly and pulls me to his chest. I nestle into the curve between his arm and his torso. My head rests over his heartbeat. My eyes grow heavy. The city glows through the window, but it’s becoming a blur.
“Vaughn?” I mumble.
“Hm?”
“Don't be an asshole tomorrow morning.”
His hand strokes my back. Slowly. Regularly.
“Sleep, Riley.”
And I sleep. For the first time in years, without an alarm system standing guard in my head. For the first time in the arms of a man. For the first time as someone’s wife.
I dream of Ferris wheels and feather boas and a man who kisses me like he’s been waiting his whole life.