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Brock
The neon of the Las Vegas Strip bleeds through the gauzy curtains of our Bellagio suite, turning the room into something alive.
I stand by the window, jacket already slung over the chair, tie loosened but not removed.
My fingers itch to touch her. Willow’s in the bedroom humming softly to herself—some half-remembered song from my brother’s wedding where everything shifted.
I can picture her kicking off the strappy black heels she wore to dinner, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.
“Brock,” she calls, voice warm and teasing. “Come see this. The fountains are doing their thing again.”
I cross the suite in long strides. She’s standing at the bedroom window, back to me, arms loosely crossed beneath her breasts.
The dress she chose for tonight is the same deep emerald as the one she wore to my brother’s wedding—the one that made me spend the entire night pretending not to stare.
Now it’s hers for real, no pretense required.
The fabric clings to her hips, dips low in the back, zipper gleaming like a promise down her spine.
I step up behind her, chest brushing her shoulders. “You’re blocking my view,” I murmur against the shell of her ear.
She tilts her head, offering her neck. “Liar.”
My lips find that spot just below her earlobe—the one that always makes her breath catch.
There it is: sharp little inhale, body softening against mine.
My hands settle on her waist, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the silk.
She’s warm through the dress, radiating heat that sinks straight into my palms.
“Remember standing in a room like this?” I ask quietly. “You in green, me trying not to look like I was dying to touch you?”
Her laugh is soft, husky. “Vaguely.”
“I was terrified you’d bolt if you knew how badly I wanted to drag that zipper down and fuck you against the glass.” My fingers tighten on her hips. “No pretending tonight.”
She turns in my arms. The movement makes the dress slip half an inch lower on her shoulders. Her eyes are dark, pupils wide in the shifting light. “Then stop talking about it.”
I kiss her. Her mouth opens for me immediately, tongue sliding against mine in a lazy dance we’ve perfected over months of mornings and late nights.
She tastes like the last sip of champagne we shared at the rooftop bar, plus something sweeter that’s only ever Willow.
My hands roam her back, mapping the familiar dip of her spine, the flare of her hips.
I walk her backward until her thighs hit the edge of the mattress.
Only then do I let my fingers find the zipper tab.
I tug it down one tooth at a time, savoring the soft metallic rasp, the way her breathing quickens with each inch of exposed skin.
When the dress parts completely I step back just enough to watch it slide down her body like dark water.
Black lace. Of course.
Bra sheer enough to show the dark pink of her nipples, panties a fragile scrap of fabric, garter belt framing her hips, stockings clinging to her thighs. My cock jerks hard against my slacks.
“Fuck, baby.” My voice is gravel. “You wore this under that dress all through dinner?”
She steps out of the pooled silk, kicks it aside. “I wanted to watch your throat work every time you swallowed. Wanted to know you were thinking about peeling me out of it.”
I close the distance, hands cupping her face so I can kiss her again. This time the kiss is deeper and hungrier. She moans softly into my mouth. My palms slide down to cup her breasts through the lace, thumbs brushing over tight peaks. She arches, pressing harder into my touch.
I break the kiss long enough to drag my mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “Bed,” I say against her pulse. “Now.”
She crawls backward onto the mattress, never taking her eyes off me. I follow, shedding my shirt as I go, belt buckle clinking when it hits the floor. When I reach her I nudge her thighs apart with my knee and settle between them.
I start slow.
Kisses along her collarbone, tongue tracing the delicate ridge.
Down to the swell of her breasts. I tug one lace cup aside, baring her completely.
Her nipple is already drawn tight. I circle it with my tongue—lazy, wet spirals—before drawing it into my mouth.
Gentle suction first, then the scrape of teeth.
Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging just hard enough to sting.
“Brock—”
I switch sides, giving the other breast the same attention while my hand skates down her stomach. I trace the edge of the garter belt, dip beneath the lace panties. She’s soaked. My fingers glide easily along her slit, spreading wetness, circling her clit without direct pressure.
She whimpers, hips lifting. “Please.”
“Not yet.” I nip the underside of her breast. “I want to feel you shake first.”
I kiss lower across her sternum, ribs, and the soft plane of her belly. When I reach the lace I hook my fingers in the sides and drag the panties down her legs inch by inch. She lifts her hips to help. Once they’re gone I spread her thighs wide and just look.
She’s flushed, glistening, clit swollen and peeking out. I blow a cool stream of air across her. Her whole body jerks.
Then I lean in and lick—long, slow drag from her entrance to her clit. She cries out, back bowing off the bed. I do it again, savoring the taste of her, the way her thighs tremble against my shoulders. I circle her clit with the flat of my tongue, then flick the tip in quick, teasing strokes.
Her hands fist the sheets. “Oh god—Brock—”
I slide one finger inside her—then two—curling them against that spot that makes her gasp. I pump slowly while my mouth stays on her clit, sucking gently, tongue fluttering. She’s rocking against my face now, chasing the rhythm.
When her thighs start to shake harder I pull back.
She whines an actual desperate sound.
I crawl up her body, kissing every inch I pass.
When I reach her mouth I let her taste herself on my tongue.
She moans into the kiss, hands fumbling at my waistband.
I help her shove my boxers down. My cock springs free, heavy and leaking.
She wraps her fingers around me, stroking firm from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head.
“Fuck.” My forehead drops to hers. “I need to be inside you.”
“Yes.” She guides me to her entrance.
I push in slow—agonizingly slow—feeling every flutter, every inch of tight heat. When I’m buried to the hilt I pause, breathing ragged.
“Look at me,” I rasp.
Her eyes flutter open. Glassy. Beautiful.
I start to move in long, deep rolls of my hips. Each thrust drags against her front wall. She gasps every time I bottom out. I hook one stocking-clad leg over my arm, spreading her wider. The new angle lets me grind deeper.
Her nails rake down my back. “Harder.”
I give it to her—snapping hips, bed creaking, headboard tapping the wall in steady rhythm. Her breasts bounce with each thrust. I bend to catch a nipple between my teeth, tugging lightly.
She’s chanting my name, voice fracturing. I feel her start to tighten, walls rippling.
“Come on my cock, Willow.” I slide a hand between us, thumb finding her clit. Fast circles. “Let me feel it.”
Her orgasm hits like a wave, her body locking as she cries against my shoulder, pussy pulsing hard around me. I fuck her through it, drawing every tremor out until she’s whimpering, oversensitive.
I pull out, and flip her onto her stomach.
“Ass up.”
She scrambles to obey—knees wide, back arched, cheek pressed to the pillow. I grip her hips and slide back in from behind. The angle is brutal—deeper, tighter. She moans long and low.
I reach around, fingers returning to her clit. I rub in time with my thrusts—hard, relentless. Her arms give out; she drops to her elbows, ass still high, taking every inch.
“God—yes—right there—”
My balls draw up, heat coiling low. “Where do you want me, baby?”
“Inside.” Her voice cracks. “Please—fill me up—”
I slam deep one last time and come hard, pulsing, and spilling into her. The feel of me throbbing sets her off again; she clenches around me, milking every drop.
We collapse in a sweaty tangle. I stay inside her as long as I can, kissing the back of her neck, her shoulder. When I finally slip free I roll us so she’s curled against my chest. My hand drifts between her thighs, fingers lazily stroking through the mess we made.
“Welcome back to Vegas, my beautiful wife,” I whisper against her hair.
She laughs. It’s soft, sleepy, and sated. “Best do-over ever.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “We’ve got five more nights. Plenty of time to make new memories.”
She hums contentedly, already drifting. I pull the sheet over us, listening to the distant hum of the city and the steady rhythm of her breathing against my skin.
Some places change you the first time.
Others remind you why you came back.