39. Rei
The ride to the house rented for our wedding night was too long. Quentin sat quietly beside me, looking straight ahead. Shoulders square, hands fisted in his lap, jaw clenched. The strong, silent type personified.
Had I gone too far at our reception dinner? Was he mad at me for teasing him? I folded my arms across my chest and gave him a petulant look. “You know, you started it with that ‘yes, husband’ business,” I hissed. I didn’t want George to hear this part.
He arched a brow. “That’s what you’re going with? ‘You started it’?”
My cheeks warmed, but I raised my chin defiantly.
I could have sworn his lips twitched before he mumbled, “I’ll finish it, too.”
I didn’t have time to ponder it when George stopped the car and got out to open the door. He helped me out while Quentin came around, and we walked up the sidewalk to the front door of one of the biggest homes in town, which would have passed for a small home in my own neighborhood.
As soon as we were inside the house, Quentin tugged me against him, crushing his lips to my own in a punishing, hungry kiss that erased the world around us.
I clung to his broad shoulders, kissing him back before deciding his suit jacket was too thick between us. I tugged it back, letting it fall to the floor as he continued kissing me like I was his one source of oxygen. The feeling of need, of being desired so completely, was better than any high.
While he kissed a path from my neck to my collarbone, my fingers dug into his back through his dress shirt. God, I wanted him closer than we could get with all this fabric between us.
My legs backed up against what felt like a bed, and he lowered me down. I scooted back and spread my legs to make room for him while he continued kissing me, worshiping my lips and body until each touch felt like a flame against the embers of my skin.
Then his hips ground against me, and I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my sensitive parts. He was big, in every sense of the word.
Jada may have had her water break on her wedding day, but I was soaked.
Each thrust of his hips was a mere promise of the pleasure to come, and he already felt so damn good against me.
“You like taking orders?” he growled in my ear.
I gasped out of need, surprise. “I do.”
“You know your line,” he said.
“Yes, husband.”
He growled, “Good wife.”
My pussy clenched at the words.
“Pull back your skirt and take off your panties. Let me see you.”
I hurried to follow directions, seeing him remove his cuff links and then unbutton his own shirt.
The white fabric fell from his skin, revealing dark, swirling ink that blended with stretch marks on his shoulders and stomach.
In my study of his body, I’d stalled in following my orders.
He gave me a warning look, and I hurried to cast my white lace underwear aside in a dampened heap.
When I looked up, my lips parted at the sight of his strong body, cock long and hard in his hand.
“Quentin,” I breathed in a reverent tone.
He gave me a look.
“Husband,” I corrected.
With a satisfied look, he lowered himself over me. I thought he might enter me, but he brought his lips to my pussy instead.
“Foreplay,” he muttered. “Can’t forget that.”
I laughed for just a moment before his tongue drew a long, slow line over my slit. “Oh!” I moaned out, surprised at how good it felt. Just minutes in, and I was already strung tight as a rubber band ready to snap.
And then he parted my labia and lapped at my clit, the rough head of his tongue sliding over the sensitive nub in a punishing rhythm.
I reached down, holding his head against me while my hips writhed on the bed, begging for release. And just when I felt my body shimmer with an oncoming release, he pulled back and blew on my exposed clit.
It was like an electric shock to my skin, making me whimper out, stalling my orgasm and making my chest feel tight.
Before I could beg or plead for more, his tongue was back on my clit. His long, thick finger slid into me.
It was better than before, pleasure on the verge of pain. My pussy started to clench around his finger, but he pulled it out, digging his fingers into my hips, taking handfuls for himself. “Not yet.”
“Quentin!” I begged, yelled, cursed.
He looked at me with an admonishing stare.
“Husband,” I moaned.
“Good wife,” he said again before lowering his mouth to my sex. This time, he slid two fingers inside, curling them toward himself and tapping the fingers in a way that made me see stars. I didn’t know how much more I could take and yet couldn’t stand the thought of this ever ending.
Then a wave of pleasure obliterated all thoughts from my mind. I cried out, body convulsing with the force of my release. Tears streamed down my cheeks into my hair, face contorting with every pulse emanating from my core.
As the orgasm eased, I gasped to replace every breath that had been stolen from me. But before I even had a chance to catch up, Quentin raised himself over me, angled the broad head of his cock over my opening. Thank God for IUDs so I could experience him with nothing between us.
Every nerve ending screamed for his touch, begged for more. And yet he was so large, he had to enter slowly, inch by maddening inch.
“You take me so well, wife,” he growled in my ear, like going slow was taking every ounce of his self-control. “Breathe,” he ordered.
I realized I’d been holding my breath. I took a shallow sip of air, but the movement shifted me against him, and I clenched against his cock again.
“Relax,” he ordered.
As I slowed my breaths, I held on to his strong arms, fingernails digging into triceps etched in ink.
He pressed the rest of the way in, and the sensation of fullness was one I’d never felt before. For a moment, he stilled, looked into my eyes with this reverence I’d never seen from anyone before. It made my heart leap to my throat and my eyes sting.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I lifted my head in a nod.
“Good.” He leaned down, kissing my cheek before grazing his teeth over my neck.
Once I adjusted to the size of him, he started to thrust inside of me. Long, slow strokes at first that ended with his hips grinding against me and whimpers passing from my lips.
I needed more. I pressed my feet into the mattress, trying to get leverage. Wrapped my legs desperately around his hips to pull him closer. And then I outright begged, “More, husband. More!”
He answered by driving hard into me, the pace unforgiving, overwhelming. Every bit of friction driving me closer to an end I knew was coming but couldn’t imagine withstanding.
And I was right. I shattered around him.
Pieces of me fell away, replaced by white light and shouts of my release. He grunted out his own release, pressing into me until each wave had passed. And when they did, I was a wet, soaking mess beside him on the bed, still in my wedding dress.
I was a wife, yes. But even better, I was his.
Each minute spent together had stripped away another layer of my protective defenses. When he returned from his trip, I would tell him everything. I wanted there to be nothing left to keep us apart.