27. Jules #2
“It’s sadism.” He’s fumbling with the first button. His fingers are too big for the delicate work and he keeps losing his grip. “I can’t… Jules, I’m going to rip this dress.”
“Don’t you dare. It cost a fortune.”
“Then help me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You wanted to undress me. Figure it out.”
He groans and tries again. He manages to get two buttons undone before his fingers slip and he has to start over.
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
“This isn’t funny,” he says.
“It’s hilarious.”
“I’m a grown man. I run a company. I negotiate deals worth more than most people’s houses. And I can’t undo a button.”
“Multiple buttons.”
“Multiple tiny sadistic buttons.” He finally gets the third one free. “There. Progress.”
“Only twenty-seven to go.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate this dress.”
“You said I looked beautiful in this dress.”
“I lied. I hate it. I’m going to burn it the moment I get it off you.”
I snort. I actually snort with laughter. It’s the least attractive sound I’ve ever made, and I don’t care, because Harry is on button number five and muttering curses under his breath.
“You could just rip it,” I say.
“You told me not to.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Jules.”
“I can get another dress. I can’t get another wedding night.”
He pauses and considers this.
Then his hands fist in the fabric and he pulls.
Buttons scatter across the floor. The dress falls open, and I’m standing in my bedroom in nothing but white lace underwear, listening to my husband’s ragged breathing.
“Much better,” he says.
He picks me up, carries me to the bed, and drops me on the mattress with less ceremony than the moment probably deserves.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” He’s already pulling off his jacket, his tie and his shirt. “Not sorry.”
“Which is it?”
“Both.” He kicks off his pants and climbs over me. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He kisses me, deep and slow and thorough, with his weight braced on his forearms and his green eyes dark and fixed on my face.
“What do you want?” he asks against my throat.
“You.”
“Be specific.”
“I want you inside me. I want you to make me laugh. I want this to feel like a beginning.”
He pulls back to look at me. “It is a beginning.”
“Then we’re doing it my way.” I push at his chest until he rolls onto his back. “New marriage, new rules. Tonight I’m the boss.”
“You’re the boss every night.”
“Then you know how this works.”
He goes willingly, grinning that grin, as if he’s been waiting all night for this exact order. I climb over him and settle on his thighs. “Hands behind your head.”
He obeys, lacing his fingers behind his dark hair.
The position stretches his arms and pulls his shoulders wide, and I take my time looking at him, because he’s mine to look at, and as of today I’ve promised it twice.
His shoulders are thick and solid. His chest is broad and dusted with dark hair that narrows to a line down the center of his stomach, and that line leads straight to his cock, thick and flushed and lying hard against his abs, already wet at the tip.
I run my palms over his chest first, feeling the heat of his skin and the way his muscles jump under my touch. I follow the trail of hair lower until my fingers wrap around his cock. He’s heavy in my hand. I stroke him once, slowly, and watch his stomach tighten.
When I lean down and take him into my mouth, he makes a low sound that goes straight between my legs.
I slide down as far as I can and hollow my cheeks.
His hips twitch, but he keeps his hands where I put them.
He tastes clean and a little salty. I work him with my tongue and my hand together until his breathing turns rough and his thighs tense under me, and I pull off right when his cock starts to pulse against my tongue.
“Fuck, Jules.”
“Husbands who rip expensive dresses don’t get to complain.”
I sit up and reach behind me. I unhook the white lace bra and slide the straps down my arms one at a time, and his eyes follow every movement.
I drop it off the side of the bed. Then I hook my thumbs into the matching panties and peel them down my legs slowly, never breaking eye contact.
He swallows hard, and he doesn’t move his hands.
“So what’s your way?” he asks, and his voice has gone hoarse.
I roll over onto my stomach, fold my arms under my chin, and look back at him over my shoulder.
“Come here and find out.”
He’s on me in seconds. His chest presses warm and heavy against my back, and his mouth finds my ear.
One of his hands slides between my thighs to line himself up, and he pushes into me in one steady thrust. The stretch pulls a moan out of my throat.
He’s deep like this, and the angle hits exactly where I need him.
My cheek presses into the pillow and my hands fist in the sheets.
He stays still for a moment, breathing hard against my neck. “You feel perfect.”
I push my hips back against him. “Then quit admiring it and fuck me.”
He starts slow, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, and every stroke drags along every sensitive spot inside me. I can feel the hard planes of his body against my back and the way his hips fit against my ass.
“Can I go faster?” he asks, and his voice is tight.
“Say please.”
“Jules.”
“Say it.”
“Please.” He’s laughing and groaning at the same time. “Please, wife, let me go faster.”
“Permission granted.”
He gives me what I asked for, deeper and quicker, and the bed shifts under us. One of his hands slides under my hip and finds my clit, and his fingers work me while his cock drives into me.
“Your ass looks so fucking good like this,” he says against my ear. “I’m going to buy you ten more dresses just to rip them off you the same way.”
“Less talking.”
He keeps his hand moving between my legs anyway, and the pressure builds fast. The laughter starts in my chest and spills out when his fingers press harder, and then he hits that spot inside me again and again, and the laugh turns into a moan.
I come laughing and then not laughing at all, with my pussy clenching around him and my whole body shaking under his weight.
He follows right after, with his cock pulsing deep inside me and his groan buried in my hair. His hips jerk once, and then again, and then he goes still with his chest heaving against my back.
We collapse together in a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts.
“Okay,” I say eventually. “That was a good beginning.”
“Just good?”
“Maybe excellent.”
“I’ll take excellent.”
He rolls off me and pulls me into his arms. We lie there in the quiet, listening to each other breathe, with the bedroom door standing open to the rest of our house.
We’re married again, on purpose this time, with nobody standing between us.