19. Permission & Promises
Chapter nineteen
Permission & Promises
Declan
That one night in Las Vegas.
I kick the door shut behind us and carry her across the threshold like we didn’t just meet hours ago.
Like this is something we’ve been building toward for years.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging, gripping, as she pants against my mouth and frantically licks and sucks my bottom lip like she’s starving for me.
“This is really beautiful,” she whispers, breath hitching.
I smirk into her mouth. “How can you tell? You haven’t even opened your eyes yet.”
She lets out a low laugh. “Maybe I wasn’t talking about the suite.”
That wrecks me. Whatever little patience I had left is gone.
“Does this fucking thing come off?” I growl, tugging at the lacy fabric hugging her curves.
She gasps. “Careful! This is a Crash Steele original!”
I toss her onto the bed, her laugh echoing like a dare. “We’ll get you another one.”
And with one swift pull, the delicate dress tears right down the middle. She gasps again—but this time, it’s not about the dress.
It’s about what comes next.
“You’re beautiful,” I choke out.
“Because I’m naked?”
“Because you’re mine.”
I lean down and kiss her, soft, slow, tender. Like I’ve waited my whole life to find this exact moment, with this exact woman. Maybe I have.
She reaches for the hem of my black t-shirt. Only the best wedding attire for my American girl. And I break the kiss just long enough to lift my arms and let her peel it over my head.
Her breath catches. “Wow.”
I tilt my head, smirking. “What?”
“Tattoos,” she murmurs, like she’s just stumbled across a treasure map.
“You’ve never seen a man with so many tattoos?”
She shakes her head, her fingers moving, drawn to the ink on my chest like it’s telling a story only she’s meant to read.
Her hands trace the designs sprawled across my chest, the words in Italian wrapped around ribs and muscle, inked memories of places, people, promises.
Some of them broken. Some of them keeping me standing.
She doesn’t ask what they mean. Not yet. She just touches, explores, and I let her. Because in this moment, she isn’t just learning my body. She’s reading parts of me most people never bother to ask about.
I hold my breath, silently begging her not to stop.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she rises slowly, her lips brushing across my stomach. My fingers slide into her hair on instinct, anchoring me to the moment as her tongue trails a line down my torso.
She's undoing my jeans with practiced fingers, and suddenly I’m thrown—off balance, out of control. Like a kid fumbling his first time, desperate to make sure this isn’t too much. That she’s still with me.
The zipper eases down and I catch her wrist, stilling her. I tilt her chin so her eyes meet mine.
“Is this okay?” My voice is rough. “Do you want this?”
She smiles and it melts every goddamn nerve in my body. “I love how attentive you are. Making sure I’m okay,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over my hip as she tugs at my pants.
I’m left in nothing but boxer briefs, my erection straining against the fabric. My beautiful bride eyes me like she’s about to wreck me.
Then—Jesus—she runs her teeth over my dick through the cotton. Playful. Dangerous.
“For someone who wouldn’t normally do things like this, you are excellent at teasing me. Toying with me.”
She does it again, this time using her hand to squeeze where her teeth just were.
My hand fists tighter in her hair. “Fuck, Americana…Would you believe I imagined you…like this…the second I heard your voice?”
She looks up, eyes heavy, lips parted. “You hadn’t even seen me.”
“Some things,” I say, brushing her cheek with my thumb, “you just feel.”
She drags my briefs down and when I spring free, she gasps.
“Wow.”
I grin. “You say that a lot.”
She leans in, and my beautiful wife licks the moisture at the tip and my entire body shudders. I groan, jaw tight, and catch her before she can take more of me.
It kills me to stop her.
Every instinct is screaming to let go, to give in, to hand her everything—deep and raw, until there’s not a breath, not a thought, not a single inch of space between the tip of my dick and the back of her throat.
But not yet.
I want more than her mouth.
I want everything.
I grip her arms and lift her effortlessly off the bed, her gasp caught between us as I crush my mouth to hers. I kiss her like a man who’s been denied too long—hungry, hard, relentless.
“Not yet,” I breathe against her lips, voice frayed with need. “Not like this.”
I guide her toward the bathroom, every step strung tight with tension. The air between us crackles. Thick with want, heavy with everything unsaid. Her fingers curl around mine like she’s fully aware and consenting of the fact that I’m about to ruin her—in the best possible way.
“Puts a whole new spin on the term bridal shower, huh?” she teases, her voice soft, eyes lit like embers.
I chuckle, already reaching for the faucet. Hot water spills from the tap, steam rising fast and curling around us like smoke. “I’m a filthy man,” I mutter, casting her a wicked grin. “Allow me to clean up before I do very, very dirty things to you, wife.”
She steps closer, skin bare and glowing in the warm light. “I’ve never showered with a man before,” she says, almost like a confession. But there’s nothing shy in her tone.
I open the glass door and hold it for her, letting my eyes drink in every inch. “Then I’m honored to be your first.”
She walks past me, brushing against my chest. And just like that, we disappear into the steam—two strangers, one night, and no turning back.
She’s taking me in now, fully, observing the ink that marks my body. “You don’t like it? My art?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve just never seen anything like it.” She kisses my chest, the highest she can reach. “It’s beautiful.”
The water spills over her shoulders, soaking her hair, tracing every curve like it’s worshipping her the way I am.
She stands still, eyes locked on mine, lips parted, chest rising and falling with anticipation. I grab the showerhead and tilt it down, letting the stream drench her slowly—neck, collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She gasps as the water hits, her skin going slick, glowing.
“Look at you, Americana” I murmur, dragging the nozzle lower, watching the spray coat her stomach, her thighs. “You’re pure fucking art when you’re wet.”
I set the showerhead back and drop to my knees without a word.
Her breath catches.
I press a kiss to her hipbone, then another, lower. My hands slide behind her thighs, anchoring her to me.
“Now,” I glance up, voice gravelly. “Back to the question I asked you earlier.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I don’t give her the chance. My tongue finds her clit—right where she’s aching. Her head tips back, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her hands clutch my shoulders.
“Tell me,” I growl between her thighs, between strokes and licks, slow, reverent laps of her wetness. “Something about you nobody else knows.”
She moans, her fingers tangling in my hair, hips trembling under my grip. I drag my tongue over her again and she gasps like I’ve stolen every thought from her mind.
Her head drops back against the tile, breath shallow, voice barely a whisper. “I used to write myself love letters, pretending they were from someone who loved me.”
I hum against her, savoring the confession, the way she’s unraveling just for me.
“Say more,” I murmur, mouth pressed to her heat. “And don’t leave anything out.”
“Fuck!” she cries, her voice echoing off the tile, hands clutching at my shoulders like she’s not sure if she wants to pull me closer or push me away.
“We’ll get to that, too,” I smirk against her, then tighten my grip around the curve of her ass, pulling her closer as I dive back in—tongue relentless, merciless, devoted.
She’s panting now, teetering on the edge.
“Tell me about the first time you got fucked,” I rasp, voice rough and thick with lust, my mouth brushing over her with every word. “I want to hear it from your lips while mine are on you.”
“My twenty-first—shit!” she gasps, hips jerking against my mouth.
“Mmm hmm,” I hum into her, the vibration making her cry out again.
She claws at my shoulders, breath ragged. “How do you expect me to talk when your tongue is on me like this?”
“Shhh.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then return to her center, slower now, drawing it out. “Just take your time, Americana. We’ve got all night.”
And fuck, even that doesn’t feel long enough.
“Again, with the nickname! Can you call me something else?” she says, breath catching, fingers tightening in my hair.
She’s stalling.
I don’t have time for stalling.
I don’t have time for conversation.
I need to make her come.
I need to fuck my wife.
“Continue,” I command, my grip tightening on her thighs as I drag her back to my mouth—where she belongs.
She swallows hard, her voice trembling as she tries to speak through the storm I’m building inside her. “My twenty-first birthday,” she says. “It was rushed and painful and nothing spec—” Her voice shatters as I thrust my tongue deep inside her, fucking her with it, slow and unforgiving.
I explore every inch, tasting her, claiming her, pulling every truth from her body one gasp at a time.
“Declan,” she breathes, my name breaking apart on her tongue like it’s too much.
I glance up at her, locking eyes, holding her there with my hands, with my mouth, with everything I have.
She chokes out the rest. “It… it was nothing special.”
I pause just long enough to meet her eyes. “Good. Then let me show you what special feels like.”
She’s unraveling in my mouth, slick and trembling, her body arching into me like it belongs here—exactly here. And it does. I kiss her thighs, her hips, her belly as I rise to my feet, her legs still shaking.
She looks up at me, eyes glazed and lips parted, her chest heaving. I reach out and brush the wet strands of hair from her face, then kiss her slow. Deep. She moans into my mouth, her taste still lingering on my tongue as I press her back against the tile.