Chapter 32 - Donovan
Donovan
Stella leads me back to our wedding reception like we weren’t just falling apart in each other’s orgasms.
We take our time, dancing and mingling with guests. I order a whiskey from the bartender, my eyes drawn to the dance floor.
Stella, Ansel, and Blythe have become inseparable.
Stella looks like she just stepped out of a bridal magazine, twirling in the middle of her two best friends.
They’re a mix of chaos and sunshine, the three of them.
I can’t help but stare at my wife. Her smile lights up any room—and it always pulls me out of the darkest ones.
My gaze shifts across the room. I spot Theo—and Mac—both locked on Ansel. The girl is beautiful, sure, but she’s chaos wrapped in bubble gum pink. Not Mac’s usual type, which makes the way he’s undressing her with his eyes even more interesting.
Then there’s Blythe’s husband, parked in a chair with one leg out, a beer dangling from his fingers. His expression is... off. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. And the way he’s watching his wife—arms lifted, spinning under the lights—his face twists into something close to hate.
Why any man would look at her like that is beyond me.
Suddenly, I hear Ansel shriek from across the room: “FRIENDSHIP NEVER ENDS!” She’s singing Wannabe by the Spice Girls at full volume—and using it to remind me exactly where I stand.
I take that as my cue to walk over to the chaos. I hug Blythe and Ansel, pulling them both in.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “For being part of Stella’s life.”
Then I wrap my arms around my wife’s waist and pull her close. She melts into me, and I kiss her slowly. The DJ starts playing something soft. Everything else fades—guests, music, lights—and it’s just the two of us, drifting in each other’s arms.
“Stella, baby,” I murmur, brushing my lips against hers, “let’s go back to the hotel.”
She smiles, wicked and warm. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She grabs my hand, but instead of heading for the exit, she tugs me toward Ansel.
“Oh, fuck—I have to do the bouquet toss first.”
Ansel claps her hands, rounding everyone up. A few single women shuffle into place, laughing. Stella turns her back to them, lifts the bouquet… and gently tosses it—directly to Ansel.
Ansel screeches like she just won the damn lottery.
And across the room, Theo looks like he’s calculating the exact trajectory to the nearest exit.
We say our goodbyes and head back to our honeymoon suite.
She walks a step ahead, dress still wrinkled from when she rode me into the floorboards earlier. My hand finds the small of her back like it always does, like I need that contact or I’ll lose my damn mind. Because the truth is, I haven’t recovered since the storage room.
Not from the way she straddled me on that crate of locally brewed beer like she had something to prove. Like she knew I wouldn’t last long once she started riding me like that—whispering filth against my throat, taking every drop of my orgasm with that fucking look in her eyes.
And yeah, maybe I’d gone into that room thinking I’d be the one wrecking her. But she got there first. She took control like she owned me, and I let her.
Now we’re back in the suite, the door clicking shut behind us, and it’s like the air changes.
Piece by piece, she peels the night off her body.
Her heels hit the floor with a thud, one after the other—like a warning.
She slides off her earrings, eyes locked on mine, and sets them down like a dare.
Then the veil floats to the dresser, light as a whisper—the final piece of tradition falling away.
She unzips her dress, lets it fall to the floor, and walks toward me in nothing but her garter and the kind of look that makes me forget how to speak.
My mouth goes dry—my pulse stutters. I don’t move—can’t—because if I touch her now, I’ll ruin the moment. And maybe that’s the point. Perhaps she wants me ruined.
“Stella,” I manage, voice wrecked.
She steps in close, presses her palm to my chest. “Don’t talk,” she whispers. “Just feel.”
Then her fingers slide under the lapel of my jacket—slow and unhurried. She peels it off my shoulders drops it to the floor like it’s in the way. Her hands find the buttons of my shirt, working them open one by one, knuckles brushing my skin like fire.
“I want to see you,” she says—soft but commanding.
I let her undress me.
Let her strip away every layer until there’s nothing left between us but heat and history and the way she looks at me like I’m hers.
I always fucking have been.
“You still standing, Coach?” she asks, voice silk and sin.
“Barely.”
She backs onto the bed, slow and deliberate, pulling me down with her. I crawl over her, settle between her thighs, and when our lips meet again, it’s a new kind of hunger. Filthy. Worshipful. Personal. I grip her jaw, kiss her until her moans melt into mine.
And then I’m inside her again.
No rush. No crate of beer threatening to collapse under us.
Just our bed, our bodies, our wedding night—and the way she says my name like it was always meant for her lips.
And maybe it was.
We spend the rest of the weekend with my cock buried inside of her. It is a chaotic twist of her waking me up as she takes me deep in her throat, to her using her veil and my tie to secure me to the headboard.
Fuck, sex with Stella is never boring.
We’re packing up. Checkout is in an hour. She’s doing the final sweep, checking for anything we might’ve missed.
I’m out on the balcony, letting the sound of the waves steady me. The scent of salt and blooming flowers lingers in the breeze—sharp, soft, and alive.
There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.
And then I see her.
Stella.
Wearing red.
Not just any red. My red. Deep merlot. Dark as sin. Rich as blood. The kind of color that looks custom-poured for her skin. The red I kissed as I made my way up her feet. The red I saw wrapped around my cock as she gripped me tight.
The bra is barely there—delicate sheer lace, no padding, just enough structure to tease at what’s underneath.
The cups dip low, scalloped edges framing her curves like artwork.
Thin straps disappear over her shoulders, and in the center, between the swell of her breasts, is a tiny silver D for D’Angelo.
A detail she chose for me—before she ever knew the weight of what I gave up for her.
The panties match. Cut high, all lace, and temptation, satin side straps dipping into the curve of her hips.
There’s a garter belt, too—the same dark red, cinched at her waist like a ribbon waiting to be undone.
Four slim straps trail down her thighs, clipped to sheer thigh-highs with the faintest shimmer.
Like she’s gift-wrapped just for me. And she is.
Hair down. Lips soft. Eyes hungry.
Every inch of her says mine.
She steps onto the patio like she owns it. Every movement dares me to sin, and I’ve never been good at saying no.
The sunlight catches her skin—warm, glowing, and sinful. But it’s the red that kills me, a lace set so sheer it borders on cruel.
She doesn’t walk. She stalks. Hips swaying, shoulders back, gaze locked on mine like a hunter eyeing her prey. She drags one finger up her side, along the lace, like she’s showing me what I can’t touch. Not yet.
“Hi, Coach,” she purrs—voice syrup-sweet and dangerous.
I lean back in the patio chair, legs spread, pretending I’m relaxed. Pretending I’m not about to explode from how goddamn good she looks in that color, with that mouth.
“You like?” she teases, turning in a slow circle. The lace pulls tight over her ass, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Had it made just for tonight. Just for you.”
She struts to me. Stops between my knees. Then, slowly—deliberately—she lifts one sexy black heel and sets it right in my lap, just enough pressure to make a point.
My breath catches. She bends forward, trailing her fingers down my chest, my stomach—right over my belt buckle.
Then nothing.
She sets her foot down, pivots—just enough to tease, retreat.
But I’m already moving. She doesn’t get the chance.
The last thread of control I’ve got? Just unraveled.
I’m on her in a breath—gripping her waist, lifting her like she weighs nothing, spinning her around to face me.
My hand wraps around her throat—not hard, just enough to tilt her chin. To remind her of whom she married.
“You wore this to fuck with me,” I growl. “As if you don’t already have the power to bring me to my fucking knees.”
She smirks, breath catching. “Then beg, Coach.”
That’s it. I snap.
One second, she’s smirking like she’s still in control—
Next, I’ve got her bent over the balcony rail. Hands splayed against the metal. Back arched. Her body already knows what’s coming.
Her breath catches. “Donovan—”
I press up behind her, hard and unforgiving, lips dragging along the curve of her neck.
“You dressed like this,” I grit, “walked out here like this… and you thought I wouldn’t lose my fucking mind?”
She shivers beneath me.
I grip her hips, fingers digging into bare skin, possessive, primal, mine. I lean in, my breath hot at her ear.
“You knew exactly what this would do to me.” “You put this on. Walked out here.” “And now you’re gonna take what you asked for.”
She lets out the softest, neediest sound—half whimper, half challenge. It splits me wide open.
I tear her panties down, the lace catching on her garters for half a second before giving way. She’s already soaked. Already pushing back against me, desperate for more, grinding, gasping, chasing the ruin she begged for without saying a word.
“Ten seconds, that’s all you’ve got. And then I’m taking what’s mine—every moan, every tremble, every goddamn breath.” I line up behind her. One hand slides up her spine. The other stays firm at her hip.
I ease in, just the tip—her pussy stretching, slick and tight, already milking me. She gasps a shattered breath, knees trembling, body begging for more.
“Donovan…”