Christina Lauren - Beautiful Beginning

But when I turned toward the elevators, he stopped me with a big hand wrapped around my forearm. And then his other hand pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.

“What . . . ?” I asked, a wary smile spreading slowly across my face. “What are you doing with that in the lobby?”

“I’m whisking you off somewhere.”

“But we have a room upstairs,” I whined quietly. “With a big giant bed and several of your ties to get kinky with, and,” I dropped my voice, “the bottle of lube in the drawer.”

He laughed, bending to run his nose along my jaw. “There’s also a duffel bag in the limo outside that has several of my ties to get kinky with, the bottle of lube from the drawer, and a few other things.”

“What other things?”

“Trust me,” he said.

“Where are we going?” I asked, tripping after him when he tugged my hand and led me forward.

“Trust me.”

“Do we have to fly?”

He playfully smacked my ass, growling, “Christ, woman, trust me,” in my ear.

“Am I going to have orgasms tonight?”

He turned pulled me close to his side and said, “That’s the plan. Now shut up.”

Bennett helped me climb into the back of the limo and then slipped the blindfold over my face, tying it firmly behind my head. It was wide and tight; the bastard had anticipated my plan to peek, and the silken fabric covered half my face. I was left in total darkness.

But beside me, I could sense when he shifted closer, could smell the clean, crisp sagey smell of him when he leaned in, sucked gently on my collarbone.

“Are you going to fuck me in this car?” I asked, reaching out blindly for him. I found his arm and pulled it around me.

His rumbling chuckle vibrated along my collarbones, from one side to the other, and I felt him reach for the hem of my wedding dress and slowly drag it up my legs.

Bennett’s fingertips tickled their way past my knee, along the inside of my thigh and to the thin white lace barely covering my pussy. He slid a knuckle under the fabric, dragging it back and forth over the already-slick skin beneath.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Goddamnit, Chlo.” He pulled back, sliding two fingers into me, pumping them deep. “I’m not feeling particularly gentle tonight.”

Arching my neck, I gave his mouth better access to the most vulnerable part of my throat, whispering, “Good. I don’t want you slow and sweet.”

“But it’s our wedding night,” he argued with mock sincerity. “Shouldn’t I gently lay you on a feather bed and bring you endless, loving pleasure?”

I reached for his hand, pressed it harder into me. “You can do that when I’m bruised and sore afterwards, in the middle of the night.”

His laugh was so dark, and communicated such barely restrained need that it sent shivers down my back. I felt his breath on my ear when he asked, “So I have permission to be rough?”

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. “Encouragement, even.”

“Maybe a little filthy?” When I answered with a nod, he growled, “Tell me.”

I exhaled, a shaking, tense breath. “I want you filthy. I want you wild and impatient tonight. It’s how I feel.”

He twisted his wrist, and pushed a third finger into me so deep I felt the cool of his wedding ring against my skin, and I cried out from the sensation of the pressing metal, of being stretched tight. His thumb made teasing, maddening circles just around my clit, expertly never quite touching exactly where I wanted it. Traffic sounds grew to a crescendo and then ebbed into silence, and the steady thump of bridge spacers sounded beneath the wheels.

“Are we leaving Coronado?”

“Yes.”

“Are we getting on a plane?” I asked again.

“Does my hand not feel good?” Irritation simmering in his voice.

“. . . what?” I asked, confused.

“Are you distracted by the street, rather than the three fingers currently fucking you?”

“I—?”

He pulled his hand out and reached for my shoulders, pulling me off the seat and dragging me so I kneeled on the floor. I felt him shift around to pull me closer, and I realized I was positioned between his legs. The sound of his belt, his zipper, and his pants being shoved down his hips cut through the quiet.

“Come here,” he said on an exhale, cupping the back of my head. “Suck.”

Despite the single rough word, his touch grew careful as I began to lower my mouth over him, as if he wasn’t sure how to blend his pent-up need to come with the reality of our brand-new marriage. We’d talked for cumulative hours about how things would be in this very moment—the two of us finally alone, married, and faced with the reality that it might be different—but now that we were in it, I could tell Bennett was a little torn.

We’d said no way would it feel different: it was just two rings, just a piece of paper.

We’d said we’d never stop being hard on each other, or start having easily bruised feelings.

We’d promised anything could always happen between us in the bedroom. We swore we’d never hold back, or be afraid to ask for whatever we needed.

But as I worked his length with my lips and my tongue, I could sense that Bennett’s hands were fisted at his sides, not in my hair. His hips were pressed firmly into the seat beneath him, instead of rising up, arching toward my mouth.

So I did the first thing that came to mind: with a quiet sucking sound, I pulled my mouth off his cock and sat back on my heels.

His breaths came out in sharp gusts, but other than the sound of the road passing beneath us, the car fell silent.

Finally, his voice rose from the quiet in a controlled rumble: “What happened?”

What happened? So tame, Bennett.

In this moment, I hated not seeing his face, but I knew he understood the point I was making when he took a deep breath and asked, “Why the fuck did you stop?”

There he is.

“You know why.”

Strong hands lifted me off my heels and sat me back until my butt hit the floor of the limo and my spine rested on the seat opposite him. One of Bennett’s knees planted on the seat beside my head and without saying a word, he pressed the crown of his cock to my lips, forcing my mouth open.

“Suck,” he said, and this time the word was coated in anger and need. I barely had time to adjust to the feel of him before a tight fist curled in my hair, holding me steady as he began to move in short jabs, not going too deep, at least not yet. Finally, his hands released my hair and left me only long enough to frame the side of my face, holding me steady for his longer, deeper strokes.

The car rolled to a stop and Bennett slammed a palm on the intercom button, managing a sharp “Wait here” before returning his hand to my face, groaning hoarsely.

His rumbling “Fuck, Chlo” sparked my lust, and I reached up to wrap my arms around his hips, whimpering at the powerful snap of his thrusts, the hard contractions of muscles in his ass.

I couldn’t see a thing, but each time he moved deeply and I felt the soft hair against my face, I wanted to suck as hard as I could so that when he pulled back I would wring as much pleasure out of this moment as I could for him. I felt desperate to give him this.

“So fucking good,” he said, his voice raspy, and I could tell from his movements that he was growing close. “Those perfect fucking lips. Feeling your tongue on me.”

I slid one hand between us, cupped his balls, and stroked just behind, teasing.

“Yes,” he hissed, hips jerking.

With a final push inside, he came, cock rigid and releasing his orgasm down my throat. He cried out as I swallowed around him, slowing his movements until only the tip of him rested against my tongue. I tilted my head up to him when he pulled out, and felt the soft glance of his thumb across my bottom lip.

Wordlessly, Bennett reached down and adjusted my blindfold before bending and kissing me deeply, his tongue sliding over mine.

“Tell me you like my taste,” he whispered.

“I love your taste.”

And then he pulled my dress up, moving his hand between my legs and under the lace of my underwear, as if confirming what I’d said was true.

“I fucking love your mouth.” He leaned forward, laughing against my lips. “And I love fucking your mouth.”

His touch was gentler now, exploring rather than giving pleasure. He grunted quietly, moving his hand away from me, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled up his pants, straightened his clothing.

Taking my hand, he murmured, “Come on, Mrs. Ryan. We’re here.”

We were definitely in a hotel. I could tell by the sounds of elevators, suitcases rolling across travertine floors. I could hear the way voices grow hushed as we walked past, and I imagined how we must look: Bennett carrying a blindfolded and barefoot bride in his arms and with a duffel bag full of who-knows-what slung over his shoulder, carrying me barefoot and blindfolded in my wedding dress.