NATALIE
“Mr. Sinclair.Be a good boy and get over here,” I crook a finger, beckoning the gorgeous man, standing mouth agape in front of the hotel door, to come hither.
He nods dumbly, clutching at the black tie hanging around his neck that came undone roughly two seconds after we said our vows.
Ever since he’s had to dress up for his hockey games he’s hated ties. Usually, I tell him there are worse evils and he lays me on the bed, writing sweet nothings into my thigh before agreeing that road games are an acute kind of torture.
They’re the worst.
Crossing my legs on the feather-down duvet spread over our king-sized bed, I try my best to pose demurely, hands behind me, chest out, casting a sultry look over my shoulder.
With the amount of eye make-up I have plastered on, I damn near feel invincible.
Rhinestones splattered randomly over my white skirt and top glimmer in the low hanging light.
Instead of opting for a second dress for the reception, I ordered a custom-made piece for later—for when we were alone. A decision that I am now reaping the benefits for judging by the incredulous look on my husband.
The dress vaguely resembles an ice-skating leotard, except what’s usually mesh on a leotard—the arms, mostly—is solid, and everything that’s supposed to be solid—like the chest, the skirt—that’s all mesh and rhinestones.
Slowly, Cole tugs on his tie, sliding it off his neck. His darkening stare never leaves me.
With how often he employs his worshipping stare, I really don’t need the ego boost, but this intensity, this dumbfounded demeanor, has me soaring to new heights.
“Do you like what you see?” I ask, toying with the hem of my skirt. “I had it made just for you.”
Again he nods, loosely holding his tie in his hand. “Best. Christmas. Present. Ever,” he says, hoarsely.
“Oh look, you found your words.”
He shakes his head, erasing his lack of composure. A glint catches in his eyes, one my rhinestones can’t rival. A crooked smirk growing on his face and dimples his cheek. “I wouldn’t tease me so soon, sugarplum. After what I have planned for you tonight, I don’t expect your vocal cords to be of much use tomorrow.”
Deftly, he works at the button on his cuff, releasing it, before rolling up his sleeves and exposing his corded forearms.
The asshole. He’s already holding me entranced and slowly losing my verbal capabilities.
As he works on the second sleeve, the air in the room crackles to life with sparks, igniting the fire that blazes with an unrelenting hunger whenever we’re like this.
“Spread your legs for me, ice princess, and let me see your pussy in that.” He walks to me, slow and deliberate, a determined intensity in each step.
I follow his command and I’m rewarded with a blackening gaze. “So pretty for me,” he coos, running a hand up my thigh. He shifts the scrap of lace I have on under the skirt to the side and presses a thumb next to my sensitive area.
I whimper, wanting the pressure, wanting him. He grabs my other thigh, running his rough, calloused hands over my soft skin.
“Lay back on the bed,” he says. He tucks his fingers under my waistband and peels my lace thong off in a slow, deliberate manner, letting his fingers graze the length of my legs. He tucks the scrap of fabric into his pantsuit pocket.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
“This is my wedding day, I’m keeping these.”
“So obsessed.”
He unfastens his belt, sliding it out of the loops—stare still heavy on me. “Obviously. Have you seen my wife?”
He makes quick work of the button on his pants, sliding them down and stepping out. The slow, teasing strip gaining speed the longer he looks at me, like he’s struggling to be patient too.
“No, maybe you should describe her to me.”
Slowly, he crawls over me, dipping and pressing a kiss to my jawline. “Well first off, she’s got this damn freckle that drives me wild.”
