He pauses.
Inhales.
A low, feral growl rumbles in his chest. “Stella,” he grits out, voice wrecked, “are you trying to fucking kill me? No panties. Under your wedding dress. This whole damn time.”
Before I can even think of a response, his mouth is on me—hot, ravenous, and unrelenting.
His tongue swipes through my slick folds with a growl of satisfaction before he dives in, lips wrapping around my clit like he’s been starving for it. His hands grip my thighs, keeping me open, steady, as he feasts like he’s trying to memorize the taste of his wife on his tongue.
“Donovan—” My head tips back, eyes fluttering, spine arching. I grip the shelf behind me, wedding dress bunched at my waist, veil half-falling off, heart pounding in sync with the wet, obscene sounds echoing in the closet.
He hums, and the vibration rocks through me.
“Oh my God—” I pant, legs trembling as his tongue flicks, circles, then drags long, greedy strokes over me, over and over, faster, more precise. His nose presses right against me, like he’s not just eating me but devouring me whole.
The pressure coils tight, impossibly tight, until I break—coming on his mouth with a cry muffled by the fabric I bite into, my entire body jerking as he groans and holds me there, tongue still lapping until I’m wrung out and shaking.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, mouth shiny with my slick, eyes dark, reverent, ruined. “I just wanted to make you come. I didn’t plan to—”
I cut him off, dropping to my knees and grabbing his belt. “You think I’m letting you walk out of here with a hard cock after that?” My voice is sharp, breathless, still trembling from the aftershocks. “You’re mine now. My husband.”
His eyes burn as I unbuckle him, yank his pants down just enough, and pull him free. He’s already hard—thick, flushed, and leaking. I stroke him once, twice, then climb into his lap, straddling him right there on the storage chair like I own the place.
Like I own him.
“Stella,” he pants, trying to grip my hips. “You don’t have to—here? Baby, we could get caught.”
I lean in, brushing my lips against his. “So let them hear,” I whisper, sliding the head of his cock through my wetness. “Let them know I married a man who knows how to worship his wife.”
And then I sink down onto him, slow and unflinching, savoring every inch.
He groans loudly, hands trembling as he grips my ass, but I set the pace—grinding, rolling my hips, pushing him deeper. He twitches inside me, thick and pulsing, but I don’t give him time to think. I ride him hard, wedding dress a mess around us, veil sliding off my head as the crate creaks beneath us.
“You feel this?” I murmur against his neck, biting down lightly. “That’s yourwifefucking you. Taking whatshewants.”
He gasps my name, tries to meet my rhythm, but I press him back. “No,” I growl. “Let me.”
The sound he makes is broken, half-worship, half-destruction.
I fuck him until his head falls back and his voice is a string of curses and praise, until my second orgasm punches through me like lightning and he follows with a stuttered, frantic groan—spilling inside me, locked together in this tiny closet, tangled in silk and sweat and the scent of sin.
After, we stay there. Breathing. Shaking. Married.
He brushes a thumb down my cheek, dazed and smiling. “Holyshit, Mrs. Carrington.”
I grin, lips still flushed and swollen. “Better get used to it,Mr. Carrington.”
I rise slowly, his cock slipping free from my still-throbbing pussy. He groans softly at the loss, then tucks himself back into his dress pants with shaking hands.
I pull my dress down, trying my best to smooth out the wrinkles, though we both know the damage is done. Donovan steps toward me, kisses me like he’s never going to stop, and then helps me straighten my veil, his fingers brushing reverently through my hair.
We lace our fingers together—one final anchor before rejoining the world.
As we walk hand in hand toward our wedding reception, the feeling of being his wife seeps from between my thighs with every step… a wicked reminder of what we’ve just done.
What we’ve just become.
Donovan
