“If I could, I would shout it from the rooftops,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Preston Winslow!”
“And I would write in the stars,” he said, recalling the words she’d used to tell him that she loved him two years ago, “so that every night when you looked at the sky, my love would shine back at you.”
“Pres…” She sighed, her eyes filling with tears. “Kiss me.”
Backing her against the wall of the elevator as it leisurely climbed to the ninth floor, he lifted her into his arms as he had earlier that evening at Chateau Nouvelle, and she wrapped her legs around his hips as his lips smashed into hers.
His tongue broke the seam of her lips, searching for hers, stroking and sliding against it as they were lifted higher and higher. She arched her back, her nipples pinpoints through the flimsy fabric of her romper, and threaded her fingers urgently through his hair, her fingernails digging into his scalp.
The elevator doors opened and he turned, his lips still fused to hers, moving swiftly through the doors and down the hallway to his apartment. At the door, he sucked her bottom lip between his and finally released it with a soft pop.
“We said the words two years ago,” he said fiercely, leaning his forehead against hers. “But our marriage begins tonight.”
Leaning Elise’s back against the door, and holding her with one hand, he found his keys in his pocket and quickly unlocked the door, twisting the knob as they barreled into his front hallway. Kicking the door closed with his foot, he adjusted her in his arms briefly, finding her lips again as he strode down the dim hallway, through the massive, sunken living room, through an arched hallway, past his office, past a guest room, to the door at the end of the hall.
Her lips were bright red and glistening when he drew back from her, her eyes dark and languid with arousal, with desire.
“No going back,” he said—a warning, a promise.
“We belong to each other,” she vowed, her voice thick and breathy as her breasts pushed into his chest with every panted breath.
Spearing her with his gaze and forcing her to return it, Preston pushed his bedroom door open and stepped into the room.
***
Elise’s body had flooded wet and hot when he lifted her against the wall of the elevator, but now her muscles clenched in anticipation as he stared at her, the sheer intimacy of his eyes drilling hers making her feel weak and needy, like if he didn’t fill her soon, she’d scream from the high pitch of her arousal, from the intense need to be writhing beneath him, his strong body driving into hers over and over again.
“I’ve relived our wedding night a million times,” she murmured, dropping her forehead to his shoulder. “I’d lie in my bed and touch myself, trying to feel the way you made me feel, but I couldn’t…I couldn’t…”
Preston froze, his fingers clawlike, digging into her backside as his breath caught beside her neck. “You’re blowing my mind.”
The gravelly heat in his voice made her bold. “I’d rather blow something else.”
“Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, “Are you for real?”
“Try me,” she dared him, turning into him so she could lick his throat. Under her tongue, she felt his pulse jumping like crazy, and he gasped as she blew on the damp skin, then pressed her lips against it.
“I need you naked, sweetheart,” he whispered in a ragged groan. “Please.”
Unlocking her ankles as he loosened his grip on her bottom, she slid down his chest until her sandaled feet touched the floor. She slipped out of them and looked up at him, at the lust that cut his face into angles and made his eyes glitter with hunger.
He placed his palms on her shoulders, staring deeply into her eyes. She leaned her neck back slowly, until her throat was totally exposed, and let her hands droop listlessly by her sides, giving him total control. She felt her breasts push forward, straining toward him with every inhaled breath, but she was still, locked in his gaze, letting him know that she was completely his, that she’d never run from him again.
He smoothed his hands down her arms, so softly, so slowly, goosebumps rose up on her flesh and she heard the smallest whimper borrow her breath and whisper past her lips. His hands stroked the skin of her arms, all the way to her wrists, which he held, with his thumbs over her pulse.
“Your heart is racing,” he murmured.
She nodded, her eyelids fluttering, but not closing.
Skimming his palms back up her arms, he paused at her shoulders, then lifted all but his fingertips from her skin. Her trailed them—slowly, like a feather’s touch—to the elastic hem of her romper, one index finger tracing the border, his eyes still boring into hers, his breathing quick and shallow.