Craving The Wrong Brother's Dick (3)

While I was trying to put myself together, Julian’s mother swooped in like a perfumed hurricane, planting a lipstick kiss on my cheek that felt like a brand of approval I didn’t deserve.  

“You are radiant, darling,” she cooed, then turned to her youngest son with a theatrical pout. “Julian, indulge your old mother in one dance before you sail off into the sunset with your bride.”

Julian laughed, delighted. I laughed too, the sound brittle and bright, while Damien’s fingers were still slick with me under the tablecloth.

Then I heard myself say it, the joke bubbling up from pure desperation, “Actually, if the ladies’ room could steal me for some minutes, I’d be grateful.”

The table erupted in good-natured laughter. Someone clinked a glass. Julian kissed my knuckles like the perfect groom. “Go, love. We’ll survive without you for sixty seconds.”

Sixty seconds. I was already counting heartbeats.

I stood. The motion shifted the silk against my skin and I felt it, warm, treacherous, a slow rivulet of arousal sliding down the inside of my left thigh. My knees almost buckled. I prayed the dim lighting and the long tablecloth hid the shimmer of wetness threatening to betray me with every step.

I walked away from the head table feeling four hundred pairs of eyes, but only one burned holes straight through the back of my dress.  

Damien.  

I didn’t have to look to know he was smirking.

The cruise ship’s corridors were a golden maze of polished teak and hushed opulence. I moved fast, heels clicking, thighs pressed tight together to keep the evidence of what he’d done to me from painting the marble floor. Every breath tasted like champagne and sin.

I slipped into the nearest ladies’ room, an art-deco sanctuary of black marble and gold fixtures, thank God, empty. The door sighed shut behind me. I gripped the cool edge of the vanity, stared at my reflection, and tried to breathe.

My pupils were blown wide. Lips swollen from biting back moans. A faint flush rode high on my chest, disappearing beneath the neckline of the dress that suddenly felt paper-thin. Between my legs I was swollen, aching, dripping. I could smell myself, sex and orange blossom and betrayal.

I closed my eyes for one second.

The lock clicked.

My eyes snapped open.

Damien stood there, filling the doorway, shoulders almost too broad for the frame. He turned the deadbolt with deliberate slowness, the sound loud as a gunshot in the marble hush. Then he leaned back against the door, hands in his pockets, and just looked at me.

The smirk was gone. In its place was something feral hunger so raw it stole the air from the room.

I opened my mouth, no idea if I was going to beg him to leave or beg him to stay, but he crossed the space in three strides and swallowed whatever pathetic sound I made.

His mouth crashed into mine, no gentle prelude, no permission asked. Just pure, violent possession. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so he could devour me at the angle he wanted; the other slammed against the mirror beside my head, caging me.

He tasted like the whiskey he’d been sipping and the ruin he’d promised. His tongue fucked into my mouth the same way I knew his cock would, deep, ruthless, claiming every corner. I whimpered into him, hands scrabbling at his lapels, trying to drag him closer even though there wasn’t an inch of space left between us.

He growled, low and animal, and bit my bottom lip hard enough to sting. When he pulled back a fraction, his eyes were black fire.

“You walked away dripping my name down your thighs in front of my entire family,” he rasped against my swollen mouth. “You think I’d let you hide in here and pretend you’re still his good little wife?”

His hand, the same hand that had been inside me ten minutes ago, slid down my body, over the silk, bunching it higher and higher until cool air kissed my soaked skin. He didn’t ask. He simply shoved the fabric aside and cupped me, two fingers plunging in without warning, curling, stroking.

I cried out; the sound echoed off the marble like a confession.

“Shh,” he mocked, thumb pressing my clit in cruel circles. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear the bride getting finger-fucked by her brother-in-law on her wedding night, would we?”

My back arched. I was already climbing again, shamefully fast and sharp, because he was right: this was wrong, this was everything I’d sworn I’d never do, and I was chasing it like a junkie.

He leaned in until his lips brushed mine with every filthy word.

“Feel that?” He added a third finger, stretching me open, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. “That’s me reminding you who you spread for the second you put on that first white dress.”

I was sobbing into his mouth now, riding his hand, heels slipping on the marble, dress rucked to my waist like a cheap prom gown.

He pulled his fingers free just as suddenly as he’d given them, and I whined at the loss, an actual, desperate whine. He brought them to my lips, painted my own taste across them like gloss.

“Open.”

I did.

His fingers slid from my mouth, slick with my own taste, and before I could draw a single steady breath he yanked me into him. The kiss wasn’t a kiss; it was a theft. His mouth slammed over mine, tongue driving deep, claiming every inch I’d just cleaned for him. He kissed me like he was starving, like he wanted to erase every lie I’d ever told Julian with the stroke of his tongue.

I tried to gasp his name; he swallowed it.  

I tried to breathe; he stole the air straight from my lungs.

While he kissed me, his hand dove back under my ruined dress. Three fingers this time,no teasing, no mercy, just a brutal, perfect thrust that filled me so suddenly my spine bowed. My muffled cry vibrated against his lips and he drank it down, growling low, kissing me harder, deeper, as if my pleasure belonged to him alone.

He curled those fingers, stroked that spot that turned my legs to water, and started a punishing rhythm. Fast, relentless, the wet sounds swallowed by the wetter sounds of our mouths. Every time I tried to break away to moan, to beg, to breathe, he chased me, teeth scraping my lip, tongue plunging back in, sealing every desperate noise inside the cage of his kiss.

I clawed at his shoulders, nails digging through tuxedo wool, trying to anchor myself, but there was no anchor; only him, only the thick slide of his fingers and the ruthless pressure of his thumb on my clit. My hips jerked helplessly, riding his hand while he devoured my mouth like he was trying to climb inside my skin.

The orgasm hit like a car crash. I screamed into him,a raw, broken sound and he took it, swallowed every tremor, every pulse, fingers still pumping, drawing it out until tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and my thighs shook so hard I thought I’d collapse.

He didn’t let me come down.

The second the last spasm left me, he spun me, dress twisting around my waist, and bent me over the cold marble vanity so fast my palms slapped the mirror. My reflection stared back: mascara smudged, lips swollen and red, eyes wild. Behind me, Damien’s face was all sharp angles and dark triumph, tie askew, belt already open.

I had no air left, no words, no shame; only the frantic thud of my heart and the slick mess cooling on my thighs, waiting for whatever he’d do next.

Then he leaned over me, lips to my ear, voice a thread of smoke and sin,“It's time to unwrap your gift, little bride."