The night before our wedding, Matthew could hardly keep his hands off me—and I didn’t want him to. We lay tangled in each other, a slow burn building between every kiss, every whisper. His mouth explored me like he was memorizing me all over again. Every graze of his lips over my skin made me arch, sigh, ache.
When he finally slid his hard dick inside me, the stretch was exquisite.
Every time with him was like that—he filled me completely, made me gasp, made
me clutch at him like I might unravel. He was thick, deliberate, unhurried. He
knew exactly how to push me to the edge and pull me back just to drive me wild
again. He watched my face as he moved within me, reading every breath, every
tremble, every plea.
“Too much?” he whispered, teasing me with just the tip
before sliding back in, making me cry out.
“Never,” I gasped, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, chasing the
feeling only he could give me.
He groaned into my neck, dragging his mouth along my jaw
before kissing me like a man starved. “I love you,” he said between strokes. “I
love the way you feel around me. The way you let me have all of you.”
We didn’t sleep much that night. And we didn’t need to.
The next morning, the beach glowed under soft sunlight. Our
wedding was simple but stunning—white and black woven into every detail. White
roses, black silk ribbons, barefoot steps in the sand.
Matthew looked devastatingly handsome in his black suit,
crisp and clean, but with that heat in his eyes that made my breath catch. I
walked toward him in my flowing white gown, wind tugging at my hair, heart
pounding in my chest. He watched me like I was a miracle.
We wrote our own vows. Raw. True. He promised to love me
fiercely and endlessly, to be my safe place and my wildest adventure. I
promised to be his light, his warmth, his unwavering partner. When we kissed,
it wasn’t chaste. It was full and deep and consuming. His hand curled around
the back of my neck, his thumb brushing my jaw. I could feel it in my toes.
We left for our honeymoon that same night, flying far away
to a secluded foreign villa tucked into cliffs and sea. The next three weeks
were nothing short of bliss.
Days were made of sunshine, saltwater, wine, and laughter.
Nights were fire.
Every time he touched me, it was like the first time again.
He made me gasp, made me whimper, made me scream into pillows. He stretched me
every night, every morning, many times in between. There was always a
moment—just before he sank in—where I’d clutch at him, breathless, and he’d
pause to kiss me, to tell me I was perfect.
And then he’d ravish me.
Sometimes he was slow, watching me fall apart under him,
murmuring how beautiful I looked when I came. Other times, he was
rougher—pinning my wrists, hips grinding into mine until I was crying out,
begging for more. There were afternoons I couldn’t walk straight after, nights
where I shook in his arms, wrung out and wrecked from how completely he claimed
me.
He never rushed. He always finished with a kiss—deep, soft,
reverent—like he was saying thank you to my body.
One night, lying tangled in the sheets with his fingers
brushing my stomach, he looked at me and said, “I’ve been thinking… about the
future. About us.”
I turned toward him, heart already fluttering.
“I know your birth control is for your PCOS. I’d never ask
you to risk your health. But if you ever wanted to… if we ever tried… I’d love
to have a family with you.”
I stared at him, stunned by the sincerity in his voice. My
chest tightened, emotions catching in my throat. I pressed my hand to his cheek
and whispered, “Let’s talk to my doctor when we get back. But… I want that
too.”
That night, as he moved inside me again—deep, slow,
stretching me in the most delicious way—I wrapped my legs around his back and
whispered, “Don’t stop. I want to feel everything. All of you.”
His eyes darkened. “You have me. Every inch.”
I stopped taking my pills the next morning.
When we finally returned home, sun-kissed and still aching
in the best way, Matthew was quiet on the drive. He kept glancing at me with
that smile—the one that said he was bursting with something.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he said finally,
fingers tightening around mine. “Not because I didn’t trust you, but… I needed
to know you loved me without anything attached.”
He pulled out a small folder from the glove box. Inside:
estate deeds, business shares, investment accounts.
“I’m wealthy,” he said simply. “Very. I inherited and grew
it over time. And I’ve kept it quiet because I didn’t want it to change
anything between us.”
I blinked at him, stunned for a moment. Then I laughed,
leaning across the console to kiss him.
“You could own a castle,” I whispered. “I’d still want you
naked, in bed, wrapped around me.”
He groaned, pulled me into another kiss, and we barely made
it through the front door before he fucked me hard me against the wall—stretching me,
loving me, claiming me again.
We spent the next few days barely leaving the bed.
He fed me fruit, kissed me endlessly, made love to me like
it was the only language we knew. I welcomed every inch of him, again and
again, gasping, arching, trembling under his touch. We were hungry for each
other, insatiable.
Between the kisses, the heat, the laughter, and the moans—I
knew one thing: we weren’t just lovers. We were building something lasting.
Something alive.
And deep down, I already knew—I might have just invited our
future to begin growing inside me.
No comments:
Post a Comment