Stripped (33 page)

I give him another thing he likes: me, acting dominant. “Shut up and drink your wine.”

He smirks and sips his wine, then lifts his hips as I tug his pants down far enough to bare him for what I’m going to do next. He’s already hard, and I grasp him in both hands, caress my fists up and down his considerable length, roll my palm over his head, and then rub the tip of him with my thumb. He closes his eyes briefly, then sips his wine again, meeting my eyes. I hold his gaze as I lower my mouth to his erection and wrap my lips around his thickness. He gasps out loud when I take him in until he’s at my throat, and then back away. He caresses the curve of my neck with his free hand as I suck him into a bucking frenzy, and then I back away and let him subside a bit. I lick the tip of him, run my mouth down the side and back up before wrapping my lips around him again. I caress his balls with one hand, and with the other pump his base until he’s groaning. When I feel him start to lose control, I slide my hand up and down him faster and faster, moving my mouth on him slowly, in contrast to the speed of my hand.

“God, I’m—” But he doesn’t have time to get any more of a warning out before he’s lost in groaning bliss.
 

I know it’s coming, so a warning isn’t necessary. I don’t stop when he explodes in my mouth. I keep going, keep moving and suckling, and his groans are so desperately pleasure-filled that I groan, too, and either the sound or the feel of my voice buzzing makes him come again, even harder, and I keep going until he’s panting and pulling at me to get up.

He tugs his pants back on as I stand up, and then pulls me against him, and I bend to kiss him.
 

“Part one of your present,” I say.

His eyes search mine. “Baby, that was…god, that felt
so
fucking good. Thank you.”

He pours me a glass of wine, and I sit down and sip it. He dishes up food for both of us before I can, and I let him, because I think it’s just in his nature to do things for me. We talk as we eat a long, luxurious dinner. He got the part he was reading for, a contemporary drama about a man coping with the slow death of his father at the same time that he finds out his wife was unfaithful. It’s a turn away from the action and the sex and the romance, and I think it’ll be a good role for him. When we finish with dessert, I lead him by the hand up to our bedroom. He brings our wine glasses and a second chilled bottle, pours us each a new glass.

I take a sip of mine, and then set it aside as I mentally prepare for the next part of my surprise for Dawson. “Sit down on the bed,” I tell him. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I stand in front of him, facing him. I hesitate with my hands on the tie of my robe. “Part two,” I say.

“How many parts to this present are there?”

“Three.”

I loosen the knot, let the ends of the tie fall free, and then slowly part the robe. His eyes widen as the robe opens, and then he shifts in place as I let it fall off my shoulders. He takes a casual sip of his wine, but his gaze is anything but nonchalant. He hasn’t said anything, but he hasn’t looked away from me, either. His breathing is deep, and his eyes betray him. I stay still as he stands up, sets his glass down on the bedside table, and then comes to stand a foot away from me.
 

“Jesus, babe.” His hands trace the curve of my waist, come to rest on my hips. “I don’t know whether to rip that thing off you as fast as I can, or leave it on so I can stare at you.”

I laugh. “That’s exactly what Luisa said your reaction would be when she helped me tie it.”

“Smart woman.”

“You really like it?”

His hands run up the backs of my thighs, cup my backside. Fire heats my core at his touch. “God…
damn
, Grey. Like it? You’re so fucking gloriously gorgeous that I literally cannot stand it. I’m having to remind myself to keep breathing, because you take my breath away.” He kisses the side of my neck, my shoulder, the slope of my breast. “Jesus. I don’t even have words. You deserve an epic poem or something. A paean. Or no, that’s not right. I don’t fucking know…you’re my goddess, Grey Amundsen, and I’m going to worship you.”

“Do you want to know what part three is?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not yet, I’m still appreciating part two.” He’s touching me all over, praising me with his hands.
 

Dawson touches every inch of me from head to toe, and then starts over again with his mouth, paying homage with hot, wet kisses.

I’ve never in my life felt so powerful, wanted, so
loved.
When he’s kissed me to his satisfaction, he’s standing behind me. He unties the knot, then oh-so-slowly loosens the cords until the corset is ready to be drawn off. He does, and I’m wearing nothing but the flesh-tan briefs with the tiny bow at the top, and those are off next. I’m in his hands now, under his mercy. He’s still fully clothed, but I’ll take care of that at some point.
 

First, I let him do whatever he wants.
 

Which involves him kneeling in front of me, spreading my stance with gentle nudges of his hands, and pressing delicate kisses to the inside of my thighs and upward, and licking and suckling me into a moaning climax. When I’ve come down from the shuddering high, I draw him to his feet and peel his shirt off, caress his stomach and chest and shoulders, kissing him all over as he did me, then helping him to shed his pants and underwear.
 

When we’re both naked, I climb onto the bed, reach into the drawer of my nightstand, and bring out the bottle of lubricant. Dawson’s eyes fix on it, then shift to mine.

“Part three,” I say.

He moves onto the bed with me and picks up the lube, staring at it. His expression is hesitant and hopeful. “What’s part three?”

I climb onto his lap, rubbing my damp folds against him, and whisper in his ear. “I want you to fuck me in the ass.”

He takes a deep breath, resting his head on my shoulder. “Grey, baby. Don’t say that just because you think that’s what I want—”

“It’s what I want,” I tell him, grinding against him, ready for more of him, needing more of him. “I said it that way for you, because you like it when I talk that way, but…I want you to do that. When you put your finger inside me like that, it feels good, and I want more.”

He’s caressing me, his palms skating in a circle over my shoulders and down my back, to my hips, my thighs. “You’re sure?”

“Completely. I trust you, and I want you.”

“Then I’ll have to make you come again.”

“Well, damn,” I say, smiling into his mouth.

He laughs, and then we’re lost in a kiss. Dawson reaches up and pulls a pin from my hair, freeing some of it, and then another pin, and another, and then all my hair is down around my shoulders in a cascading golden wave. He leans forward and lays me down on my back, not breaking the kiss, and his hand finds my cleft, caresses me, delves into my core and swirls around my clit. His kiss moves from my mouth to my nipple, and then he’s lower down again, and two fingers are inside my folds and the middle finger of his other hand is seeking my tight entrance. He’s slower to bring me to climax, this time, and his finger is sliding in and out of me. I’m gasping and bucking, needing a release that he won’t let me find. He brings me to the edge and then slows down, and I’m mad with need.
 

I’m bereft when his finger leaves, and then I feel something wet and cool smeared onto me, and then again. And then again, and he’s pushing in with his finger, pushing in and pulling out, and then I feel a sense of being stretched, and I realize he’s added two fingers, and oh…
god
…it’s too intense for words, and I’m wondering how I’ll ever survive the rest of him, but it’s so intense, so good, so amazing, and I can’t even form words.
 

I let my knees fall aside and silently encourage him, and then his fingers leave me and he’s pushing at one hip. I know what that means, what he wants. I roll over onto my stomach, and he gently lifts my hips, snags a pillow and tucks it beneath me, and then applies more lubricant and I hear a condom wrapper; I turn my head over my shoulder to watch, and I’m turned on even more by the sight of his hand around his thick shaft.
 

Oh. Oh, god.
 

He’s touching the tip of his cock to my ass, and even in the throes of nervous excitement I’m absurdly proud of myself for using those words in my thoughts. He’s using his other hand, the one he touched my folds with, to bring me to climax, bent over me and reaching between my legs to fondle me, finding my clit with his fingers and rubbing it until I’m rocking on my hands and knees into his touch, and he uses that motion, pressing the head of his erection to my rear, and then I feel stretched and too too too full, so full, and it hurts a little, but he’s waiting, holding still, and I slowly grow accustomed to it.
 

And then he moves, just a little. “Dawson, oh, god,
Dawson
…”

“Okay, baby?” He asks the question with concern rife in his voice.

I can only nod and shift my hips a little. His fingers are inside me again, three fingers sliding into my
pussy
, as Dawson calls it—and I’m at climax and coming apart, and then he slides in a little further and I’m moaning loudly, biting the pillow and groaning low in my throat, a noise so feral I can’t believe it’s coming from me. It makes Dawson wild, that animal growl, and he slowly buries himself the rest of the way. For some reason, the feel of his body coming to rest against my ass, knowing he’s buried deep in that place, is erotic beyond all my wildest dreams. He’s had me from behind, course, but this is different.
 

I can’t believe he’s got all of his massive erection inside me without it hurting. There’s an edge of pain, but not enough to even shadow the sunburst ecstasy.
 

And then he pulls out, so slowly, achingly slowly, and I moan all over again, every muscle shivering in response, and it causes something deep inside me to ache, to pulse and turn fiery, a blinding throb so intense I can’t breathe around it. He slides in a little, and then back out, and I’m mouth-wide silent-screaming, which turns into an actual shriek, high-pitched and breathless, as he slides in.

He does it like this, slow withdrawals and careful thrusts in, until I can’t bear the slowness anymore and I’m the one to push my backside into his next thrust, and harder, and then harder again. With each thrust, the shuddering ache in my core builds, and I realize it’s an orgasm being built, but one unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
 

It’s going to be so intense I’m almost afraid of it.

His hands caress my back, both of them running over my soft skin, and then as our bodies meet on an in-thrust, he takes my hips in his hands, fingers digging into the skin and pulling at me. Oh, I like that. I love the feel of his hands on me like that, encouraging me, pulling at me desperately.
 

He’s losing it, growling, his rhythm faltering as his thrusts become harder and more erratic, and I’m lost right alongside him. We’re groaning together, and I have no control over the sounds I make; my screams are growing louder and more breathy, more frantic.
 

The throb inside me is a chasm, a crushing pressure. So much, so much.

And then it breaks open, and I’m blind, deaf, swept away by the rocket rush and earthquake shakes and chaotic intensity. I can’t contain it, and I know my screams must be deafening.

I hear Dawson groan, and my orgasm is shuddering and fading, but I never felt him come. He carefully and slowly withdraws as the climax leaves me with trembling aftershocks, and when he slips out completely, I actually whimper and feel the loss. But he’s not done with me. He lifts me and rolls me to my back, and I watch through blurry eyes as he strips the condom off himself. He’s harder and bigger than I’ve ever seen him, and every muscle in his body is tensed. He kneels over me, kisses his way up my body, to my mouth, and then he’s inside me, bare inside me, and I’m weeping with pleasure at the feel of him there, the familiar bliss of him gliding where he belongs.

“Grey, oh, god—”

I’m there all over again, at the edge of climax with him, but this feels more like an emotional orgasm, a sense of such blasting, overwhelming, soul-shearing love for Dawson that my entire being is shaking with it.

“Dawson…” I whisper, and then he’s holding me close, almost limp on top of me except a bit of his weight supported on his forearms, the rest of his body skin to skin on mine, and I wrap my legs around his back and my arms around his neck and crush my lips to his ear and let words tumble out. “Dawson, I love you. Oh…fuck…I love you. I want you to feel you come now. Come for me, baby.”

He actually whimpers in the back of his throat and lets go then. When I say the word “baby,” he comes unglued, comes apart, goes completely spastic and frantic, each thrust a shuddering blast of seed inside me, and he’s whispering my name, gasping
I love you
brokenly in my ear, and I come apart with him, breathing with him, each breath synced with his, each sigh breathed together, the only words uttered each other’s names and
I love you
.
 

There’s never been anything but this. The world, time, history, love, eternity; it all boils down to Dawson here, inside me, above me, with me, us together.
 

I press my lips to his ear. “Happy birthday, Dawson.”

He just laughs and rolls with me, fits me into the nook of his arm. Sometime later, we make love again, slowly, without saying a word.

Epilogue

A celebrity wedding is a ridiculous thing. We spent so much money, invited so many people. There’s media coverage, weeks of newspaper and magazine speculation, article after article. There was even a TV special, which we did interviews for and let the cameras follow us around during wedding planning.
 

Now I’m trying not to cry as I walk down the aisle with my hand on Daddy’s arm. A veil hangs down my back to merge with the train of my dress, which cost somewhere north of $100,000. Kind of ridiculous, honestly, considering I’ll wear it for a few hours at most. But Dawson insisted. A dress with that price tag is expected for a wedding of this scale. There are hundreds of flowers, all over the pews and scattered on the floor.