Beautiful Beginning(6)

between my legs.

I was trapped beneath him and he began to focus on my pleasure, pushing

into me and against me, getting me there until I was clutching at his

shoulders, digging my nails into him and meeting his thrusts from below. My

back was sore and the countertop was stony and cold on my spine but the

increasing urgency of his movements made me not care. I could be bruised

from it, and it didn’t matter. I didn’t want anything else but to fall

apart with him inside and for him to fall with me.

When my orgasm hit, the sensation that took over my body was a silvery

thrill unleashed across my skin, sliding over and inside until I wasn’t

sure I could handle the feeling of being filled, of being ravaged, and

coming so hard I saw black. I screamed, pulling him tight, needing to feel

the full weight of him over me.

His movements sped and grew wild and then he arched away. “Fuck!” he

shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he came, freezing

over me and holding still. “Fuck!”

Despite the chill of the countertop, we were sweaty and breathless. Bennett

pushed himself up, and continued to slide in and out, slower now. As if he

didn’t want to stop even if he had to, he pressed and retreated, eyes

moving across my flushed skin.

He’d come already, but he didn’t seem to be done. Instead, he looked like

a predator who’d had a small taste and now wanted to take stock of what

was in front of him before diving back in. I loved this side of him: the

Bennett who seemed to barely grasp control, who seemed so unlike his

composed, daylight self. His eyes were dark and almost unseeing. Hungry

hands touched the friction-warmed place between my legs, up over my hips,

up my sides to where they roughly teased my nipples. His hands surrounded

my breasts and squeezed, plumping me for his mouth as he bent and sucked

forcefully at my skin.

“Don’t leave a mark, you menace,” I said, and my voice sounded tiny and

hoarse. “My dress . . .”

Pulling back, he looked at me and his eyes cleared at this reminder that we

lived in a world with other people, and that we would be required to

interact with these other people in the near future for our wedding. A

wedding where I would wear a strapless gown that would show all of the bite

and suck marks he was about to deliver.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I just . . .”

“I know.” I ran my hands into his hair when he trailed off and pulled him

over me, wishing we could stay like this forever: me on my back on the

kitchen counter, him standing and leaning over me.

He exhaled deeply, pinning me beneath his weight. Suddenly he seemed

exhausted. The last few months he’d not only helped with every stage of

the wedding planning, but he’d also done everything he could to keep me

sane and it had to wear on him. I ran my fingers into his hair and closed

my eyes, loving this reminder of Bennett as mortal, as a man who could—and

did—become worn-out or needed a reminder to be gentle. He was the perfect

lover, the perfect boss, the perfect friend. How could he manage it? I’m

sure some days he just wanted a quiet girlfriend, a woman who didn’t argue

with every thought he had. A tiny thread of doubt slipped beneath my skin

and wove its way into my brain, but then I stopped, feeling my lip pull up

in a smirk.

Bennett Ryan was a perfectionist, demanding, stubborn, power-hungry

*. Any other woman would last about two seconds with him before he

chewed her up and spit her out.

And hell, some days I would love a pliant manservant, but no way was I

trading in my Beautiful Bastard.

He stood, kissing down between my breasts and, with a reluctant groan,

pulling out of me. Bending, he reached for his boxers and slid them back up

before looking me over, eyes raking across bare, damp skin.

“I’ll finish the programs and tie the goddamn candy ribbons,” he said,

running his hand over his face. “You’ve got a kitchen to clean up if you

want more of that in our bed later.”

“Uh, no,” I protested, pushing up on one elbow. The kitchen was a

disaster. “I’ll do the programs.”

“You’ll do the kitchen,” he said, voice firm. “And hurry, Miss Mills.

Mustard stains.”





Chapter Two




We’d been in San Diego exactly two hours and I was already regretting not

taking Chloe up on her Vegas elopement.

As if equipped with some kind of Bennett mood ring embedded in her brain,

the woman in question turned in the seat next to me. I could feel the

weight of her attention, her pressing gaze as she watched me and tried to

dissect each frown or sigh.

“Why do you look nervous?” she asked finally.

“I’m fine,” I answered, aiming for disinterested but failing

spectacularly.

“The grip you have on the steering wheel would suggest otherwise.”