Stripped (Stripped #1)(71)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

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.

It’s a traditional wedding, for all that it’s a celebrity affair. In deference to my father, Dawson made sure of that.

I’m staring at Dawson, watching his face as he works to contain his emotions at the sight of me. He has never been more attractive than he is in this moment, dressed in a custom-tailored vintage tuxedo, his hair combed into a part that makes him look like he could have stepped out of a Clark Gable movie. His tuxedo is designed to enhance that look, and so is my dress. The whole wedding, in fact, is vintage, ’30s-inspired, right down to the car we’re going to drive away in: a 1937 Rolls Royce Phantom.

Daddy hands me off to Dawson, but before he does, he leans in to whisper to me, “I love you, Grey. I’m so proud of who you are.” My eyes water as I hear the words I’ve wished for my entire life. Daddy sniffs and blinks hard. “Go marry him. He’s a good man.”

I step up to Dawson and take his hands. I barely hear the pastor but when it comes time, I repeat the vows.

“I do.” Two words, and they hold so much meaning. I’ve been his, I’ve always been his, and he mine. From the first day I saw him in the VIP room of that awful place, we’ve belonged to each other. But now, now we’re completely and officially bound together, tied and linked and made permanent.

The reception is a happy blur. I’m on cloud nine, overcome and overwhelmed by joy. And then the time comes for the first dance.

A spotlight shines on the edge of the dance floor, bathing a single figure: Lindsey Stirling. She lifts a violin to her shoulder, pauses, and then launches into “Elements.” Dawson and I are off with the music, dancing a choreographed and rehearsed tango.

A boring old slow dance wasn’t going to cut it for this wedding, after all.

I’ve never danced so well in all my life; dancing comes from within, and inside, I’m alight with pure happiness. I’ve got everything I could ever ask for, and then some.

THE END