Christina Lauren - Beautiful Beginning

We made the rounds and spent the next couple of hours greeting everyone who came and getting lost in introductions and hellos. The guests ate the appetizers, and everyone seemed to get a little day-drunk and wild. Truth be told, it was overwhelming having so many people here. By the time dinner was served, the crowd was roaring, knives clinked against glasses almost every ten seconds in shameless bids to have Bennett kiss me.

Each time it grew a little dirtier until I worried he was going to clear the wedding table with a sweep of his arm and lay me down on it. But when Kristin told us the band would be starting our first dance song soon, and a symphony of knives tinkling against crystal rang out, Bennett simply leaned over and said, “If you put your tongue in my mouth again, I’m leaving this fucking wedding and taking you to bed, Mrs. Ryan.”

“Well, I’ll then keep it chaste, Mr. Mills. Because I want cake.”

His eyes fell closed and he leaned forward, gently touching his lips to mine. How did he manage to blend sweet and commanding so seamlessly?

We walked to the center of the dance floor amid hushed silence. The first few chords of the song began and Bennett gave me a devilish grin before pulling me close with both hands gripping my ass. The room exploded in raucous cheers and I looked up at him, shaking my head as if it bothered me.

It so fucking didn’t.

Without shoes, I was so much shorter than he was, and still sometimes hated not being able to see him eye to eye, even when we were dancing at our wedding. I stood on my tiptoes, swayed in his arms, and after only about half a minute I felt him reach around my waist and lift me so we were face-to-face, my feet dangling several inches off the ground.

“Better?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“Much.” I twisted my fingers in his hair and leaned to slide my mouth over his.

Camera flashes exploded around us and I could imagine hundreds of pictures of Bennett holding me, spinning me slowly, my still-dirty feet telling anyone who would look at the picture in the future what kind of wedding day we’d had: perfect.

The song drew to an end, but it was several long beats after the final notes before Bennett put me down.

“I love you,” he said, letting his eyes roam my entire face before coming to settle on my lips.

“I love you, too.”

“Holy shit. You’re my wife.”

Laughing, I said, “We’re married. That’s insane. Who let this happen?”

He didn’t even break a smile. Instead, his eyes grew heavy, his voice even lower. “I’m going to disrespect the fuck out of you later.”

The entire surface of my skin felt flushed and silvery.

He released me, letting me slide down his body and groaning quietly as my hip pressed against the length of his cock, half hard already. “I’m tempted to disrespect you now,” he said. “But my wife wanted cake.”

We drifted apart a little as another song started and I felt my father’s hand press to my back. Bennett turned, taking his mother in his arms. As we danced with our parents, we caught each other’s eyes over their shoulders and grinned, giddy. I felt like closing my eyes and letting out the loudest, happiest shout ever heard.

“Your mom would have had a great time today,” Dad said, kissing my cheek.

I nodded, smiling. I missed my mother in this sort of hollow-throb way. She hadn’t ever been the cool mom, or the fashionable mom; she was the sweet mom, the hugger mom, the overprotective mom. She would have hated Bennett at first, and the thought made me laugh out loud. Mom would have assumed he was a prick and that I could find someone more giving, more connected, more emotionally available. And then she would have seen him look at me in an unguarded moment, would have seen him trace a fingertip from my temple to my chin, or kiss the back of my hand when he didn’t think anyone was looking, and realize I’d found the one man other than my dad who loved me more than anything on the planet.

Catching Bennett in these private moments had been what won my father over to Bennett’s side, eventually. After our disastrous Christmas visit to Bismarck over a year ago, where Dad grilled Bennett endlessly and finally walked in on me riding him like a rowdy cowgirl in my childhood bed, Dad came to stay with us in New York for a week. Bennett, predictably, had been working like a fiend for the first few days, and Dad grumbled endlessly about how a man should provide for his family not only in material ways but also emotional.

But then one night, when Bennett got home well after midnight and Dad got up out of bed to get some water, he found us on the couch, my head in Bennett’s lap and his fingers running gently through my hair as he listened to me ramble on about every detail of my day. Bennett had been exhausted, but, as usual, he insisted I spend time with him, no matter how late. Dad admitted the next morning that he had stood, mesmerized, watching us for a full five minutes before he remembered himself and left to get his water.

I caught him giving Bennett a look over my shoulder and then heard my husband’s deep, real laugh—the one that bubbled up from low in his belly and came out sounding like the quietest, happiest sound.

“What are you two up to?” I asked my dad, pulling back to look at him.

“Just giving my new son some nonverbal advice.”

I gave my father a warning look and then caught Bennett’s attention as my father turned to me. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Ask your husband what that was all about.”

Dad pulled me into a hug, kissing my cheek, before Bennett came to my side, bending to whisper, “Your dad just indicated he wants five grandkids.”

My screech of horror was drowned out by the heavy bass blasting through the speakers, signaling to the guests that the real party had started. Crowds rushed to the dance floor and we took the opportunity to go get a drink of water. Will passed us on our way, flanked by my aunts.

They sandwiched him between them good-naturedly and Will’s head fell back in laughter. “For the love of God, Hanna, where are you?” he yelled.

Across the room she lowered her fruity drink, held up her hand decorated with a beautiful engagement ring, and called out, “Is that what this ring means? That I come to your rescue?”

He nodded fervently, shouting, “Yes!”

Finally, after a nice, long bit of staring at the poor boy, Hannah walked to him and pulled him away from my laughing aunts and into her arms. I smiled, turning back to Bennett.

“Can we leave now?” he asked, eyes dropping to my mouth.

The crowd had barely thinned, and I knew the party would probably continue on for another few hours, but right then all I wanted was to get upstairs and get my husband out of his tux.

“One more hour,” I said, pulling back his jacket sleeve to glance at his watch. It was only eight thirty. “One more hour and then I’m all yours.”

After what ended up being three hours—three hours of dancing and drunken toasts, of Max and Will carrying Bennett to the bar for a final round of “man shots,” of pure, wild celebration—Bennett came up behind me at the bar where I stood talking to Henry and Mina, and slid his arms around my waist.

“Now,” he whispered, kissing my ear.

I leaned back into him, smiling at my brother- and sister-in-law. “I think that’s my cue.”

There were no flower petals to throw in our wake, no handfuls of rice. Instead, Will and Henry grabbed handfuls of cocktail napkins and drunkenly chucked them at us as we ducked away from the bar and waved to our guests.

“Good night everyone! Thanks for coming!” I called out above the catcalls and whistles.

Bennett pulled me forward, waving over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“It was so good to see you all!” I yelled, still waving to our family and friends.

He practically dragged me away before lifting me and throwing me over his shoulder. The approval of our guests was communicated with roaring applause and another stack of napkins that caught Bennett in the back of the head.

He carried me all the way to the lobby and then slid me down his body, kissing my neck, my chin, my lips. “Ready?”

I nodded. “So ready.”

But when I turned toward the elevators, he stopped me with a big hand wrapped around my forearm. And then his other hand pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.

“What . . . ?” I asked, a wary smile spreading slowly across my face. “What are you doing with that in the lobby?”

“I’m whisking you off somewhere.”

“But we have a room upstairs,” I whined quietly. “With a big giant bed and several of your ties to get kinky with, and,” I dropped my voice, “the bottle of lube in the drawer.”

He laughed, bending to run his nose along my jaw. “There’s also a duffel bag in the limo outside that has several of my ties to get kinky with, the bottle of lube from the drawer, and a few other things.”

“What other things?”

“Trust me,” he said.

“Where are we going?” I asked, tripping after him when he tugged my hand and led me forward.

“Trust me.”

“Do we have to fly?”

He playfully smacked my ass, growling, “Christ, woman, trust me,” in my ear.

“Am I going to have orgasms tonight?”

He turned pulled me close to his side and said, “That’s the plan. Now shut up.”

Bennett helped me climb into the back of the limo and then slipped the blindfold over my face, tying it firmly behind my head. It was wide and tight; the bastard had anticipated my plan to peek, and the silken fabric covered half my face. I was left in total darkness.

But beside me, I could sense when he shifted closer, could smell the clean, crisp sagey smell of him when he leaned in, sucked gently on my collarbone.

“Are you going to fuck me in this car?” I asked, reaching out blindly for him. I found his arm and pulled it around me.

His rumbling chuckle vibrated along my collarbones, from one side to the other, and I felt him reach for the hem of my wedding dress and slowly drag it up my legs.

Bennett’s fingertips tickled their way past my knee, along the inside of my thigh and to the thin white lace barely covering my pussy. He slid a knuckle under the fabric, dragging it back and forth over the already-slick skin beneath.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Goddamnit, Chlo.” He pulled back, sliding two fingers into me, pumping them deep. “I’m not feeling particularly gentle tonight.”

Arching my neck, I gave his mouth better access to the most vulnerable part of my throat, whispering, “Good. I don’t want you slow and sweet.”

“But it’s our wedding night,” he argued with mock sincerity. “Shouldn’t I gently lay you on a feather bed and bring you endless, loving pleasure?”

I reached for his hand, pressed it harder into me. “You can do that when I’m bruised and sore afterwards, in the middle of the night.”

His laugh was so dark, and communicated such barely restrained need that it sent shivers down my back. I felt his breath on my ear when he asked, “So I have permission to be rough?”