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After fearing he would die, after his marriage proposal and his declaration of love, I was for Team Tatum. There was no going back. If I was meant to be the Hagi queen, I would be, virgin or not, married or not, baby or not.
Killing Grigore turned out to be the perfect move because helping me crawl down the trellis beside my balcony was a highly skilled consilier who just happened to be available.
“Your security is shit,” he muttered with disgust as we crept away. “Jesus, you don’t even have guard dogs. I brought meat and sedatives with me, but there was no need. Tossed it in your trash. Your father deserves this scare to learn what it’s like to lose you.” He grabbed my hand and stalked toward the entrance as I skipped to keep pace with him. “Believe me, that’s never happening under my watch.”
We jumped into his car and sped away toward Vegas. I googled 24-hour wedding chapels and found plenty, surprisingly enough. Five hours later, I was a married woman.
Tatum steered me into the Waldorf Astoria as night seeped into twilight, beckoning to dawn.
The suite was surprisingly masculine, with rich brown, burgundy, and deep wine reds, but it wasn’t the simple, angular modern decor I hated on so much. Whisking a glass of champagne off the table, I drifted toward the expansive view and looked out onto the Vegas strip, the mini– Eiffel Tower glowing a bright gold below me.
Tatum placed our bags on a small red velvet bench and came up behind me. His shadow fell over me. A second later, I felt the delicious heat of his large body pressed against my back. Desire curled in my belly.
My breath shuddered out of me when he said the word wife before wrapping his arms around my waist and dropping kisses on the side of my neck. A dreamy, marvelous wave of rightness flooded me.
Leaning back into his chest, feeling his strong arms enveloping me, his enticing scent swathing me, I said, “Who knew it would be such a sexy sounding word.”
“The sexiest. Wife, wife, wifey,” he repeated.
“Husband,” I murmured.
“Hmm, you’re right, it does sound good. Almost as good as you screaming my name when you’re in the throes of an orgasm.”
I tilted my head back, giving him a mock-angry look. “It should sound better.”
“Nothing sounds better than you screaming my name when I’m balls deep inside you and your tight cunt is palpitating around my cock,” he said.
“That’s because you haven’t heard me scream ‘husband’ when you’re balls deep inside me and my tight cunt is coming on your cock,” I shot back.
He buried his face in my hair and snuffled out a choked laugh. “You’re the only woman I know who would dare repeat what I said and sound hot doing it. I’m the luckiest fucking man alive, swear to God.”
“Why are you cursing so much?” I asked curiously, snuggling deeper into his body.
I felt him shrug behind me. “Because I’ve labored and struggled to be perfect most of my life, and it didn’t save me. All that toil and sweat, and what do I have to show for it?”
“Me,” I retorted.
Gently taking my flute of champagne, he pressed it to my lips for a sip before placing it on a small table alongside his own.
“Oh no, that had nothing to do with my constant striving to be perfect. I’m nowhere close to behaving around you. I let my demon loose on you, and yet you love me still. That’s nothing less than sheer luck. A goddamn miracle is what you are.”
I turned into the tight cove of his arms. My hand drifted to the rough scruff of his jaw, fingernails scraping against the bristles. He was always clean-shaven, every morning. This was the scruffiest I’d ever seen him, and I loved it.
I lifted onto my tiptoes and slanted my mouth over his, engaging him in a slow, languid kiss. I wanted to savor the taste of him, like honey, leather, and smoke intertwined in a taste that was uniquely Tatum.
He hoisted me up, grinding his stiff rod against my clit. Giving me a sharp slap, he let go of me. My feet made contact with the ground, and I frowned up at him.
Smiling down on me with a little shake of his head, he turned me around.
Taking my hand, he pressed it flat against the windowpane. Then, he did the same with the other. I dropped my head forward, staring down at the sunlight hitting the concrete of the strip laid out before me.
He whispered across my nape, and a little whine hummed in my throat. I bit my lip to stop myself.
“Don’t stifle the needy sounds you make, sweetness,” he commanded, his big hand smoothing down the side of my white dress. I’d chosen one of the few flirty summer dresses I owned, and this one was white to boot, which came in handy for our shotgun wedding.
He palmed my ass, and I arched my back to give him as much access as possible.
“I miss having your mark on me,” I confessed as I looked over my shoulder at him. He’d taken a step back and dragged his gaze down to my feet and back up as if he couldn’t believe I was there. The feeling was mutual. I could see the outline of the bulge of his cock and itched to touch it, pull it out, but I stayed still, knowing he wouldn’t let me.
