Runaway Bride (Bombshell Brides), page 5
His groan sounds broken, and he’s already rutting at me. Rocking his hips against me through our clothes, and mouthing along my collarbone. “Are you sure?” He’s gritting his teeth. I can hear it.
“So sure.” His body trembles where it pushes against mine. My heart aches in reply. “I promise, I’m so sure.”
It’s clumsy and uncoordinated. My freaking leggings stick on my thighs again, and I kick them onto the sand with a muttered curse. I leave the crop top on—a nod to the public beach—and Leo unbuckles his belt with shaking hands.
“I’m going to fuck you as your groom.”
I stroke his waistcoat, smoothing my palms up his strong chest. “Okay.”
“I picked this outfit for you, Mia.”
I kiss his chin, his cheek, his mouth. “And I like it.”
It takes some maneuvering, but we get me up against the rock, leaning against the gentle slope with my legs wrapped around Leo’s waist. I tug him down until he flattens me completely, his chest against mine and our foreheads pressed together.
“This might hurt.” His deep brown eyes look tortured. “Your first time can hurt.”
I yank at his collar, impatient now. “I don’t care.”
It does hurt at first. When the broad head of Leo’s cock nudges against my entrance, I bite the inside of my cheek and squeeze his shoulders tight. And when he starts to press inside, when I sting down there—
“Relax.” Leo pulls back, kissing my neck. “You’re so tense, Mia. Let it all go.”
Okay. Okay, we try again, and this time is better. Leo slides an inch inside, and though it burns a little, it feels good too. Especially when he crams an arm between us, tracing teasing circles over my clit, and a rush of heat floods through me. I buck in his arms, chasing his finger.
Shallow thrusts. He’s so gentle, so patient. Giving me all the time in the world to adjust. And I’m tingling, clenching, wanting him deeper, getting wetter and wetter by the second.
“Please,” I gasp as my toes curl behind his back. The waves crash and the seabirds ride the air currents over his shoulder.
Leo holds his breath and presses all the way in, my pussy slick as I rock my hips.
“Fuck.” He shakes his head, forehead tilting against mine. God, I can feel him splitting me open, so thick and long and hot. I can feel his freaking pulse against my inner walls. “Mia. Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
We’re messes. Two sweaty, messy people who have absconded from their lives, clinging on for dear life in this rocky alcove. Leo’s still dressed like a groom and I’m in this ridiculous fringed top, but this is perfect. So perfect.
“Oh god,” I moan as he rolls his hips, dragging his thick length out of me then pushing back in, torturously slow. “Feels so good.”
Leo bites down on my shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to punch the air from my lungs. And he’s fucking me harder now, faster, the sounds of slapping flesh echoing around the alcove, and shit, I think that breathy, moaning noise is coming from me.
A strong hand plunges into my hair. Yanks my head to the side, and then his mouth is on my throat, teeth grazing the skin, breath hot and lips possessive.
“Mine.” His cock slams home and I bounce in his arms. So undignified, but something about it makes sparks race under my skin. “You’re mine, Mia. My bride. My world. This is the only cock for you, you hear? Your first and only.”
Even pounded against the rock face, I manage to roll my eyes.
“Mia,” Leo snaps, and I grab two fistfuls of his hair, twisting the strands. Giving as good as I get.
“Fine.” As if I’d want it any other way. “And this is it for you too, Palladino. You ever look at another woman, I’ll make your life hell.”
Leo tosses his head back and laughs, brassy and loud, like the thought of him straying is the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
I suppose it is. The idea of either of us wanting someone else is ridiculous.
How could we? We’re both downright obsessed with each other.
Leo pushes me over the edge with his teeth bared and his thumb on my clit. His cock sawing deep inside me, and mania in his brown eyes.
I know how he feels, because I feel it too. Those shadows inside me. These dark needs. And I come with my nails sinking into his shoulders, with my pussy clamping down on his cock. Shivers and sparks chase each other through my bloodstream, and I groan between my teeth. Flashing hot all over, my ears ringing.
Leo flattens me to the rock, emptying inside me with a bellow.
The breeze shifts his dark curls. I blink up at the sky, blissed out and hazy. His spend trickles down my thigh.
“So.” Several long moments later, Leo withdraws with a hiss, setting me down on wobbly legs. “Showers, yes? Let’s rent a room for the night. Then we can decide where to go next.”
We. Us. It’s all about the two of us with him, and I love it. I’ve never been part of a real team before.
And watching the ex-kingpin pick up my leggings, brushing off the sand, my heart feels too big for my body.
I love him so much, I almost can’t stand it. It’s no joke, this obsession thing.
Ten
Leo
Five years later
I chase her down the paved garden paths, heart thumping, past rocky flowerbeds and trickling water features. The evening sun beats down on my neck, and I can’t stop grinning.
This is our favorite game. I chase this girl for hours sometimes, for as long as she wants to play, jogging slowly, beaming wide at her squeals.
I let my quarry win all the way to the edge of the pool, and then I snatch her up, cradling her wriggling body against my chest.
“He caught you,” Mia calls from a sun lounger, shading her eyes with one hand. A book lays forgotten in her lap, and I stare at her bare legs with shameless hunger. “He caught you fair and square.”
Our daughter keeps kicking, squealing with laughter. “No! No, he didn’t!”
I stroll over to stand above my wife, barely out of breath, and present our wriggling daughter in outstretched arms. “I have a gift for you. She’s a little liar.”
Our child cackles, unrepentant.
Mia snorts and accepts the writhing bundle. Our daughter is growing fast—she’s big enough now that Mia goes oof at the weight settling in her lap. “Thanks for nothing.”
She’s joking. Mia is a devoted mother and wife, but then I always knew she would be. She turns her considerable talents on everything she does.
Like the investments we make together. The wealth we’ve amassed over the last five years.
We do so much better when we’re not held back by idiots.
“Maybe I’ll chase you later,” I murmur under my breath. Mia says nothing, but I know she hears me because her cheeks turn pink and her thighs shift against the sun lounger, suddenly restless. She fusses over our daughter and I trace a fingertip over the crown of her head.
Her dark hairs are silky and warm, red highlights brought out by the sun. So beautiful.
I still can’t believe she’s mine.
“We could call the sitter.” I offer it casually, like I’m not desperate for time alone with Mia. I’m always craving her. Needing a taste.
Mia glances up at me from the corner of her eye, and fuck, I love her sly smile. My heart trips faster when she nods.
Where will she run this time? Will she give me any warning before she leaves, or will she slip out without warning, dancing out of the backdoor while I’m tied up with something else?
I love it both ways. Any night I chase Mia is a good night. It brings my whole body sparking to life, and by the time I catch up with her, she’s always slick and needy. Ready for me.
“Better hydrate.” I pat her head, grinning at her loud huff, then lean down to mutter in her ear. “I won’t go easy on you. I’ve caught you before, princess, and I’ll always catch you again.” I lick Mia’s throat. “Get ready to beg.”
* * *
Thanks for reading Runaway Bride! I hope you loved the obsessed mafioso. :)
For another Bombshell Bride, check out Mail Order Vow. We meet for the first time on a windswept cliff at 8am. In twenty-four hours, we’ll marry.
And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy of Beauty & The Kingpin. I’m a florist. He’s the king of the underworld.
Happy reading!
xxx
Teaser: Mail Order Vow
There were no photos with our profiles. Back when I signed up for the mail order bride program, I liked that about it—I figured if someone chose me, it would be more authentic. You know: based on the things I wrote instead of the way I look.
Because let’s face it, with my glasses and my freckles and my limp hair, no one was ever going to pick me from a photo. I’m not a complete disaster to look at, but my older sisters definitely got all the good genes.
They’re both practically models.
Meanwhile, I’m a mousy bookworm with wide hips.
But if I’d seen a photo of Mr MacGregor… would I have agreed to the match? I stare at my future husband, mouth dry.
I’m not sure.
“You getting out?” His deep voice rumbles along the driveway, somehow audible over the wind and through the car.
I nod, dazed, fumbling with my seat belt. What else am I gonna do, throw the car in reverse and peel out of here after a single glance? That would be so freaking rude. So judgmental. The thought straightens my back, shame gnawing at my insides, and I throw my car door open. The wind makes my sweatshirt flap as I climb out onto the driveway.
Thump. Thump. His steps are heavy, vibrating down into the earth.
Oh god. He’s big. He’s really big.
And I signed up for this program because I wanted someone to really see me. To connect with a man for the first time in my life, away from the glittery distraction of my sisters; to finally feel known. To not be immediately overlooked.
The least I can do is give Mr MacGregor the same courtesy. A proper chance. But wow, my maybe-husband is kind of scary.
“I, um.” I wave at my cluttered backseat, tongue thick and heavy in my mouth. “I brought all my stuff.”
The lighthouse keeper nods, walking closer then bending to peer inside. His expression doesn’t change, not even a twitch, and I bite down hard on my lip as I take him in.
His hair is long and dark, half tied back, half falling past his broad shoulders, and his face is weathered and tan—at least ten years older than mine, and maybe more. Scars cover one side of his face, warping the skin of his cheek, and his damaged eye is milky white. There’s a chunk missing from his ear.
He looks like some kind of modern day viking warrior. One that took some serious blows on the battlefield.
“That’s a lot of books,” Mr MacGregor rumbles, still gazing at all my belongings.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
He shifts, keeping his weight on one leg as he rubs a palm over his bristly jaw, favoring his unscarred side. The collar of his plaid flannel shirt is curling under at the points. He needs to press it. I could press it for him.
I blink, shaking off that bizarre thought. We’ve barely exchanged ten words, and already in my head I’m his wife. Fussing over his clothes and wanting to perch in his lap. So ridiculous.
“I don’t need to keep it all,” I blurt, plucking at the hem of my white sweatshirt, because he’s still staring at the stuff in the car more than at me. Mr MacGregor glances over, eyebrows raised. “If there isn’t room, I mean. Or if you don’t like clutter. I could, um, I could sell some of it or donate it or put it in storage—”
“No.”
That’s all he says, and it’s more of a grunt than a word. No.
Right. I guess we haven’t even committed to this yet. I’m acting crazy.
Mr MacGregor straightens up at last, turning to face me, and folds those thick arms over his barrel chest once again. “Jessica.”
He says my name slowly, like he’s trying it out. His dark gaze roams over me from head to toe, and my nerves crackle to life under my clothes. God, I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. Whether he likes what he sees. “Jessica Brown.”
“Or maybe Jessica MacGregor,” I rasp, so hot and flustered from his attention. And it’s the worst attempt at flirting ever, but his good eye glitters as he stares down at me.
“Jessica MacGregor.” The corner of his mouth lifts the smallest fraction. “Suits you.”
Aaah!
Okay, I can’t do this. I can’t flirt. I can’t handle a man, a real man, with big shoulders and a curved belly and thick thighs under those worn black jeans. A man with a beard and crinkly eyes and chest hairs poking out of the top of his flannel shirt. An older man with calloused hands.
All the men I’ve liked before were fictional. Mr Darcy and Mr Rochester types; historical rich men in tailored coats and cravats. So safely far from reality, tucked in the pages of my books, that there was never any risk of bumping into one in the street.
I never pictured myself wanting a man like this lighthouse keeper, but every second I spend with him cranks my internal temperature hotter and hotter. Jeez.
I clear my throat, grateful for the cold wind on my cheeks. “Twenty four hours.” That’s how long we’ve got together before we make our big decision: get married or part ways forever. Twenty four hours to figure out if we like each other, to discover whether the program made a good match. “Um. Shall I come inside?”
A scowl flits across Mr MacGregor’s face, my heart stuttering in response, but he nods sharply and waits while I fish my overnight bag out from the car. Nerves squirm in my belly as he takes it from me, and it looks like a child’s backpack slung over his massive shoulder. Glossy buttons with literary quotes clink together as the canvas shifts.
“There’s a guest room,” he grits out, then turns on his heel and strides off. I follow him quickly, legs working hard to keep up as he marches across the driveway, not looking back at me once.
Is he mad at me? Did I say something wrong? Should I not have asked to come inside?
Well, come on. If we marry, this will be my home too. Shouldn’t I at least get a peek around? What else was I gonna do—sleep on the driveway?
My shoes smack against the worn stone, and I stare at the back of my grumpy match’s head as he leads the way to the nearest building. Seabirds scream from high above in the clouds.
As he ducks through the doorway, shoulders brushing the frame, I swallow hard.
This is such a huge mistake.
* * *
Check out Mail Order Vow here!
xxx
About the Author
Cassie writes outrageous, OTT instalove with tons of sugar and spice. She loves cookie dough, summer barbecues, and her gorgeous cat Missy.
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Cassie Mint, Runaway Bride (Bombshell Brides)
