Page 68 of Fake Dark Vows
He kissed my neck, my nipples, my belly button. Teasing me. Keeping me teetering on the edge of my orgasm. My butt was raised above the mattress, my legs trembling in their restraints above my head, and still he kept me waiting. Brandon spread my butt cheeks and licked me with long, tantalizing strokes, while his fingers penetrated me slowly.
He was back, his finger in my mouth, while he whispered, “Taste yourself, Rose,” and I obeyed. “Do you like it?” I nodded. “That’s you, Rose. That’s how fucking sweet you taste.”
Then his tongue was back inside me and I exploded all over him.
I towel-dry my hair, slide my arms into one of the fluffy white robes provided by the hotel, and walk slowly back to the room, my head still spinning, the swollen flesh between my legs chafing.
The sliding doors are wide open, and Brandon is sitting on the balcony, buttering a slice of toast. Lavish room service breakfast. He smiles when he sees me and rises to pull out a seat for me.
“How are you feeling?”
Sick. Sore. Like I got hit by a truck and dragged from the wreckage by a billionaire with commitment issues.
“Rough.” I fill a glass with freshly squeezed orange juice hoping the vitamin C will re-energize me. I take a sip and track the cold liquid through my body.
“It was the champagne.”
I raise my eyes to meet his. How does he look so chilled and … alive? “We had champagne?”
He smiles and fills two cups with steaming black coffee. “Try this,” he says, sliding a cup towards me. “The caffeine will make you feel better.”
“Nothing will make me feel better.” I sip it anyway, grimacing when I realize I forgot to add sugar.
“How much do you remember?”
“Bits and pieces.”
I keep my eyes on the steam drifting from the top of the cup trying to stop the tingling between my legs. If he pulled the robe off me now and fucked me right here on the balcony floor, I’d wrap my legs around him and beg for more.
“Did Elvis live up to his reputation?”
I force myself to swallow another mouthful of coffee, the gold wedding band catching my eye.
Why is he acting like nothing happened? Or have I got it all wrong and the ring is just a joke? Oh my god, I’m such an idiot, panicking over a tacky fake ring because we spent the night fucking all over the hotel room.
I slide it off my finger and place it on the table between us. “Where did you even get this?”
His eyes narrow briefly. “We bought it from the chapel shop.”
“The chapel shop?” I want to smile, but my lips are not cooperating. “What else can you buy in there, fake wedding certificates? Oh my god. Did we buy a fake certificate? Your mom will see right through it, you know.”
“You don’t remember.” He sits back in his seat.
“Remember what?” The nausea is back. I shouldn’t have drunk the coffee.
“You dared me to marry you. You said, and I quote, ‘You want the wolves off your back, so prove you’re not a coward and marry me, for fuck’s sake.’”
“I-I said that?” I flinch.
“Uh-huh. We have Elvis as a witness.”
“I thought Elvis was the one who was supposed to marry us,” I quip before I can stop myself.
“Oh, he did that too.”
I close my eyes and fight back the bile rising in my throat. Why won’t the room stop spinning? “So, this is real?” I pick the gold band back up.
“It’s real, Rose.”