Hold Me - Anne Marsh Page 0,12
press a little deeper, his tongue sliding along the seam of my lips. Knock, knock. Let me in.
We’ve never kissed, not mouth on mouth. For a second, I panic because it’s too intimate, but Jax strokes the sides of my face with his big, warm hands, keeping me safe and grounded. His eyes drift closed as he kisses me deeper and I moan softly into his mouth. There you are. Hi. I like watching him kiss me, long lashes brushing sun-tanned skin, the hard lines of his face relaxing. He likes this, too.
The applause makes us break apart. The ringmaster presents us to the audience with a flourish and then we make a pretense of scribbling our names on the back of what looks like a Walmart receipt—our wedding “certificate.”
When Jax sweeps me into his arms, I grin up at him, as dizzyingly happy as any new bride.
“Where are we going?”
“Wedding night,” he says gruffly.
I thread my arms around his neck, dipping my head back to look at the night—no, dawn—sky as he carries me out of the big top. “So we’re skipping our wedding reception, the cake, the first dance, the endless parade of relatives whose names we can’t remember but who give lovely, large presents, and we’re going straight for the sex?”
His thumb caresses my cheek. “I can’t wait to have you all to myself.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
I rest my head against his shoulder and listen to the sound of his boots on the walkway. Our billionaire host’s garden is a decadent expanse of plants and terra-cotta statuary, a sweep of broad steps leading up to the ginormous mansion. I guess there’s something to be said for being rich, after all.
Jax carries me inside as if he owns the place, his boots hitting the stairs hard and loud. I’m tucked into his arms, my head against his shoulder. He has one hand curved against my head, his fingers stroking my hair, petting me gently. It’s the perfect touch. His arms are solid, heavy muscle. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would spend hours inside a gym, exercising just to tick a box on the health list. I don’t think he’s vain, either. Maybe he just admires strength or pushing himself. Maybe he has a really physical job or plays football.
He pushes open a door and steps through it. The click of a lock follows, but then he hesitates, setting me down. His fingers guide mine to the door, showing me the lock and how to undo it. Reminding me that I can leave anytime I want to.
“Got it?” He straightens and strides across what looks like a guest room.
“Yes.” I press a kiss against his shoulder as he knocks a pair of decorative pillows off the bed and yanks the covers back.
The sweet, dark look in his eyes almost makes me forget I’m the blushing virgin bride who can’t wait to have her way with her groom. What would that girl do now that she could do anything? It’s the Christmas morning of sex, when nothing’s been unwrapped yet and everything is still possible.
“Come here.” Jax sits on the side of the bed, spreading his legs. When I hesitate, he says, “Baby girl, we’re married now.”
“We are. You make a good point.” I step in between his spread legs—or try to. His hands settle on my waist, lifting me to straddle his thighs.
I settle my hands on his broad shoulders, my fingers stroking back and forth and then slipping underneath the fabric. There’s something about the heat of his skin, the scent of him, all cedar and starch and man. It does feel as if we’ve been waiting for each other for years...like I know him and will get to know him even better in the next few hours, and it will be magical and sexy and special.
Giving in to temptation, I lean forward and press my mouth against his throat, and then lower, where my fingers have made inroads beneath his shirt. His big hands gently work my veil free, setting it on the bedside table.
He fists my hair carefully, tugging my head back so he can see my face. His eyes drop to my mouth. “Kiss me, baby girl.”
“Where?” I whisper back. Because if he were my high school sweetheart, if I’d been waiting for this night, I think I might have cheated, just a little.
“I’m the kind of girl who sticks her fingers in the frosting when no one’s looking,” I