Stripped, p.22
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       Stripped, p.22

         Part #1 of Stripped series by Jasinda Wilder
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“You’re a public person,” I say. “So if I wasn’t willing to be seen by the whole world, I wouldn’t be with you. It was scary, but…I think a cliché proposal at a fancy restaurant just wouldn’t have been you. ”

  “You mean the whole ring at the bottom of a glass of champagne thing?” I laugh, and he shrugs, seeming almost embarrassed. “I almost did that, too, actually. I’ve spent so many months trying to figure out the best way to ask you that it turned into this whole snowball thing. I was freaking out. No lie. Then when I got the Best Actor nom, I knew that was it. I just wasn’t sure if you’d, like, pass out or something. ”

  I laugh, remembering all too vividly how close I came. “I nearly fell over!”

  His gaze turns to mine. “I’ll never let you fall. ”

  “I know. ”

  He kisses me then, and, as always, I get lost in it, tumble willingly into the bliss of his mouth on mine.

  And then we’re under the arch and Greg is opening the door for us. Dawson sweeps me off my feet, into his arms, and Greg trots ahead to unlock the door and let us in, but he doesn’t follow us. I hear the door close and the limo driving away. My heart is pounding again, because he’s staring at me with moss-and-bark eyes, hot, hungry eyes. He carries me through the house, to the door that leads to his—our—garage. I hold still and wonder, wait.

  He licks his lips as we pass car after car. Old, new, shiny, battered, in various stages of completion. We come to the end, the Bugatti. The mirrored finish reflects the soft white glow of the overhead lights, and our shapes as we approach. He sets me down on my feet at the hood end of the car. I stare up at him, waiting and expectant.

  I’ve learned him, over the past year. He’s never satisfied, never sated. He always wants me. He wants me seconds after he finishes inside me. He wants me in his sleep, in the shower, in his study, on the set.

  And he’s had me in most of those places. Including the set of Tara, during filming of Gone With the Wind. He brought me there late one night, to the front porch of the full-size plantation house built in the countryside near Atlanta. He took me right there on the porch, lying on a blanket he’d brought with him, stars shining and frogs singing in the warm fall night.

  I went on birth control while we were in Macon, and I’ve come to love the feeling of him bare inside me, nothing between us.

  “Anything?” he asks again.

  I don’t hesitate. “Anything. ”

  There’s only one thing we haven’t done. I’m still not comfortable with any of the normal terms for things, and Dawson thinks my clean and proper speech is cute. I’m willing to let him do that, but I’m not sure he’d bring me to the garage for it.

  He smiles, a predatory, erotic gleam in his eyes. He brushes a strand of hair away from my eyes, and then his hands glide over my shoulders, around to my back. I’m wearing a Givenchy Couture gown that Dawson surprised me with for tonight’s appearance. It’s both modest and sultry, showing off my curves while not revealing too much skin. Since I stopped stripping, I’ve found my own style, a meeting of sexiness and taste. I’m gradually finding out who I am.

  I’m Grey Amundsen, and I am desired.

  His hands go to the zipper between my shoulder blades and pull it down so slowly, I shiver as his knuckles brush my skin between the widening gap. He slides the thin straps off my shoulders with a flick of his hands, and the dress billows with a soft whoosh to the floor, pooling at my feet in a slowly settling pile of lace and chiffon. My surprise for Dawson is revealed: I’m not wearing anything under the dress. His breath leaves him in a slow sigh, and he gnaws on his upper lip as he drinks in my body.

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  Instead of touching me, he backs away, turning at the last second to face the wall where a built-in iPhone dock is located. Those speaker docks are in every room of the house, including the bathroom. He sets his phone on the dock, scrolls through his songs until he finds the one he wants. A fast electronic beat fills the garage, and I immediately recognize the song. It’s “Palladio” by Silent Nick, one of Dawson’s favorite songs to work out to, and one of my favorite songs to dance to. He approaches me with a sway to his hips, a bounce in his step. Of course, he can dance. He can do pretty much anything.

  He takes my bare hips in his hands and moves my body with his, a sensual writhing of our bodies to the music. In rhythm to the music, I reach up and pull his slim black necktie free, drape it around my neck, and then slide his coat off. I slip his buttons free, one by one, popping them loose to the beat as we dance together, and then toss the shirt to the floor on top of his coat. As we move, his hands slide up my sides, hold my ribs just beneath my swaying br**sts. His eyes lock there, so I accentuate the movement of my upper body, making them jiggle and sway even more, and his lips curve in a smile. I unbuckle his belt, whip it free of his pants, toss it aside, far from the car, and then slowly work his pants open. His body ripples in time to the music, his sculpted abs shifting and tensing as he dances with me, cupping my backside, tangling his fingers in my hair, tracing the curve of my belly to hips. I let his dress slacks fall to the floor, and he steps out of them.

  He’s in nothing but his boxer-briefs, dark maroon cotton molded to his taut backside, bulging where his manhood strains at the cotton. There’s a dot of moisture where his tip touches the fabric. I run my fingers around the gray elastic waistband, gradually working it down his hips to the beat of the music, swaying my hips, shaking my cle**age at him, leaning in to steal a quick kiss, and then I grow impatient and shove the underwear off him and he steps free, kicking it away.

  And now we’re both naked in the garage, dancing, our bodies reflected in the mirror-finish of his Bugatti, his darker skin blending with mine. The song has shifted, another entrancing, quick-beat house song. We keep swaying, keep dancing, our bodies closer. My br**sts brush his chest, and he dips at the knees to take a nipple in his mouth. I gasp, and he suckles until my knees flex, and then he’s back upright, dancing chest to chest with me. His hand steals between our bodies and I shift my legs apart to let him in. By the song’s end my cheek is pressed to his and I’m panting as we sway together, losing the rhythm as I come apart under his touch.

  Dawson turns me in his arms as I come. He’s still moving to the music and all I can do is let him hold me as waves shock through me. He leans me forward over the hood of the car, his erection hard against my backside. I’m anticipating him inside me, but I’m still not sure what his plan is.

  “I’ve wanted to do this since the first day I met you,” he growls in my ear.

  “Do what?”

  “Make love to you on the hood of this car. ” My body is pressed to the cold surface of the hood. “Open your eyes,” he commands. “Look at us. Watch us. ”

  This close, our reflections aren’t distorted. My breath has fogged the mirrored surface where my cheek was pressed to the metal, but I can see him behind me, all brawny bulk, ripped stomach and massive shoulders and thick arms, and my breath is lost as it always is by how perfect he is. I see me, my face, my cheeks flushed red, my hair coming loose from the up-do Luisa, my stylist, put it in. Thick strands flutter around my cheeks and mouth. My eyes are wide and my neck is curved as I watch us, and the reflection of my br**sts merging with my flesh as I’m bent over the hood.

  His hands are on my shoulders, and his eyes meet mine in the reflection. He caresses my back, my spine, my shoulders, my ribs, my hips. He settles his grip on my hips and pulls me hard against him, and I can’t help grinding into him, needing him inside me now. I need it. I’m as insatiable as he is. I never take the lead, though, not until we’re in the moment together. When I feel him close to release, that’s when I take over and bring him to climax. Otherwise, I let him take me as he will, let him decide how he wants me. I love the mystery of it, because he’s always inventive and creative and always thinks of my pleasure before his. He’s never come before me, unless I use my mouth on him. So now I’m still, and wa
iting. But I need it, so badly, and that little grinding roll of my hips is my way of telling him to hurry.

  He lets go of my hips and takes the generous bubble of my bottom in both hands, and then his finger, the middle finger of his right hand, slips into the crease and finds my rear entrance. I shiver and gasp and shake, sure of what he’s going to do now, and not entirely sure I’m ready for it. I want it, I do, but I’m not sure I’m ready.

  His finger glides over me, back there, and I flinch. “I want you, here. ”

  “Now?” I gasp the question.

  “No, baby. Not yet. You’re not ready. ” Even as he says this, his finger presses, just slightly, the gentlest application of pressure.

  “I’m not?”

  “No. ” He chuckles, but then quickly sobers, and his eyes narrow. “You sound…almost disappointed. You want that?”

  A little more pressure, and I’m trying not to squirm away, but the pressure is gentle and relentless, and now there’s an ever so slight intrusion, and I’m breathless. “I’m…oh…god…I’m curious. ”

  “You’ll love it. I know you will. You’re so perfect, so sensual. So responsive. ”

  “I’m loud. ” A little more, and those two words are all I can manage. I can’t believe I’m letting him do this, but then, yes, I can, because I love anything and everything to do with him, and I trust him. And it feels…so good.

  “I love that about you. I love that I can make you scream. It’s a game I play with myself. To see how loud I can make you scream. When I f**k you in your ass, I might have to do it somewhere far from people, because baby, you’re going to scream. ”

  I moan as the intrusion becomes presence, and my hips push back, just a little, of their own accord. My eyes are closed, and I feel his other hand find my cleft and my clitoris, and I’m unable to stop the small shriek of ecstasy as he brings me to climax again. I’m out of patience now. I lift up on my toes and rub my folds against his hardness, begging him silently.

  He slowly and gently withdraws his finger. “Are you ready, babe?” His voice is silk sliding over me, his mouth against my ear, his chest against my back.

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  “Yes…” I breathe. “Now. ”

  “Is that an order?” His voice is amused.

  I nod, my cheek against the cold hood of the Bugatti. I harden my voice and put all the command into my delivery as I can, craning my neck to meet his hot hazel gaze over my shoulder. “Now, Dawson. ”

  He literally growls, and his pupils dilate. His manhood jerks and thickens. “Fuck me, that’s hot. You should order me around more often. ”

  I would, but he’s got his erection in his hand and he’s teasing my clitoris with it. His knuckles brush against my inner thighs as he moves himself, and I’m straining for stillness, waiting for him to slide into my folds.

  He does, but it’s glacially s s s s l l o o o o w w w, an oh-so-gradual merging of bodies. “I can’t wait to call you my wife,” he murmurs, bent over me to whisper in my ear.

  I moan, both at his words and his entrance into me. “Me, too. But…you already are my husband—we just haven’t said the words yet. ”

  He slides fully into me, hips against my flexed bottom. “True. ”

  That’s all he says, because words are beyond both of us then, for a moment. He withdraws, and slides back in. My groan is a quiet breath against the hood. And then he’s taking my hips in his big hands and pulling them, lifting me. I push up onto my hands and onto my toes, spine arched down, bent over fully. He pushes deep, and I’m screaming silently, mouth wide.

  “Watch us, babe. ”

  I force my eyes open and down to our reflection. My br**sts hang low, swaying with our quickening rhythm, and his shape is above me, tan and huge, and my skin is flushed all over, and then I move my gaze down, and I’m hypnotized by the sight of our joining. I can see it all in the reflection of the hood, his thick shaft sliding out, my folds taut and stretched to take all of him, and then he’s moving and I watch as he enters me, and my blood pumps wildly, adrenalized lust flowing through me at the erotic sight of us moving together. I squeeze with the muscles of my vagina, and he groans as my walls clamp down around his erection; I feel him swell and burgeon, and I know he’s close, know my turn is coming soon.

  He’s losing his rhythm, his motions growing erratic. He grips my hip in one hand and jerks me roughly against him. I like the roughness. I love it. It’s a tender thing, counter-intuitively. The roughness of his ardor is when I love our sex the most, when he’s beyond control. His other hand cups one swaying breast and squeezes, kneads, grips, thumbs the nipple and pinches it, and he’s losing it—his eyes are closing and sweat is beading on his brow and he’s moving faster and faster.

  Now. Now it’s my turn.

  I lift up on my toes, clamping down with my walls, and crash down against him. He groans, and I do it again. I start moving against him, into his thrusts. Where before I was moving with him, in sync with him, now I meet his thrusts with my own, harder and harder.

  “Touch yourself,” he orders, breathless.

  He’s watching. I brace my head on my forearm on the hood of the Bugatti, lifted up onto my toes. His hands both go to my hips, and he lifts me so I’m not touching the floor with my feet at all, my head and my chest on the hood, and he pumps into me as I slide my fingers against my slick flesh.

  I start to come, and he moves harder, pulling me into his thrusts, and I’m screaming, ululating, out of control, and then I feel him start to shudder, and I find my breath, remember what he said about me giving him commands.

  “Say my name when you come,” I tell him. I also know he likes it when I swear, which I don’t often do, so I give him that now as well. “Say my name when you f**k me. ”

  He bellows, a roar of brute animalism, and he pushes deep into me. “Grey! Oh…god…Grey, my love. ” He comes apart then, no rhythm, no pattern, just motion and desperation. “I love you, f**k, I love you so much. ”

  He fills me. I feel the release, a jetting spasm of wetness and heat inside me. He f**ks me then. Out of control and forceful, and I meet him with a f**king rhythm of my own, milking his release, and then I come again, feeling another spasm from him as I collapse against the car and roll my hips into him, our bodies slowing and softening and going tender once more.

  I’m limp against the mirror-silver of the Bugatti, blessedly cool against my sex-hot flesh. His manhood softens inside me, aftershocks rocking us both, quakes shivering over me, spasmodic fluttering thrusts from him that make the aftershocks in me harder.

  He’s breathless, panting, but he pulls out of me, draws me me up and then back against his chest and kisses my temple, nibbles my earlobe, then down to my jaw and shoulder. Our skin is slick and hot and sweaty, and we’re both breathing hard, and I’ve never in my life ever been happier than in this moment. I feel taken away by true, bone-deep joy. He gives it to me, that joy, with his love. I rest my head against his shoulder, and he twists us to kiss my lips, leaving us both more breathless than ever.

  He lifts me in his arms, effortlessly, and carries me into the house, leaving his phone and the music playing and the door to the garage open. Into the living room, and he lays me gently on the couch, opens the lid of an ottoman, and pulls out a thick, soft blanket. He slides onto the couch behind me, his spine against the back of the couch. We’re sweaty and sticky, and I love it. His softened manhood is against my backside, and we doze like that, thoughts of having him take me back there running through my head.

  I want it.

  I let the dirty thought float through my head: I want his c**k in my ass.

  I almost giggle out loud at the dirty, nasty, sensual thought, but it’s too erotic to laugh at, and I’m mostly asleep, drifting and drowsing with his hand absently cupping one breast, the other wedged between us and the couch cushion.

  When we wake up, I’ll have him take me that way.
  Or maybe, since his birthday is coming up next week, I’ll wait until his birthday, and I’ll make a special event of it.

  He shifts in his sleep, moving against my bottom, and I wonder, as sleep takes me, how it will feel. Like everything he does, amazing, I’m sure.

  I’m going to be his wife.

  Chapter 16

  It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. Dawson is reading for a part; he’s reached the level where he rarely has to audition, but apparently the casting people and the director have a few big-name actors in mind for the role, and they need to see who’s right for it. I’m on Rodeo Drive, shopping for his birthday surprise tomorrow night. Of course, there’s a big party tonight, a swanky, glitzy thing set up by his manager, Audrey. It’s a big deal, since the who’s-who of the attendee list reads like an issue of OK Magazine. It’s going to be fun, in a role-playing sort of way. I’ve done a few appearances with Dawson—none as big or dramatic as the Oscars, obviously—and each time, I feel like I have to be the glamorous, confident version of me, the arm-candy, entertaining me. I have to wear shudderingly expensive gowns and jewelry and shake hands with people like Cameron Crowe and Adam Carolla and Jennifer Lawrence. Yes, it’s exciting, but in a nerve-wracking sort of way. Especially since I’m in the business, a teeny-tiny little fish in a big, dangerous ocean. And those gowns? I spend my time worrying about about potentially ripping or staining a gown that costs as much as or more than most people’s houses are worth.

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  I’ve gotten the manicure and the pedicure already, and after I finish shopping, Luisa is coming over to do my hair and makeup. That—having a personal stylist—is my favorite part of being with someone as wealthy as Dawson. It’s shallow and horrible, I know, but it’s just the honest truth. The girl in me loves having someone primp and preen my hair until it’s perfect, and to do my makeup in a way that I never could. Luisa has this technique that gets my eyes just smoky enough to be sexy, but not so much that I look like someone from Jersey Shore, which is what I end up with if I do it myself. Luisa has tried to show me, but I just never get it right.

  The mani-pedi every week is nice, too.

  I won’t even mention the personal massage therapist. That would just be mean.

  I step into the lingerie store Agent Provocateur, and my heart is in my throat. I’ve always bought my underwear from somewhere like Kohl’s, or, if I’ve got some extra money, Victoria’s Secret. And it’s always just basic underwear and bras. I’ve never even tried on real lingerie. The most daring undergarment I own is a backless, strapless bra that I bought for my first big night out with Dawson where I knew we’d be photographed.

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