Page 115 of Under His Protection
I close my eyes and let my boyfriend have his way with me. I see fireworks behind my lids when pleasure streaks through me. I’m panting and moaning shamelessly as my orgasm consumes me.
The next thing I know, the movie is over and the credits begin to roll.
He rolls off the sofa, taking care not to crush me in the process, and scoops me into his arms and carries me to bed.
I lie limp in his arms, gazing up at his face and reveling in the delicious sensations still coursing in my body.
He rolls me onto my back and leans over me. “God, I’ve missed you. We were apart less than twenty-four hours, and yet it felt like ages. I’m not letting you leave, ever.”
“Grab a condom.”
He smiles. “You’re not too tired?”
“After the orgasm I just had, I’m utterly wiped out, but no. I’m not too tired.”
Philip undresses quickly and sheathes himself. A moment later, he’s kneeling between my thighs. He doesn’t rush this. He touches me gently. He leans down and runs his tongue betweenmy legs, groans, and clutches my thighs. “I need this—I need you, like I need air.”
My body is still tingling from the aftermath of my orgasm. My belly flutters in anticipation of having him inside me. I sigh when he presses in, slowly and steadily, still so careful like it’s the first time all over again.
I reach up and cup his cheek. “I’m not going to break, you know.”
Smiling, he presses his lips to my palm. Then he locks his gaze on mine as he begins to move, and everything he’s feeling is right there in his eyes.
My chest tightens with emotion, and I revel in the feeling of him inside me, thrusting in and out. For such a big, powerful man, he can be so gentle, so careful. He makes me feel cherished and safe, and those are wonderful feelings.
Philip leans down to kiss me. “I love you, Haley,” he says, his voice rough.
“I’ll love you forever.”
And as he shudders through his climax, I wrap my arms around him and hold him close. “I’ll love you forever,” I say. “And even then, that won’t be long enough.”
Epilogue
One month later…
Haley
The night before the wedding, Layla’s parents host a rehearsal dinner at their home. I’ve never been to their house before, and it’s a bit of a culture shock. The house definitely qualifies as an old Chicago mansion. It dates back to the early 1900s, when Layla’s paternal grandfather built it from the proceeds he acquired from developing a telecommunications empire. That’s how Layla and her brother, Ian, got their jaw-dropping inheritances. Although you’d never guess they were so stinking rich because they’re both the nicest, most down-to-earth people you could ever meet.
The imposing white structure, with its marble pillars, takes up an entire residential block. It looks more like a museum than a private residence.
Philip pulls around to the rear of the house, where there’s a small parking lot. We enter through a rear door that leads into a huge kitchen, which is a bustling center of activity.
Layla greets us and introduces us to Margaret, the silver-haired housekeeper; Charles, the butler, a middle-aged man wearing a suit; and André, the Alexanders’ private chef. He’s supervising preparation of the rehearsal dinner, which smells absolutely divine.
I must be staring because Layla smiles bashfully. “Come on, guys. I’ll show you where the ceremony is going to be held—in the living room.”
We leave the kitchen and head down a corridor with polished dark wood floors and fancy paintings on the wall. I feel like I just stepped into an art gallery.
I’m in awe of the wedding preparations. There are fairy lights strung throughout the house, down the curved staircase, along the hallway, and in the living room. Every table top features a crystal vase filled with freshly cut cream-colored and sage green roses. The house is lovely, very classy, and sophisticated.
All members of the wedding party are here, including us, Jasmine and Liam, my dad and Erin. Besides the bride and groom, and their respective families, Layla’s older brother, Ian, and his husband, Tyler Jamison, are here.
The highlight of the rehearsal dinner is meeting Jason’s family, who came from Michigan. His parents are here, his two older sisters and their families, and his younger brother.
We’re seated for dinner first. A three-course meal is served to us at a long mahogany table that seats a small army. Champagne and whiskey are offered to the adult guests, and the rest of us, including Layla, who can’t drink alcohol because of her medications, drink a nonalcoholic option.
After the main course, Layla’s father, Martin Alexander, stands at the head of the table and raises his champagne flute. “I’d like to make a toast to Layla, my beautiful, beloved daughter, and to Jason, the only man worthy of her hand. May you both have countless days of joy and never know a moment of sorrow.”
