Chapter 6: The Wedding Toast
The morning sun was a liar. It streamed through the windows, cheerful and oblivious, painting golden stripes across the wreckage of the bed. Dasha woke to its warmth on her face and the solid, heavy weight of Matt’s arm thrown possessively across her waist. His breath was warm against the back of her neck. The scent of sex and sweat and him was deeply embedded in the sheets, in her skin. It was the smell of a line crossed, irrevocably.Her body felt profoundly different.Used.Claimed. A tender ache persisted between her legs, a visceral memory of the night before—of his fingers, his tongue, his devastating size stretching her open.She shifted slightly, and the dull throb bloomed into a sharper reminder. A flush of heat followed, shame and desire twisted together.Matt stirred behind her. His arm tightened, pulling her back flush against him. She could feel him, already hard again, pressing against the curve of her ass.A soft groan rumbled in his chest.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.His lips found the knob of her spine at the base of her neck. He kissed it.“You okay?”
The question was deceptively simple. It wasn’t about physical well-being, not really.It was about everything.She nodded, her cheek rubbing against the pillow. “Mmhmm.” It was all she could manage.
His hand slid from her waist, down over the plane of her stomach, his fingertips tracing lazy patterns through the fine hair there.Lower. He cupped her, his palm warm and knowing over her mound. She was sore, yes, but as his fingers brushed through her folds, she found herself wet again. Her body’s betrayal was instant and absolute.“Jesus,” he breathed, his voice full of sleepy wonder. He pushed two fingers inside, slowly, testing.She gasped, her inner muscles clutching at him, sensitive and eager. “Still so perfect. Still so fucking tight for me, even after last night.”
He began to move his fingers, a shallow, gentle rhythm. The soreness melted, transmuted into a deep, aching need.She pushed back against him, arching her spine.
“I need to feel you again,” he said, his mouth against her shoulder.It wasn’t a request. “I need to be inside you in the light. I need to see your face.”
He withdrew his fingers and guided her onto her back.The morning light was ruthless. It showed every detail: the sleep in the corners of his eyes, the scratch marks she’d left on his shoulders, the absolutely rapt focus on his face as he looked down at her. He positioned himself between her legs, pushing them wider with his knees. He looked at her, there, swollen and glistening from his touch.“So beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself. He leaned down and licked her, a long, slow stroke that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Taste like me and you mixed together. Best fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”
He kissed his way up her body, leaving a damp trail on her skin. When he reached her mouth, he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself.Then he braced himself on his arms, his cock nudging at her entrance. He didn’t push.He just waited, his blue eyes locked on hers.
“Look at me,” he said. “I want to see you when I go in.”
She held his gaze, her breath coming in short, anticipatory pants. Then he pushed, not with the frantic urgency of the night before, but with a steady, inexorable pressure.The fullness was just as overwhelming in the daylight. She watched his face contort, a mask of intense pleasure-pain as her body reluctantly, then hungrily, accepted him. He sank deeper, and deeper, until he was fully seated, their pelvises locked.“Fuck,” he gasped, sweat beading on his temple. “You’re ruining me.You have no idea.”
He began to move. A slow, deep, rocking grind that touched places inside her she hadn’t known existed. Each withdrawal was an agony, each stroke back in a profound relief.He kept his eyes on hers, the connection unwavering. This was different.This wasn’t the frantic, secret fucking of the night. This was something declarative.Something real.His pace gradually increased. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the quiet room.He dropped his forehead to hers, his breaths coming in harsh bursts.
“Tell me,” he grunted, driving into her. “Tell me who you belong to.”
The words, so crude, so possessive, sparked something in her gut.“You,” she whimpered.
“Louder.”
“You!” she cried out, her nails digging into his back.
“Damn right,” he snarled. He hooked his arms under her knees, pushing her legs back almost to her shoulders, opening her impossibly wider, sinking even deeper.The angle was brutal, perfect. “This cunt is mine.This perfect, tight, soaking wet cunt. My name should be on it.”
He was pounding into her now, the headboard tapping a consistent rhythm against the wall. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the guttural sounds he made, the coil of unbearable tension winding tighter in her core. She was babbling, a stream of “yes” and “please” and “Matt, god, right there.”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice raw.“Come all over my cock.Milk it. Let me feel you.”
It was too much. The order, the depth, the sheer visual of him above her in the morning light—it tore the orgasm from her. It convulsed through her in a series of sharp, relentless waves, her vision whiting out as she screamed, her body clamping around him like a vice.
He swore, a ragged, broken sound, and followed her over. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming frantic, shallow jerks as he emptied himself into her with a deep, shuddering groan. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in her neck.
For a long time, they just breathed. The room slowly came back into focus: the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, the distant whinny of a horse, the steady beat of his heart against her chest.
Eventually, he rolled off, but immediately pulled her into his side, her head on his shoulder.His fingers traced idle patterns on her arm.
The silence now was different.Softer.But the questions hung in the air, heavier than before.
“So,” Dasha finally said, her voice hoarse. “The fake girlfriend thing… it’s officially a sham.”
Matt let out a short, quiet laugh.“Yeah. I’d say so.” He turned his head, looking down at her. “What is it now, then?”
She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him.“I don’t know. What do you want it to be?”
He looked at her, really looked, his actor’s mask completely gone. What remained was startlingly vulnerable.“I want you,” he said simply. “I have for a year. I want to take you out on actual dates where I don’t have to share you with my family.I want to wake up with you in my apartment in New York. I want to stop pretending.”
The honesty was a lance to her fear.“It could get complicated. The press, your life… it could ruin everything. Us.”
“Last night,” he said, his voice low, “what we just did… that was the real thing, Dasha. That wasn’t complicated.That was the simplest, most honest thing I’ve done in years. Everything else is just noise.”
He leaned up and kissed her, softly this time.A kiss of promise, not possession. “Let’s just… be.Today. Let’s just be us.”
They spent the day in a bubble. They took a long, meandering walk down to the creek, fingers laced together.They didn’t talk much. The silence was easy, filled with shared glances and soft smiles.He pointed out his favorite climbing tree from when he was ten. She told him about the time she edited a bestselling thriller that was originally a complete disaster. They kissed against the trunk of an old cottonwood, slow and deep, with no urgency at all.
The wedding reception that evening was a sea of twinkling lights and laughter under a vast canopy of linen and canvas. Dasha wore a simple silk dress that made her feel beautiful. Matt’s hand was a constant, warm pressure on the small of her back. They danced, swaying to a slow song, his chin resting on her head.It felt natural.Right.But the bubble was permeable.The world existed.
During a lull, Matt went to fetch them fresh drinks from the bar. Dasha lingered at the edge of the dance floor, watching the joyful chaos.She felt someone come up beside her.
“Having fun?” Megan’s voice was light, but there was an edge underneath.
Dasha turned, offering a warm smile.“It’s a beautiful wedding, Megan. Really.”
Megan studied her, her eyes sharp.The knowing look from the previous day was back, amplified. “You and Matt seem… very cozy.More than usual.”
The champagne courage from earlier had faded. Dasha felt a flicker of panic.“It’s been a nice weekend,” she said, keeping her tone even.
“Uh-huh.” Megan took a sip of her wine. “Look, Dasha, I adore you.You know that. But my brother… he’s not as tough as he seems.His heart is a big, soft, stupid target.And his life… it eats people. It chews up normal and spits out gossip columns and lawsuits.”
“I’m aware,” Dasha said, a defensive chill creeping into her voice.“Are you?” Megan pressed. “This isn’t just dating a guy with a demanding job.This is dating a public figure. Every text you send could be screenshot.Every argument could be a headline. Your family, your friends, your past—it all becomes fair game.It’s a weight. And I’ve seen it crush people who weren’t ready.”
Before Dasha could form a response, Megan’s gaze snapped over her shoulder, her expression softening into a sisterly smile. Matt returned, holding two flutes of champagne.“Here you go,” he said, handing one to Dasha. His eyes flicked between the two women.“Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” Megan said, too brightly. “Just giving Dasha some family gossip. You’re missing all the good stuff.” She patted Matt’s arm and melted back into the crowd.Matt watched her go, a slight frown on his face. He turned back to Dasha. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Dasha said, taking a long swallow of champagne.The bubbles tasted sharp, acidic. “Just sisterly advice.”
He clearly didn’t believe her, but let it drop. The band struck up a faster song, and the moment passed, but the chill remained in Dasha’s bones, a splinter of cold reality in the warm, lit tent.
Later, the chill had turned into a restless, hot agitation.The music pulsed.The laughter seemed too loud. Megan’s words reverberated in her skull, clashing with the feel of Matt’s hand on her back, the memory of his body on hers.She felt watched.Judged. The facade of the weekend, now inverted, felt even more precarious.She needed air, space. She murmured an excuse to Matt about needing the bathroom and slipped out through a gap in the tent panels, into the cool, dark embrace of the ranch night.The distant hills were black silhouettes against a indigo sky. She took a few shaky breaths, trying to find her center.
She heard his footsteps on the grass behind her before she felt his hands on her hips.
“Hey,” Matt said, his voice low, close to her ear. “You ran.”
“I just needed a minute.”
He turned her around to face him.In the spill of light from the tent, his face was all stark angles and shadow. His eyes were dark, intense.The polite, charming mask of the reception was gone. “Was it something Megan said?”
Dasha shook her head, but the movement was unconvincing. “It’s just… a lot.”
He stepped closer, crowding her back against one of the thick wooden posts that supported the tent.The rough hemp of the rope bindings scratched through her thin dress. “Forget about ‘a lot’,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He brushed his thumb over her lower lip.“I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about last night.About this morning. About how you feel around me.”
His confession was a live wire thrown onto her frayed nerves. All the fear and complexity ignited, transforming into a raw, desperate want. A need to be claimed, to be his, in defiance of all the reasons not to be.“Matt…” His name was a plea.
His hand slid from her hip, up under the skirt of her dress, his fingers finding the lace edge of her panties.He groaned. “You’re soaked. Right here, in the middle of all this.” He pushed the fabric aside, his fingers sliding right into her wet heat.“Fuck, Dasha. Is this for me? Even after all that worry in your head?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her head falling back against the post.“Tell me.”
“It’s for you. Always for you.”
That was all he needed. With a quick, practiced motion, he unzipped his pants, freed his cock, already fully hard and straining. He hooked his hand under her thigh, hitching her leg around his hip. He positioned himself at her entrance, his eyes locked on hers, a challenge and a promise in his gaze.There was no slow, gentle stretch this time. He pushed into her in one hard, deep thrust, seating himself to the hilt. The force drove a sharp cry from her lungs, instantly stifled as he clamped his other hand over her mouth. The sounds of the party—the clinking glasses, the laughter, the band launching into “Shout”—were just thirty feet away, a shimmering wall of normalcy.
“Quiet, baby,” he murmured, his lips against her ear.He began to move, short, brutal pumps that stole her breath. “They can’t hear you.They can’t have this.This is mine. This perfect, greedy cunt, squeezing my dick like it’s trying to suck me dry… it’s all mine.”
Each word was a filthy, hot brand.Each thrust was a punctuation. He fucked her with a relentless, focused intensity, his body slamming hers into the post. The contrast was obscene: the joyous celebration so close, the raw, animal need here in the dark. His hand muffled her moans, her whimpers, her choked sobs of pleasure.She could taste salt—his palm, her tears.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his rhythm becoming even more frantic.“You feel how deep I am? I’m branding you from the inside out.So everyone knows. So you know.”
His words, the illicit danger, the sheer physical dominance, tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her, violent and silent, a seismic event contained only by the pressure of his hand. Her body convulsed around him, a vise of pulsating flesh.It triggered his own release. With a guttural, choked-off groan, he buried himself as deep as possible and came, his hot spill triggering another, smaller ripple of pleasure inside her. He held her there, pinned, both of them trembling, as the last pulses faded.
For a minute, they stayed locked together, listening to the distant, cheerful crescendo of the party.The real world hadn’t stopped. It was right there, waiting.He slowly, carefully withdrew, lowering her leg. He tucked himself away, zipped his pants. With a tenderness that belied the savage act, he used his thumbs to wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes.He kissed her, softly, on her swollen lips.
“No going back,” he said, his voice ragged but firm.
She nodded, her legs barely holding her.The fear was still there, a cold stone in her gut. But beneath it, stronger now, was a defiant, blazing truth.She took his hand, their fingers intertwining, damp and sticky.
Together, they walked back toward the light and the music, leaving the dark, charged emptiness of the post behind.The night was far from over, and the world was watching. But for now, they stepped into the noise, hand in hand, carrying their secret like a shared, grenade.