AN: This story is a re-telling of Wedding Night by Rhiannonero, you can find that story on Live Journal, or at the NL-fanfiction site. You don't need to read it, to understand this story, but I highly recommend it, it's an excellent read.
It has been, you reflect, as the water sluices down between your shoulder-blades, one of the best days you've had in a long time. It seems weddings bring out the best in your lover, and you find yourself smiling absently, reliving all the small touches and secret smiles throughout the day, his hand secure and possessive at the nape of your neck, how he acquiesced so sweetly to letting you dress him, how he was so eager to help decorate the bridal suite, but most of all his sweet soft kiss after the couple said I do. And yes, maybe you're crazy to be thinking this, but it seemed just so full of promise, a kiss that spoke of tomorrow and togetherness. So, for the first time, you allow yourself to imagine a wedding day with him at your side, and the thought makes you a little short of breath, a little dizzy with the sudden force of wanting it. You've known in the back of your mind and from the bottom of your soul that he's the one, but you've pushed away thoughts of a future together, just to take it one day at a time. But on a day like today, it's hard not to go there. You turn off the faucet and wrap yourself in one of his towels. It's probably better to forget about it for now, and be thankful for the little things, like the fact that you have the apartment completely to yourselves, and earlier than expected thanks to your cousin.
When you finally walk into the room, you're not quite sure what's going on. Everything is covered with the hearts and streamers you were going to use for Lydia and Sebastian. The bed is strewn with rose petals, and candles fill the room with soft light.
"Chrissie, what is all this?" You ask, as he drifts toward you, clad only in his low slung white slacks. You forget sometimes, dare to forget how breathtaking he can be, but it comes back to you with the soft glow of his skin in the darkness, his piercing eyes. He answers.
"I wanted to give you a little surprise Olli."
And you can't tear your eyes away from his, as he moves closer, locking the door. You two so often forget to do that.
"Christian," you laugh "it's kind of unnecessary tonight. We're alone."
He doesn't answer, instead presses closer, his chest to yours, your back against the coolness of the door. He's cornered you like this a million times, and a million times it has made your knees weak, a million times it has made your heart race, a million times it has pooled the desire to aching sweetness in your groin. His chest is hot, his hands are hot and busy removing the barrier of your towel, and his mouth is demanding and warm on yours. You're already groaning when his heated tongue ventures into your mouth. It's so rare for him to take charge like this, and it frightens you a little when he does, you're frightened by how fast you respond to his strong boxer's hands kneading your ass, feeling his rapidly hardening cock against the palm of your hand before he pushes it away. He laces his fingers with yours and moves your hands to hold them above you, and your head swims at how slowly and sensuously he's rubbing his body against yours, how he has you arching up with more than just desire. When did Christian learn the art of seduction? You want to gasp at the little electric tendrils of arousal that shoot through you every time his hard dick comes in contact with your groin, but you can only make little muffled sounds because you're still trapped by his languid mouth and implacable tongue. This kiss holds a different kind of promise for what is to come, but if instead you stay where you are all night, well that's just fine too.
When he finally lets you up for air, it's no reprieve. His eyes are hungry and lust hardened as they bore into you, before he dips his head down, skimming his tongue along your collarbone, expertly placing little love bites along your throat. Your cock is twitching in strained sympathy at the tiny huffs of breath that escape him as he samples your skin, slowly so excruciatingly slow. Christian is usually so desperate, rushed, intense but you're shuddering at his leisurely pace, and you gasp when he presses you even harder against the door and whispers in your ear,
"I'm going to make you scream tonight Schatz." He wraps his arms around you, tightening his hold at your waist and you're only dimly aware that he's still talking in that low melodic tenor of his.
"I want to make love to you all night. Tell me what you want."
Everything, you want everything, you want so much that desire has robbed you of language, but he is patient and so wonderfully in control, waiting and watching through heavy lidded eyes for your answer, the only thing giving him away is the slight tremor of his hands at your side, the slight heave of his chest, and the steady slight rhythm of his hips as he grinds his cock against yours. You could probably come just like this, in fact you have before, but it isn't going to be like that tonight.
"Fuck. Me. Christian." You manage to bite his neck and make him cry out before you're pinned hard to the door, before you feel his tongue sliding past your lips again, and when you take his dick out of his slacks and run your fingers along his swollen length, you figure his answering grunt must be one of assent.
He walks you over to the bed and pushes you down, and you watch as he finally removes his pants, thankful that he didn't wear underwear today, smiling because you know you're the reason for this. You reach for him, you really want to, need to, taste him, you want to break him of this hard won discipline he's slipped into tonight, but he pushes you away again, and forces you to lay down. He is intent tonight, focused. The same dynamic attention he would display in the ring is now at your command, and your abdomen tightens at the possibilities. You feel something sort of short circuit when he covers you with his body, and you arch up delirious from the feel of his slick erection against your dick. You're already so painfully hard, and the gentle rocking of his hips, the rough burn of his stubble on your mouth on your neck and chest are all you can think about, that and finding away to press closer, to get more. There's never enough of Christian for you. He's sitting up now, straddling you and you're almost undone by his gentleness, by the image of him towering above you, by the awe and worship in his too blue eyes that must surely be reflected in yours. He cups your face, running a thumb over your kiss-worn lips, and you sigh, you'll probably never get used to the jolt of electricity that shoots through you at his slightest touch. You whimper in disappointment when he leaves the bed because you're close, so close, all you need is a little more friction, or another heart stopping kiss. But before you can say anything he's back with two soft ropes and a swath of black silk.
You sit up, curious, and he moves behind you, wrapping the silk around your eyes, then gathers you close to him, your back to his chest. His hands are wicked, pinching a nipple here, light scratches and just the right grip on your thigh, on your forearm, on your hip, there, and oh Gott ja-there, and his hands play point counterpoint with his equally skilled tongue. He's talking again, right in your ear, clasping you tight to him as you fuck his big sure hand, your legs open and unsteady. He knows it drives you insane not to see, to not be able to anticipate the next touch, and he's using it to his exquisite advantage.
"Bet you wish you could see this Olli, your cock is so perfect, love holding you like this I'm going to lick it clean after you come."
He demonstrates on your ear and you're at the edge gripping his thighs, desperate to come, desperate to show him how he makes you lose control, makes you want to lose control. You turn your head, searching for his lips, and he obliges, and you know that's all you need as your breathing gets ragged and the rhythm of your thrusts starts to falter.
"Chrissie. Yes." It's hardly even a name anymore just an odd combination of breaths and a whine, and you can hear by the way he can't catch his own breath, that he's as bad off as you are. Your body tenses, you're ready, so very ready. He's shuddering too, and you can just imagine the salty sweet taste of him, because as soon as you come you'll be returning the favor, as soon as-. But, before you can spill your seed on his waiting hand he clamps down hard at the base and you cry out, disappointed and confused at being denied this, that he has the willpower to deny you anything at this point.
"You told me to fuck you, Oliver. I can't let you come until I've done what you want. I promise, though, I'll still lick it clean."
He's a sadist, he's evil, he can hardly force the words out past his own labored breathing and you can feel the hard jut of his erection against the cleft of your ass. You moan in protest, knowing how much this costs the both of you, and you rub yourself shamelessly against him hoping to goad him into finishing the damn job. He's laughing now, as he lays you down soft, and the waves of heat pour off of him as he suspends himself above you. He places another devastatingly soft kiss, his non-verbal apology for reducing you to this state, as though he doesn't know by now that when it's just the two of you together, he more than has carte blanche. You reach now, doubly blinded by desire and the silk, to maneuver him closer, desperate for a kiss or a quick fuck. You're beyond caring. He accommodates you with another kiss, but he's pulling away already and - like you do every. single. time. -you follow, chasing after his kisses, the way you chased after his love in the beginning of everything.
He's pressing kisses to each of your hands now, massaging with the surprisingly soft pads of his finger tips, and you laugh.
"How romantic, I love holding hands."
He only laughs in response before positioning your hands above you and carefully tying each hand to the headboard.
"Why don't you hold on to those instead, OK Oliver?"
You feel a thrill run through you at the unexpected use of your given name. You gasp as he hauls your hips up over his, lining his cock up perfectly with your entrance, teasing you with just the warm velvety tip of his sex. When the hell he get so good at this, you have to wonder again, as he gives you just the right amount of friction, the perfect pressure to make your balls draw up tight and your cock renew its flagging interest. Fine, you have no hands, but you push up with your hips urging him closer and embracing him with your legs. When he flows over you, licking and sucking and biting his way up and down your body, covering every inch with the flat roughness of his tongue and the soft pressure of his lips you are unprepared and to your chagrin you do grab and clutch at the ropes, the ones you want so badly to be his skin. His teeth nip and his tongue dances at the warm crease of your thigh, making little smacking satisfied sounds and your heart races because they're the sounds he makes when he's eating, and you're whimpering now because he's getting closer to your dick, and you want to be devoured by this man. You want to be the one who fulfills some essential need for him. You feel teeth nip at the base of your abdomen, just above your cock. You tug at the ropes when some kind of wild sound pours out of you and it's the only thing you can do, helpless as you are, to show him what you want, what you need him to do. You feel him straddling you once more, and he rips the blindfold off, his blue eyes shot through with something almost feral before he gets himself under control again.
"So beautiful," he says, running a gentle hand through your hair. You watch, questioningly, as he reaches over to the nightstand and takes a sip of something from a thermos you hadn't noticed resting there.
"Christian, what?" He smiles at you but that feral look is back and your cock is throbbing in response. He takes another sip from the thermos, then grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand and eases his way down your body. He wants you to watch, his eyes are honing in on yours, and you're having so much trouble breathing, but you're not looking away, you are totally anchored by blue - until his mouth finally closes around your cock, and you writhe against the ropes, shutting your eyes against the inhuman heat. You don't know what he drank, but it has made his mouth furnace, and it tingles, sends a flush through your entire body. He has to hold you down because instinct demands that you shove yourself as far down his throat as possible. The room is filled with your tortured moans as he alternates between laving your dribbling dick, and lightly sucking your balls, and you're pretty sure you've never had it so good, you're pretty sure he's just ruined you for anyone else. Looking at him, between your legs like this, it just makes you crazy. The moment you try to convey this feeling of being utterly possessed, struggling to find the words through your keening, he's pushing your legs back up to your chest, opening and spreading you. For an insane frightened moment you think he's going to push into you dry, and you'd allow it too, you'd probably beg past the pain just because it's him. You brace yourself and instead, oh God, instead its his molten hot tongue in your asshole, and his usual protestations of it being too weird or dirty seem a thing of the past because he is tongue fucking you right now, and breathing so hard you know he enjoys it. You close your eyes, and roll your head against the pillow, grip the restraints again and allow yourself to let go, to let your feet rest on his shoulders as the sweat pours off you in waves, and you moan his name like an ayurvedic chant, hoping for the enlightenment of orgasm.
He keeps you here, suspended in a limbo of gut twisting pleasure, pulling away at just the wrong instant, or clamping down on your cock as soon as you get close. Thirty minutes into it you're shaking, and sweating, begging Christian for more, and he remains unmoved. You need him inside you, need him to stop teasing you with his fingers and use his cock, but you can't even talk anymore you're defenseless against this erotic onslaught, so you use your body. You grip his invading fingers with your ass, and try, and fail once again to call his name, instead you end up mewling and pulling against the ropes to push yourself onto him. He asks you if it's good. You can only answer by whispering his name in quiet supplication, and it seems that quiet utterance finally spurs him on. Maybe, like you, he can't bear to see his partner suffer even in the slightest. He's looking into your eyes as he pushes into your ass, and he's still slow, steady controlled. You marvel at this control he has while every bit of you is twitching and convulsing begging to draw him in, eager to have him buried to the hilt. You watch him, but even better you finally feel him pulsing and twitching inside you, thick hot and hard. He's shaking, trying to tell you what this is for him, but he can't. You understand, because for you, improbably, it's better than expected, everything you were waiting for but more because he's saying your name so softly, that same tone he used at the wedding wistful, and loving, but now with the electric undercurrent of desire. You can't believe it, but just him saying your name, it makes you even harder than you already were, and you feel the little drops of precum gather on your stomach, as he starts to move, establishing a lazy rhythm that scrapes against your prostate at every pass. You're not sure if you can survive this tonight, and you wonder if it's absolutely necessary that you do.
He's nowhere near done yet, however, and when he bends himself to offer his lips you bite, while cocking your hips imploringly, yet still restrained by those blasted ropes. Your vocabulary has long been reduced to "Christian," "Bitte," "Gott, " and "Ja." They are all you have left, and they are woefully inadequate to describe how amazing it feels to have him thrusting into your ass as his abdomen rubs against your swollen cock; they are not enough to tell him that you need it faster, need it harder, even though you can see he's at the end of his hard won control and speeding up enough to make you scream, to make you trap him with your legs as he slams into your waiting and hungry ass. He's incredible. He's always incredible. You're finally on the same page, and you can't wait to see him come, to see his face contort and feel him spill inside you. He wraps his arms around you, and almost pushes you into the headboard, before he pulls out completely.
Another word is added to your limited vocabulary. "No."
You wail it, protesting sharply against this unwanted emptiness as he makes useless soothing sounds, and caresses your thighs. Miraculously, he doesn't keep you waiting, he's grinding against you again and it only takes a couple of thrusts before you feel the familiar tingle in your toes, feel it spread through your limbs as your pulse rushes and a hot flush creeps over you. When you feel his spit slicked hand, pull on your dick, just once, you squeal and moan, a high pitched sound you know you've never made before, and you shudder at the hot splashes of your own fluid on your stomach and chest.
"That was hot, Schatz. Very hot." He whispers, finally freeing your bound hands. And normally, you would have a very witty rejoinder but you're so blissed out and boneless, you can only smile as he licks you clean, just like he promised.
It was hot, more than hot, and the gentleness is still there, as he turns you to your side, running soothing hands along your flank and asking you again, if it was good. You whimper dumbly, having just enough energy to caress his face before sleep comes for you. You're sort of a little shocked when he slides into you again, but he helps you fight off your lethargy with his heated thrusting, and suddenly it's like you never came because you're on your hands and knees rotating your hips in a frenzy as Christian moans behind you. You want to make him feel a fraction of what he's given you tonight, you want to help him, you always do, you always will. You're so hard again that you have to touch yourself, but you stop when he asks you earnestly to slow down, and blush because he wants to make you come again. You submit, allowing him to take hold of you as he fucks you into the mattress, but he's making those low pitched singing sounds, and you know he's close, so you clench around his dick and his control evaporates knocking the breath out of you with every pump. You heart soars with every desperate gasp and moan Christian makes, and you know you're the only one who can see him through this, so you hold him inside as he curls around you kissing every available inch of skin. When you feel the shudders and the shocks subside, you stroke yourself to completion, joining him in exhausted satisfaction.
You don't know how he has the energy, but he cleans you both up, and as you settle beside him for the night, you just have to make sure he knows.
"I love you, " you say, but it's hard to push away the doubt the uncertainty, even after a day like this, that it all could be taken away from you. But he says it back, and he says it with such conviction, you just believe him. You're in too deep as it is, but maybe, just maybe so is he.
"Are you like this after every wedding?" you ask, and your dick sincerely hopes, the answer is yes.
You smile, and rub yourself sleepily against his chest. "Ah, okay then, I'll be prepared for you to nearly fuck me to death on our honeymoon then."
A part of you is a little alarmed at your presumption, but another, bigger part of you is glad that you're starting to acknowledge the inevitability of it all.
"Our honeymoon?" Christian says, and it could be because you're sleep deprived, but you think you hear just a tiny thread of excitement in his voice.
"Yeah," you say dreamily.
"Olli, I..." You look up, he's fidgety and nervous, and most likely wants to talk about this now, hammer out the details, see if you're on the same page, but you don't have the brainpower to have a serious discussion about your relationship, so you diffuse immediately.
"Schatz, shhh, go to sleep. We can talk about it tomorrow. You've worn me out."
Christian doesn't fight you on this, because you both know you're equally tired. Instead he pulls you closer to him, nuzzling your hair, and you drift off, content breathing his unique scent as the word "home" threads its way through the last vestiges of your wakefulness.