My Husband Gave Me a Hall Pass for Vegas (And Demanded Details) III

"A scream tore from my throat, raw and unrestrained… And with one final, expert flick of his tongue, he sent me over the edge."

Hotel Room Seduction | Oral Sex Climax | First Sexual Encounter | Hotwife Fulfillment

---

Back in Julian’s hotel room, the charged atmosphere ignites. A hesitant first kiss quickly deepens into passionate exploration. As clothes are discarded, Julian’s skilled attention brings Nina to a shattering orgasm, marking the true beginning of her “thorough research” for her eagerly waiting husband.

---

My Husband Gave Me a Hall Pass for Vegas (And Demanded Details) - Full Story

---

He leaned in. Time seemed to stretch, to warp, like that weird Dali clock painting. My entire universe narrowed to the few inches between his face and mine. I could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that hadn’t been there under the brighter conference lights — a subtle, masculine roughness. His scent, that sandalwood and bergamot, was more potent now, mixed with the warm, undeniably human smell of him. It was clean, inviting, and it made something deep inside me unfurl, like a flower turning towards the sun. Or, you know, like a slightly repressed marketing manager turning towards a very attractive architect in a Vegas hotel room. Tomato, tomahto.

His lips met mine.

It wasn’t a crashing, Hollywood-style kiss. It was… a question. Soft, hesitant at first, a gentle pressure that asked, “Are you sure?” And my body answered before my brain even had a chance to chime in with its usual chorus of anxieties and what-ifs. My lips softened under his, yielded, invited. Yes, they seemed to say. Oh god, yes.

The taste of him was… surprising. A faint trace of bourbon, yes, but underneath that, something warm and a little sweet, uniquely Julian. It wasn’t like kissing Leo, who usually tasted of coffee or whatever toothpaste we were currently using. This was new. Unfamiliar. And that unfamiliarity was a potent, heady spice.

His hand, the one still covering mine on the sofa arm, tightened its grip, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate circle on my skin that sent a current, a live, tingling wire, straight up my arm and into my chest, where it exploded into a thousand tiny sparks. My other hand, acting entirely of its own volition, lifted, found its way to his jaw, my fingers sinking into the surprising softness of his hair just above his ear. The texture was finer than I’d expected.

The kiss deepened. No longer a question, but a statement. A mutual exploration. His tongue, tentative at first, then bolder, swept against mine. A slow, languid dance. My breath hitched, a small, shaky sound lost in the intimacy of the moment. A profound warmth, heavy and liquid, pooled low in my belly, a sensation like molten gold spreading through my veins. My nipples were aching, hypersensitive, straining against the fabric of my bra. I could feel the frantic thrum of my pulse in my ears, a wild, untamed rhythm.

My brain, bless its cotton socks, was trying to keep up. Okay, this is kissing. You know how to do this. It’s like riding a bicycle, only with more tongue and less chance of scraping your knee. Unless things get really athletic, which, hey, no judgment. Leo would want to know about the athleticism. Focus, Nina! Details!

Julian made a sound, a low hum deep in his chest, a vibration I felt more than heard, resonating through my hand still cupping his jaw. It wasn’t a groan of exertion, more like… a note of profound satisfaction. Like he’d just tasted something incredibly delicious. Which, not to toot my own horn, but my G&T breath was probably pretty top-notch by now.

His other hand came up, fingers splaying gently against my cheek, tilting my head just so, deepening the angle of the kiss. The slight rasp of his stubble against my skin was an entirely new sensation, a delightful friction that sent another wave of prickles across my arms. My own hands were busy now, one tangled in his hair, the other sliding up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. The fabric was smooth, cool, but underneath it, he was radiating heat.

I found myself pressing closer, an unconscious seeking. The sofa, which had seemed so vast a moment ago, now felt like a tiny raft in a very large, very interesting ocean. I was aware of the softness of his lips, the subtle pressure of his body as he leaned further into the kiss, the way my own body was arching, instinctively, towards him.

He broke the kiss, but only for a moment, his forehead resting against mine. We were both breathing a little faster now, not raggedly, but with a new depth, a new urgency. His eyes, when they opened and met mine, were dark, the pupils blown wide, those gold flecks almost swallowed by the intensity.

“Nina,” he breathed, his voice a rough whisper, thicker now, like dark honey. The sound of my name on his lips, in that tone, did something extraordinary to my insides. It was like a key turning in a lock I hadn’t even known was there.

“Julian,” I whispered back, my own voice sounding shaky, unfamiliar.

And then he was kissing me again, but this time it was different. Deeper. Hungrier. There was a raw, untamed quality to it now, a sense of barriers dissolving, of polite preliminaries being swept away. His tongue delved, explored, claimed. And I met him, kiss for kiss, touch for touch, a wild, exhilarating recklessness taking over.

His hands slid from my face, down my neck, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone, sending a fresh cascade of tingles — no, not tingles, more like tiny, electric shocks — down my arms. One hand settled at my waist, fingers splaying, pulling me closer still, until there was no space left between us, just the delicious friction of our bodies. The other hand… oh, that other hand… it slid lower, over my hip, his palm warm and firm against the fabric of my skirt.

My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, surprised gasp. His touch was confident, knowing, and it sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire straight to my core. The heat between my legs intensified, becoming an urgent, throbbing ache. I could feel the dampness there, a testament to what his touch, his presence, was doing to me.

I arched into his hand, a silent invitation. My mind was a blur of sensation — the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of his hands on my body, the sound of our mingled breaths in the quiet room. The terrible hotel art, the swirly carpet, the distant Vegas noise — it had all vanished. There was only this. Him. Me. And this… this fierce, unexpected connection.

He shifted, his hand at my waist guiding me, and suddenly I was half-lying on the sofa, him leaning over me, his body a warm, welcome weight. The change in position was dizzying, intoxicating. I could feel the hard planes of his chest against my breasts, the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against my thigh.

“You feel…” he murmured against my lips, his voice strained, almost a pained sound of pleasure, “…incredible.”

And in that moment, under the gaze of a man I’d met only hours ago, in a Vegas hotel room my husband had essentially sent me to, I felt… powerful. Desired. Utterly, breathtakingly alive. The research, I thought with a dizzying surge of anticipation, was about to get very, very thorough indeed.

“You feel incredible,” he murmured, his breath a warm caress against my skin, his voice thick, like dark velvet. And my brain, instead of conjuring some witty, sophisticated reply, just went… blank. Poof. Gone. All that was left was a buzzing, humming awareness of him — his heat, his scent, the solid weight of him pressing me into the surprisingly comfortable (he was right!) sofa.

“You’re… not so bad yourself, architect,” I finally managed to stammer out, which I’m pretty sure wins the award for Least Sexy Comeback of the Century. But Julian didn’t seem to mind. He just chuckled, a low, rumbly sound that vibrated through my chest, and then his mouth was on mine again, fierce and demanding, and all thoughts of witty repartee dissolved into pure sensation.

His hands were everywhere, but not in a clumsy, octopus-on-speed kind of way. They were… purposeful. Knowing. One hand slid up my side, his thumb brushing against the curve of my breast through the fabric of my dress, and a sharp, electric jolt shot through me, making me gasp into his mouth. The other hand was tangled in my hair, tilting my head back, giving him better access to my neck. And oh, his mouth on my neck. That was a revelation. Not just kisses, but a slow, deliberate exploration with his lips and tongue, sending a wave of intense, prickling heat down my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I could feel my own pulse hammering wildly at the base of my throat, right where his lips were now nuzzling.

My dress, a simple wrap dress I’d thought was so chic and professional, suddenly felt like a ridiculous, unnecessary barrier. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, driven by a sudden, urgent need to feel his skin against mine. The small, cool discs of the buttons were surprisingly tricky. My coordination seemed to have taken a vacation.

“Impatient?” he murmured against my neck, his voice a soft, amused vibration.

“Wildly,” I confessed, finally getting one button undone, then another. The skin beneath was warm, smooth, stretched taut over the hard muscle of his chest. I spread my palms against him, reveling in the feel of it, the faint thud of his own heart beating a rapid rhythm against my hand.

He lifted his head, his eyes blazing down at me, dark and intense in the dim lamplight. “Let me,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no argument. And then, with a deftness that was almost startling, he was dealing with my dress. The tie at my waist came undone with a whisper of fabric. He pushed the material aside, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering on the swell of my breasts in my lacy black bra — the “welcome home” set I’d worn for Leo, now making its Vegas debut. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips.