Главная страница | Эротические романы | With This Ring, I Thee Bed

With This Ring, I Thee Bed
Alison Tyler


In this sizzling new treasury, erotica maestro Alison Tyler has assembled over two dozen titillating tales of couples taking each other to new heights of happily bedded bliss. Imagination and experimentation are the watchwords as sexy spouses live out fantasies both intimate and elaborate: naughty new settings, new toys. . . even new partners. There are virgin brides, wicked wedding nights, impetuous swingers and some kinky couplings that give "tying the knot" a whole new meaning!Seductively spun by such genre luminaries as Kate Pearce, Kristina Wright, Cheyenne Blue, Portia Da Costa, Rachel Kramer Bussel and Janine Ashbless—plus a teasing little tale from the editor herself—these stories prove that the honeymoon is just the beginning!












about the authors


JANINE ASHBLESS likes unconventional weddings: she was once best man for a male friend and she herself got married in secret … which really upset her new mother-in-law. She has written five erotic books for Black Lace and her short stories appear in anthologies by Black Lace, Cleis (including Best Women’s Erotica 2011) and—starting with Alison’s Wonderland—Harlequin. She lives in the UK and blogs at www.janineashbless.blogspot.com where she enthuses about mythology, Victorian art and minotaurs.

By day, JAX BAYNARD is a financial investment advisor. By night, she makes her own (and her clients’) fantasies come true. This part-time dominatrix’s short fiction has appeared in Pleasure Bound, online, and in several literary journals. Her favorite weddings are the ones you never think will happen.

CHEYENNE BLUE combines her two passions in life and writes travel guides and erotica. Her erotica has appeared in several anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica, Mammoth Best New Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Lesbian Love Stories and on many websites. Her travel guides have been jammed into many glove boxes underneath the chocolate wrappers. She divides her time between Colorado, USA, Australia and Ireland, and is currently working on a book about the quiet and quirky areas of Ireland. Her favorite type of wedding is an Irish one with black pints and singing. Visit her at http://www.cheyenneblue. com.

RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL(www.rachelkramerbussel.com) is an author, editor, blogger and reading-series host. She is senior editor at Penthouse Variations, wrote the Lusty Lady column for The Village Voice, and has contributed to Cosmopolitan, The Daily Beast, New York Post and other publications. She’s edited over twenty-five anthologies, including Bottoms Up, Spanked, Yes, Sir, Yes, Ma’am, The Mile High Club, Do Not Disturb, Rubber Sex, Dirty Girls, and is the Best Sex Writing series editor. Since October 2005, she has hosted New York’s In The Flesh Reading Series, featuring everyone from Susie Bright to Zane. She cries at weddings but doesn’t anticipate walking down the aisle herself.

Heidi Champa was married on a hot, humid August day eleven years ago. The wedding started with thunder and lightning and ended with a brilliant pink sunset. Her husband has always encouraged her to write, believing her dirty mind should be put to good use. Her work appears in numerous anthologies including Tasting Him, Frenzy, Playing With Fire and Girl Fun One. She has also steamed up the pages of Bust Magazine. If you prefer your erotica in electronic form, she can be found at Clean Sheets, Ravenous Romance, Oysters and Chocolate and The Erotic Woman. Find her online at heidichampa.blogspot.com.

PORTIA DA COSTA is a British author of romance, erotic romance and erotic fiction, who loves writing about sexy, likable people in steamy and wickedly scandalous situations. Her many novels have been translated into languages such as German, Spanish and Dutch, and she’s had well over a hundred short stories published in magazines and anthologies. A passionate believer in matrimony, Portia has been married more years than she cares to count, but she still remembers feeling like a princess on her wedding day. She and her prince live in the heart of West Yorkshire with their cats.

BELLA DEAN was always the one dodging the bouquet. And she still is. But that doesn’t mean she’s not making eyes at the sexy groomsman or flirting with the caterer. She figures when the right guy comes along, she’ll go straight for the garters. Skip the bouquet. Bella’s work has appeared in Alison’s Wonderland, Pleasure Bound, For the Girls and Afternoon Delight, among others.

ERASTES lives in the UK. She writes gay historical romance and believes that marriage is for everyone. Her second novel, Transgressions, was launched in March 09 as part of Running Press’s seminal gay romance line, targeted at both men and women. Her website, which includes many excerpts of her work, can be found at www.erastes.com.

ADR FORTE is the author of erotic short fiction that appears in numerous anthologies from Cleis Press, Circlet Press and Black Lace, including Hurts So Good and Pleasure Bound, also edited by Alison Tyler. She once considered wedding cake design, but after a few notably disastrous attempts with the icing and food coloring decided to stick with writing instead. Visit her at www.adrforte.blogspot.com.

LANA FOX has published erotic stories in Alison’s Wonderland and several Xcite anthologies, including Naughty Spanking 1 and Sex, Love and Valentines. Her other short fiction about sexuality has appeared in numerous lit mags. Lana was taught that sex before marriage is sinful, so she had lots and lots of it before getting hitched in white. She is currently working on a collection of erotic stories about sex and magic. You can find her online at http://www.lanafox.com.

If SHANNA GERMAIN was a wedding cake, she’d either be red velvet with cream cheese frosting or a bite-size gypsy tart. When she’s not dreaming of new things to put in her mouth, she’s writing. Her award-winning work can be read in places like Best American Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica 2, Best Gay Romance, Best Lesbian Erotica, F is for Fetish, Playing With Fire, X: The Erotic Treasury and on her website, www.shannagermain.com.

P. S. HAVEN is from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He began writing dirty stories as a way to turn on his girlfriend. They’ve been married for twelve years, so he did something right. His style is heavily influenced by the works of Hugh Hefner, Henry Ford and David Lee Roth. Haven’s stories have been published in Best American Erotica Series, Playing With Fire: Taboo Erotica, X: The Erotic Treasury, B is for Bondage, Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex and many others. He blogs about writing and lots of other stuff at pshaven.blogspot.com.

MICHAEL HEMMINGSON‘s first feature film, The Watermelon, is out on DVD and Blu-Ray, and ends in a possible wedding-on-the-verge: that is, the hero gets the girl. His novels include Wild Turkey, The Comfort of Women and The Dress, along with a collection of erotic stories Sexy Strumpets and Troublesome Trollops.

KRISTINA LLOYD is the author of three erotic novels including the controversial Black Lace bestseller, Asking for Trouble. Her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and her novels have been translated into German, Dutch and Japanese. She has a master’s degree in twentieth-century literature and has been described as “a fresh literary talent” who “writes sex with a formidable force.” The last wedding she attended was in Duras, the French town associated with Marguerite Duras. For more visit kristinalloyd.wordpress.com.

NIKKI MAGENNIS is a Scottish writer of erotica and erotic romance who has a habit of falling over at weddings. You can find her short stories in many anthologies including Alison’s Wonderland from Harlequin and the Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra. Her novels, Circus Excite and The New Rakes, are published by Virgin Black Lace. Find out more at nikkimagennis.blogspot.com.

SOMMER MARSDEN made her own wedding cake. And then the cat ate it. A lovely friend made her second so she didn’t have a nervous breakdown. Even though her original cake did not survive, her marriage is still going strong. She’s been with one very patient, sexy man for a baker’s dozen years (and counting). Sommer is the author of Lucky 13, Double Booked and The Mighty Quinn. Her work has appeared in dozens of anthologies, including Alison’s Wonderland, Best Women’s Erotica 2009 and 2010, Liaisons, and Sex and Satisfaction. According to Ashley Lister (ERWA), she is “renowned for her style of combining exquisite sex with well-realized situations and credible characters.” Visit her at sommermarsden.blogspot.com.

N. T. MORLEY thinks the happiest marriages start out with strippers at the weddings, not just the bachelor and/or bachelorette parties. Morley’s many novels include The Parlor, The Limousine, The Appointment and The Visitor, as well the trilogies The Castle, The Library and The Office, and a double anthology, MASTER/slave. More can be unearthed at www.ntmorley.com.

KATE PEARCE was born into a large family of girls in England, and spent much of her childhood living very happily in a dream world. Despite being told that she really needed to “get with the program,” she graduated from the University College of Wales with a master’s degree in history. A move to the USA finally allowed her to fulfill her dreams and sit down and write that novel. Along with being a voracious reader, Kate loves trail riding with her family, “Western style” in the regional parks of Northern California. Kate is a member of RWA and is published by Kensington Aphrodisia, NAL, Ellora’s Cave, Cleis Press and Virgin Black Lace/Cheek.

A veteran of many friends’ too-elaborate weddings, THOMAS S. ROCHE hopes the next time he wears a tuxedo, he’ll be accepting his first Oscar or dispatching Russian agents. The most romantic wedding he ever attended was inside a rusted-out gun emplacement overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. His widely published short stories have appeared in such venues as the Best American Erotica series, the Best New Erotica series and many other best-of anthologies. He can be found at www.thomasroche.com.

SOPHIA VALENTI loves married men—well, one in particular, who she has adored since their wedding twelve years ago. She thinks the best part of being married is living with your best friend—and having someone strong in the house to open jars. Her erotica has appeared in the Harlequin Spice anthology Alison’s Wonderland and the Cleis Press books Afternoon Delight, Playing with Fire and Pleasure Bound. Visit her at sophiavalenti.blogspot.com.

I.K. Velasco is a corporate slave by day and a slave to her passions at night. She tries to come off as hardcore, but is really a big softie. She’s a bit chagrined to admit that she’s had her dream wedding planned in her head since the age of six—raspberry and chocolate-brown color scheme, pink hydrangeas and a gaggle of bridesmaids, oh my!

SASKIA WALKER(www.saskiawalker.co.uk) is an award-winning British author whose short fiction appears in over sixty anthologies. Her erotic novels include Along for the Ride, Double Dare, Reckless, Rampant, Inescapable and The Harlot. Saskia lives in the north of England close to the windswept Yorkshire moors, where she happily spends her days spinning yarns. Saskia once attended a wedding on the arm of a horned demon. Saskia was dressed as a cobweb-covered ghoul. The bride and groom were vampires, and the guests included all manner of paranormal creatures. Even the registrar was wearing witch’s garb. The date? All Hallows’ Eve.

RITA WINCHESTER has multiple hideous bridesmaids dresses and nary a bridal gown in sight. But she never says never and she figures the bridesmaids gowns come in handy for Halloween … or witness protection. Her work has appeared in Mammoth Lesbian Erotica, I is for Indecent, Tasting Her, Pleasure Bound, Never Have the Same Sex Twice and Frenzy, among others. You can drop her a line or a rope at rita_winchester@yahoo.com.

KRISTINA WRIGHT(kristinawright.com) is an award-winning author whose erotica and erotic romance has appeared in over seventy-five anthologies including Bedding Down: A Collection of Winter Erotic, Dirty Girls and the collections Seduction, Liaisons and Sexy Little Numbers. She is also the editor of Fairy Tale Lust: Bedtime Stories for Women. Her writing is inspired by her own happily-ever-after tale: she married her soul mate after a whirlwind six-month long-distance relationship. Twenty years later, she is happy to say she would do it all again.


With This Ring

I Thee Bed





AN

EROTIC

COLLECTION

EDITED BY





ALISON TYLER






www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)




Dedicated


To SAM


Two human loves make one divine.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning




introduction


“I do.”

I said those words nearly fifteen years ago, in a sunny backyard ceremony, surrounded by friends and family. I knew Sam was the one for me from the start. In fact, I did the proposing.

“Ever think of getting married?” I asked after our first weekend together.

“Is that an offer?” he countered.

I nodded, he accepted and I bought the dress the next week. The ceremony took place in the spring, in a simple outdoor celebration. I wore white. He wore a suit. The handcuffs came later.

Marriage is revered in our family. My grandparents celebrated sixty-five years together, and my parents have been married more than forty. But we embrace an element of levity, as well. My folks got hitched on April Fool’s Day. The “something blue” I wore was glossy midnight polish on my toenails.

But now I’m focused on my brand-new wedding. And you’re invited. Don’t worry—I’m not cheating. I’m talking about an anthology dedicated to all things bridal—from paper to diamonds.

With This Ring, I Thee Bed features tales of married sex, honeymoon sex, make-up sex, anniversary events and a seven-year itch. Couples experiment with new ideas, and (in some cases) new people. Lovers stoke the embers of passion as they fall ever deeper in love. In at least one instance, a gigolo is involved!

When I invited the authors to submit, I told them to toss the theme in the air like a bouquet—so that we’d all be scattered with petals as well as rice.

With This Ring, I Thee Bed takes the license for marriage from naked nuptials to brides in bondage. Naughty authors are registered at the Department of Kink.

Now, who else is ready to say “I Do”?



XXX,

Alison

P.S. Although a wedding book has been on my mind (and my hard drive) for years, I’d like to thank my best man, Mike Kimera, for giving me the title and escorting me down the aisle.




Now or Forever


Nikki Magennis


We should be halfway to paradise by now.

I look at Susie’s blue kitchen clock. Just past twelve. The flight left three hours ago, heading to the Caribbean with two empty seats in first class.

The washing machine clicks over and I watch the clothes tumble around in the drum, soapy water sloshing from side to side. They’re all too colorful. Bikini, sarong, sundress. Clothes I’m never going to wear. I’m washing them instead of burning them.

Our honeymoon was a present from Charlie’s dad—one of the gifts that can’t be quietly returned. It’s not always possible to apologize. Some things can’t be undone. And “sorry” isn’t always enough.

I get another flash of Charlie’s face. The way his eyes kind of flickered as I ran past him on the path, the way he looked almost as if he was smiling, the way he does when he’s confused. He was a little pale, his freckles darker than usual.

Oh God.

It was all supposed to be a big white dream. We’d be like paper dolls cut out of a magazine. A pretty little church, the perfect lace dress, star-shaped flowers with delicate trails of ivy. Charlie would be nervous and I’d be trying not to laugh. We would kiss in soft focus. Bells would ring.

My phone goes—and it’s playing the fucking Wedding March. My sister must have programmed it as a joke. I pounce on my jacket, scrabble through the pockets and find it, hit the cancel button before I look at the name.

Charlie. Of course it’s Charlie. Did I think he’d just disappear? Six years don’t evaporate that easily. Even if I’ve broken his heart and ruined his life, we’re going to have to at least pretend to be grown-ups. I should call him back.

I don’t. Instead, I pick at the lace of the bright yellow garter Susie made me promise to wear. It’s a hideous thing—the color of crayon sunshine in a kid’s drawing, with too many bows and ribbons sprouting from it—but for some reason I can’t stop playing with it. Back when she gave me the garter—a hundred years ago, the night before the not-wedding—it seemed like a silly, joyous little joke. Now it makes me wince.

“The yellow ones are supposed to attract lovers. Maybe some of your good luck’ll rub off on me, eh?” Susie had given me a big, theatrical wink, but I think she meant it at least a little bit.

Susie and I are best friends from high school. We’ve been through crushes, boyfriends, breakups and make-ups. I’d always been the one with the hectic love life, Susie the one with the steady boyfriends. Until I met Charlie.

My head snaps up as the doorbell rings. I don’t want to speak to anyone, not the flower arranger, the dressmaker or the caterers, not friends and relations or in-laws. There’s not a single one of the thousand people involved in the biggest not-wedding this century that I want to hear from.

The bell goes again. Maybe Susie forgot her key, I think. Maybe it’s not even for me. I tread nervously to the door and reluctantly open it a crack.

On the step is the one person I want most, the one I fear most. The door swings open and Charlie and I are facing each other over the threshold.

“Seb.” It’s his secret name for me. Silly, I know, but it makes me feel as if I’m about to collapse, like I’m a bicycle tire with all the air let out.

I’m shaking my head but I can’t break my gaze, tear it away from those eyes the color of wet slate. Charlie is hard to read, but over the years I’ve learned his tells. Usually, I can pick up his quirking smile, some little giveaway angle of his eyebrow or how he tugs at his ear. Today, he’s standing on Susie’s front step with his arms hanging by his sides, and I can’t tell a thing. Whether he wants to hold me or hit me. I close my eyes.

I don’t know how to apologize.

“I just couldn’t. I can’t.” My voice is thin, about to break. “Where do I start, Charlie?”

What I want most is to sag into his arms. He’s my comfort, usually, my solace and support. I straighten my spine. No. Not now.

I stand back and let him in, taking a breath of his fresh-air-and-skin scent as he passes.

I follow him into the kitchen and it’s easier, somehow, when we’re not facing each other, so I turn my back on him and fuss with the kettle and the teacups. My hand shakes as I pour milk.

As the water comes to a boil, I turn and he’s got the garter, that hideous yellow badge, and he’s turning it round in his hands.

“You wore this?” he asks, a frown folded between his eyebrows.

“Susie asked me to.” I want to snatch the garter away from him. I remember the sensation, tight round my thigh, the cheap fabric stiff and prickly. I stood there being prepped for the wedding and I remember having the sudden, violent urge to run away and rip it off and scratch and scratch and scratch.

Charlie nods slowly.

Normally, he’d crack a joke. Normally, this would be easy—being together, the easiest thing in the world, like everything’s right and how it should be and … and perfect? I look at the yellow of the garter against Charlie’s skin.

“It was all too good to be true,” I say softly. Surprising myself.

He looks up and I can see for the first time a spark in his eyes. It could be dangerous. It could be promising. I take the chance.

“I’m scared, Charlie.”

“Of what?”

“Of us.” I watch his lips. I owe him honesty, at least. I take a deep breath.

“Of suffocating. I was standing up there at that altar and …”

“And what?” he says, his voice edged with flint.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I start to say, before I realize what I’m doing. I start again. Look right in his eyes.

“I don’t know if I can promise you so much. Just you, just me, forever.” There’s a rushing over my skin, and I’m running fast down a slope. But I can’t stop now. “I saw my sex life flash in front of my eyes, Charlie. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I know I’m almost shouting.

Is that worse? I wonder. To have ditched Charlie in front of all his family and friends, to have left him awkward and alone at the church, or this? To tell him the truth, what I’ve been darkly afraid of all along? My lurid, cherry-red, heart-throbbing dirty secret.

How can I promise never to have another lover? Me, who’s always been quick to get bored, and quicker to discard unsatisfactory bedfellows. Who’s been first to try every practice and position, whose whole life is punctuated by sex—exotic and romantic and thrilling and brief and heartbreaking. Yes, I love Charlie, and yes, I love fucking him. But will I really be able to sacrifice every other man in the world—every other possible man?

I think about how Charlie is, and try and match it against the invisible future. I know it’s wrong, but I’m trying to measure him. Testing, to see how I love him, how much and how far.

Yes, I love how his eyelids kind of slide down a few degrees, so he’s giving me a snake’s gaze, one that slips over my body in a prelude to his touch. I love how his mouth goes tight. How his fingers travel, how he takes mouthfuls of me.

And this. Yes, I’d forgotten how much I love this.

“Charlie?”

“Shut up.”

How he is silent. How he pulls me to him and works his way from my wrist to my shoulders. Charlie is gentle. Most of the time. But he knows how to fix me in place. He’s clever, too—sees immediately how he could take an ugly yellow garter and twist it around my wrists, how it would hold my arms behind my back firmly, but stretch enough not to dig in too much.

“What if Susie …”

He ignores me. I think this might be what I love most about us. He knows me so well, he can tell when to listen and when to just keep on going. Like now, as he strips me methodically, slowly, almost brusquely. He pushes the cardigan off my shoulders and lets it bunch at my tied wrists. Reaches for the buttons at my throat and lets the backs of his hands scuff over my breasts.

I’m biting my lip again, trying not to moan. For some reason, it seems important to match Charlie’s wordless intensity. As though the only way I can apologize is with my silence, as though any more words would be too many.

He peels my shirt aside, bares my breasts and belly. He’s holding my shirttails in his fists and he tugs me from side to side a little as he leans in to kiss me, letting me know how he can move me, how he can turn me.

And then we’re kissing and it’s too late for explanations. I forget why I left the church, I forget where I am and what my name is. All I can think of is the heat of Charlie’s mouth, the scrape of his stubble and the hard pressure of his body against mine. The way he is kissing me recklessly, like a dare.

When he pulls away I’m breathing hard, as if we’ve been running.

“So I’m not enough for you,” he says, and his lip curls a little. His hand drops to my breast and tweaks hard. I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

“You want more.” His other hand, my other breast. I’m almost doubling over, and my nipples are burning beautifully as he pulls and pinches. When he lets go, I almost fall forward. In the sun-filled kitchen I’m gasping for breath—half-naked, disheveled and as ridiculous as the yellow garter.

Charlie knows how to tease, and today I’m wondering if he’s playing out some kind of revenge. If he’s going to teach me a lesson—how it feels to be left hanging.

“Please,” I say, even though I think I shouldn’t.

“You know what, Seb?”

He’s leaning back and looking at me thoughtfully, as if I were a painting he’s deciding whether or not he likes.

“I can understand you being chicken. I can even live with the thought of you fucking other people.” His eyes flash. I look at him and the blush storms through my cheeks. He nods. “Yes, I am aware that you like sex, Seb.”

He leans in close and whispers in my ear. “Dirty girl, aren’t you? You think I didn’t know that? You think I can’t tell how hungry you are every time you walk down the street, shaking that tight little ass of yours? You think I don’t notice how you stick your tits out when you’re talking to a nice-looking guy? How you give all my friends the once-over, like you’re just considering the possibility?”

I flinch. I really didn’t think he’d noticed.

Charlie pulls back and sighs. He reaches, almost idly, to my trousers and flicks at the buttons. As if he doesn’t care if they come loose or not. When he slides his hand into the front of my panties, he touches the tip of his tongue to his lip as if he’s doing something tricky.

“What breaks my heart, Seb, is that you think I’m so stupid.”

“I don’t!” If I weren’t tied up, I’d reach out for him. He curls his fingers inside my panties, cups my pussy in his hand and gives a little squeeze. It’s like he’s in control of my heartbeat now, as though each stinging pinch of my clit sends the blood running through my veins.

“You think I don’t know you.”

“That’s not true,” I say, although my voice is strained and cracking. “It’s not?”

I look up at him through the strands of hair that have fallen over my face. He meets my gaze, hard and direct.

“Seb, I know you. I know how you’re torn.”

While he talks, he keeps working at me, his fingers stroking my most intimate places, proving the truth of what he says.

“You think that getting married is a death sentence. That we’d be stuck fast together and we’d never be able to leave.”

I bite my lip. I can’t really deny this, not without lying. He strums at me, turning the dial up toward orgasm. He can make me come with a flick of his wrist. I rock on his hand, lean on his arm so that he’s virtually propping me up. I think of his cock, how long it is and how full it makes me.

“Charlie,” I say, losing the thread of our conversation. I know I have to concentrate, have to hold back. But when he tweaks at my aching nipple, I nearly give in.

“Nothing is forever,” he says, his voice so soft it breaks my heart. He tugs on my nipples, left and right, dosing me with little shocks of pain.

“You like this.” It’s not a question, but I respond anyway.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“And if you didn’t want it? If you stopped liking it?”

I won’t ever, I say in my mind. Please don’t stop. He’s alternating pinches of my clit and my nipples now, digging his fingers into me, burying them inside me.

“Seb. Answer me.”

I shake my head.

I whisper our pact, our long-ago agreement. What we discussed back when we were laying down the ground rules. When we were still falling in love.

“I say the word. And it’s over.”

“Yes. You say the word. It’s that simple.”

He holds on tight to my clit, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb until it burns. “Or,” he says, “of course, I can also say the word.” His voice is low and creaky. Suddenly, I’m terrified.

I want to kiss him. I want to stop him from saying anything more. I moan and reach out for him, want his body slammed against mine, want him to rub against me, crush me, bore into me. Prove that he’s here, with me and not lost.

“Charlie,” I say, and there’s panic sliding in my voice. “Please.”

He cradles my head in the crook of his shoulder while he reaches to undo his jeans. At the same time he loosens the garter and throws it on the ground. Hands free, I grab for him.

We’re swaying now, falling against the kitchen table and bumping into the chairs. I push my clothes roughly down around my ankles, still leaning into Charlie, nuzzling at him. He smells of the soap he uses, maybe a little of last night’s whisky. I wonder what he did last night. Whether he slept. Whether he cried.

He turns me roughly and bends me over the kitchen table. Now I can’t see his face and I’m even more scared—is this his goodbye fuck? Is he going to say the word, cut me loose, banish me from his life?

His hands are on my hips, holding me steady and firm, and I butt back against him, wanting him to be inside me, yes, but also wanting to be inside him somehow. I spread my legs, feel the head of his cock slip between my thighs.

“Come into me, baby,” I say, tilting my ass up as though begging. His thighs are warm on the back of my legs. He pushes into me and I could weep again. My legs are shaking, about to start bucking and jerking against him, almost out of my control.

“Shhh,” he says, stroking from the base of my spine to between my shoulder blades, dragging his hand over my body to soothe me. And it does—I rock slowly, taking a little more of him at a time until he’s nestled deep in me and can’t go any farther.

“More,” I murmur, wiggling my hips from side to side. Charlie keeps caressing me, slow and steady. I hear him laugh.

“S’funny?” I ask, although I can’t stop swaying against him, working myself up and down on his shaft.

“I’ll give you as much as you want,” he says lightly, while he withdraws in a rush and plunges back into me, making me gasp. “Whenever you want, however you want.”

He punctuates his words with thrusts that get harder, more emphatic and blunter each time. His cock is thickening in me, corkscrewing deeper and deeper.

“And if you want me to stop …” He pulls out so that just the tip of him is in me, an unbearable loss. “You just say the word.”

“Charlie,” I say. He’s hovering on the brink, I know it. The orgasm gathers in my fingertips, in my toes, rushes back and forth over me, crisscrosses from my nipples to my pussy and back to my mouth, my eyes, my heart. Just as I come, holding tight to the edge of the kitchen table, I get it. I get what he means. We’ll be married if we want it, for as long as we want it, just how we want it.

Charlie slides forward, sinks into me, and gives me what I need. I rise up to meet him and we surge together, rocking, responding, fucking like we always do.

“This is how they fuck in heaven,” Charlie said back in the first flush of our relationship, after six weeks of springtime courting and delirious sleepless nights. It was one of those embarrassing thoughts that spill out after especially good sex, and the way he said it—like a teenage boy awestruck and mad horny, made me blush. I remember we both laughed at the time.

Years later, and only after I’d managed to wreck our picture-perfect day, I realized he was right. It’s why I wasn’t all that unhappy that we missed the flight to Saint Lucia. Charlie and I know exactly how to make heaven on earth. We made it that afternoon in Susie’s kitchen, with the yellow garter lying trashed on the floor and the sky outside turning a really pretty shade of pale blue, like shirts when they’re fresh out of the laundry.

It was a strange day. We should have been brokenhearted that we’d created such a public disaster of our marriage. We were shipwrecked and empty-handed, and we probably both looked like fools. But in the space left behind we were free to make our own promises, say them quietly, in our own time.

There were no flowers, no speeches, no guests and no garter. Just me, Charlie and the words between us—the only ones that really mattered.




Racing to the Altar


Sommer Marsden


I eyed the billboard as my foot mashed on the gas pedal. The thought cops hide behind big billboard signs like that flittered through my head, but I mashed it anyway. My speed crept from 68 to 74. I was late. I was so fucking late it wasn’t funny. I was racing to the altar. Hell-bent for matrimony.

Kelly and Tina and Tracy all awaited me at the church. No doubt pacing the small bridal room where they were to do my makeup and my hair. I could picture Kelly fretting as she ticked off the minutes in her head. How much time we had and what that would allow. Up-do with accent braids? Chignon? Traditional bun? She would kill me!

I shot past the sign advertising Rock Hard Gym and my stomach bottomed out when I saw the lights, my body tingling the way it does when I ride a roller coaster. The cherry lights atop the cruiser came on in a flash of crimson, and I gnawed my bottom lip.

Cop.

I pulled to the side of the road.

I didn’t have time for a ticket. There was hair to be done, makeup to be applied, panic to be embraced. I had to go over my vows and make sure the seating arrangements were perfect and check the church to ensure that Uncle Sal was not next to Great-aunt Dot (or they would kill each other). I had too much to do. And at the end of it all, hopefully I would be lawfully married and not insane. Then Jackson and I would run off to Nova Scotia, never to return!

Okay, so we were returning. The point was that we had to make it through this stressful, heart-pounding wedding and reception before we could escape. And all I really wanted was to be with him. Somewhere quiet. Just me and him and our lips pressed together, making out like horny teenagers the way we did when we weren’t tasting butter cream frosting or picking out dye to make shoes match dresses. I sighed, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. In my head, I was already pleading my case. Figuring out what I would say to Officer Friendly to get off with only a warning.

“Do you know how fast you were going, miss?” he asked into my semi-open window. My heart shot up into my throat and my stomach dropped to my feet. I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. “I asked you a question, miss. Do you know how fast you were going?”

“Too fast?” It was all could think to say.

The good officer laughed. “Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

His eyes studied me and I studied him. He’d pulled his aviator sunglasses down to peer at me, his mouth twisted in a wry grin. Bright blue eyes like an autumn sky, lush lips, peppering of dark stubble along his jaw. I thought it would be fairly easy to cut paper with his cheekbones, and I was struck, sitting out here in the bright October sunshine, by how utterly gorgeous he was. Nearly beautiful, to be honest.

“This section of road is zoned for 55 miles per hour, ma’am. You were going over 70. Were you aware?”

“No,” I lied. He put his hand on the door and I rolled my window all the way down. My eyes went to his thickly muscled forearms, and my head felt swimmy. I’m a sucker for thick forearms. But I had a wedding to get to.

“I think you knew, and you were speeding anyway.” He leaned into the window, crowding my space. He had a teardrop-shaped birthmark above his left thumb. I inhaled deeply and tried to think.

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”

This officer, this man, this amazing specimen was nearly leaning headfirst into my window. So close to me and my jangling nerves I swore I could feel the invisible particles of his energy mixing with mine. It was downright dirty, was what it was, because my pussy was responding to the heady mixture of fear and excitement and attraction. “Yes, I am absolutely sure that I am sorry,” I said, and any idiot could tell I was lying.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. He put his pad in his pocket and ran his finger along the seam of rubber that protected my lowered window. I watched that finger trace, and fought the urge to cross my legs. This was crazy. This was silly. I should ask for my ticket and leave. I should make him let me go right this instant. My bridesmaids and others would be foaming at the mouth by now. I. Did. Not. Have. Time. I didn’t have time for this insanity!

“I assure you, sir.”

“You’re lying.”

I felt a blush heat my cheeks. I blew out a sigh, trying not to think about church parking, place settings, snippy caterers and my betrothed’s mother’s insistence that we had some ridiculous disgusting red velvet groom’s cake.

“I don’t lie,” I lied.

“Could you pull around next to my cruiser and step out of the car please, ma’am?”

Real fear sizzled through me then. My eyes found my watch and I almost cried. I was already a half an hour late to the church. In two and a half hours I was supposed to be saying, “I do.” And then a party to rival all parties and then blissful, perfect alone time. Away from all the lunacy of a big wedding.

“Ma’am.”

“Look, Officer, I don’t have time for this. I truly don’t.” I smiled. He had to understand. He had to! I would make it all up, but right now I had to bolt. Hell, I pretty much needed a police escort.

“I don’t recall giving you an option, ma’am.” He smiled. That smile slid down my throat, snaked between my breasts, tickled over my belly button and stroked my clit like some living mystical thing.

“Urn … please?”

“Please drive around and park next to my vehicle, ma’am. Then I would like you to exit your vehicle and wait.”

I blew my bangs out of my face. Resistance was futile, as the saying goes. But I could just floor it. Mash my foot on the gas and take off like some bandit out of a seventies moonshine movie. God knows I’d seen enough of them. Even Jackson made me watch them! With a dad, three brothers and a car-crazed fiancé, I was pretty much a pro at car chases from the law.

He read my mind. “And, ma’am, if you try to run, you’ll be sorry. Way sorrier than you’ll be for lying to me now.” He smiled again, all tan skin, white teeth and twisted humor.

I harrumphed, started the car and slowly drove to park beside the cruiser. To be honest, what I did was pretty much drift my big SUV next to it. The cherry lights were still looping but the siren was off.

I put the car in Park, eyed the time again. “Oh, I’m screwed. I am so, so screwed.” But I knew from the set of that man’s face I was not getting out of this.

I could hear his big boots crunching and popping over the dirt shoulder of the road. I shivered, rubbing my arms. I was crosswired. Unbelievably turned on when I should be begging and pleading.

“Step out, ma’am!” he barked, and I yelped. I opened the door and lowered myself from the SUV. Shit, shit, shit. I had worn my yoga pants and a tee to the church. Flip-flops to let my pedicure dry. I hoped my toenails didn’t get dusty.

“Stand by the car, ma’am.”

“I am by the car!” I worried my fingers together. I was so wet between my legs it was insane. I studied the fretting image of myself in his mirrored shades. I wished he’d lower them and gaze at me again so I could try and get a read on those eyes.

“My car, ma’am.” He smiled and my nipples betrayed me by poking incessantly at the thin fabric of my ancient tee.

“Oh.”

I walked to his cruiser as if I were going to the gallows. When I got there, I wanted to cry. Now what? Should I face the cruiser? Face him? I had no idea, so I stood in a stupid, cockeyed stance kitty-corner to him and the car.

“Face the cruiser, ma’am.”

Damn. His voice was like hot caramel, melting chocolate, warm coffee on a cold day. It skittered down my spine and curled at the base of me. A steady wet echo sounded in my pussy. I was getting married in like … two hours!

“Hands on the trunk, please.”

“But—”

“Now, ma’am.” He walked closer to me and his energy pressed to me like an embrace. The breath shivered in my throat and a cool fall wind swung the loose legs of my yoga pants around my legs.

“But, in like two hours I’m—”

“Ma’am, if you disregard a direct order again, we’re going to have a problem. A very serious problem.”

I could tell by the set of his jaw and that stubborn-man look that this was it. I could obey or it would be ten times worse.

“Fine,” I said under my breath. I put my hands on the trunk and hung my head, fuming. But when his hands settled on my hips and started to slide I was hot all right, but not from anger.

“I’m just going to pat you down for weapons, ma’am. Routine. You just keep your hands there on the trunk.”

I couldn’t really make noise with his hands on me. They glided down my hips, skimming my buttocks, caressing the backs of my thighs so gently they could have been an hallucination. My eyes drifted closed, my body going loose. My heart filled my ears and wet heat filled my pussy. I sighed. His hands slid around my bare ankles, which were a bit chilled in the early fall air. Then those hands were scooping back up the front, dancing over my flanks, my hips, the fronts of my thighs. His fingertips brushed the V between my legs and his longest fingers came precariously close to my pussy. I sighed again. Mostly so I could get some air in my lungs.

“Now where were you rushing to, might I ask.” He said it right into my ear, his hot breath pouring into the shell, over the lobe, down my throat so goose bumps rose up like crocuses through snow.

“My wedding.” I gasped.

His hands played along the wide waist of my yoga pants. Hot fingers dipped under the thin fabric, each touch searing my skin like a burn. I was a kiss away from getting married, and this man was making me nuts.

“Lucky guy, if you don’t mind me saying.” One hand had slipped completely into my pants and plucked and snagged at my tiny yellow (old!) panties. The other hand smoothed along the swell of my ass as if he owned me.

“Sir … um, mister? Uh, Officer?” I tried them all, but it was damn near impossible for me to think. That rogue hand had slipped down to cover my mound. My neatly groomed for my honeymoon, new-bride pussy. His fingers slipped along the ridge of my lips and pressed to my clit so that I shivered in his half embrace.

“Officer J. S. Monroe,” he said.

“Yes, Officer Monroe. I’m going to be so very, very la—oh, God, right there.” He had slipped a finger deep into my wet, pulsing cunt and he was just barely thrusting it. Just enough to make all the blood that slept beneath my skin hum like a chorus.

“You know it’s dangerous to drive that fast,” he said, his lips sliding up and down the back of my neck so that I shook as if I would come apart.

“I’m sorry. Really. I am so, so sorry that I endangered—oh,” I said, because he’d slipped another finger into me and his free hand was yanking at my yoga pants.

I glanced around wildly. Someone would see us! Surely they would! Someone would notice us and this would end and … but no. Given how we had parked, how he had instructed me to park, we were blocked from sight on all sides. Barring an airplane, no one would see us. He had my ass bare to the wind, his dark blue dress pants pressed to my bareness. His erection pressed the crack of my bottom and his fingers continued to fuck in a slow, classic rhythm. Like a church organ or a hymn.

“Officer person Monroe,” I babbled. “We really shouldn’t be doing this. I’m going to miss—”

“You won’t miss a thing, ma’am. You have my word. Why, I’ll even give you an escort to your ceremony. Would you like that?”

His mouth slipped over my shoulder and even through my tee I could feel the humid heat of his breath. He cupped my breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. I heard that other hand making busy with the belt and zipper of his blues. Was this really happening?

Then the warm, hard slide of his cock to my skin assured me it was.

“Yes, escort me. Hurry,” I said. God, that sounded dirty. “If you’d just bend forward a bit, ma’am, we can continue with the pat-down.”

I bent forward, hands splayed on the warm white metal of the trunk. I pushed my ass out and he took his big knee and knocked my stance wider. There were his fingers again, slipping between my legs, into me, testing me. Then the head of his cock, pressing deliberately to my wet, wet opening. “Yes, Officer,” I said.

My hair hung down and danced over the cruiser’s bright blue numbers as he anchored my hips and slipped home, sliding into me from behind as if he belonged there. I held on to nothing at all. Only the tips of my toes touched earth as he started to rock and sway against me, his cock thrusting in and out, in and out with sublime friction. Officer Monroe steadied himself, his broad chest, decorated with various commendations, pressed to the back of my worn tee. His other hand snaked around my waist, making my belly muscles flutter and adding a rush of heat wherever his fingers touched.

“Is that nice, ma’am?”

I could only nod. I watched his long tan fingers, nicked from hard work and dealing with God knows what or who, track and dance along my skin. Down the small swell of my belly, the dip of my mound. I watched that teardrop-shaped birthmark dance above his thumb, and then his fingers found my clit even as he started to thrust harder.

“Is that a yes, ma’am?”

“Yes, oh, I’m going to be so—”

“Shh, no more,” he ordered.

I bit my lip and gave in. Some vehicle whizzed passed us way too fast. Lucky for them, the law was otherwise engaged. And though I knew I shouldn’t be doing this right now—not at all—I sank back a little farther, opened myself a little more and let him in as deep as he could go. His fingers painted circles on my clit, shivering every nerve ending to life.

“Oh, Mr—”

“Officer.”

“Oh, Officer …”

“Yes?” His warm laughter filled my head as my toes and flip-flops struggled to find purchase, but he had me, swaying barely above earth. He had me, gripped in his huge safe hands, and I was coming. Coming apart, coming undone, coming as the early fall wind bit at my exposed skin. I was coming.

“That’s a good one, ma’am. Good job.” His hips started banging in earnest, the more gentle thrusts gone now, and excitement curled in my belly, bursts of excitement and the fear of being caught filling my chest, making my heart pound.

Another car whizzed by and he pushed me forward a little, so my belly, chest and head rested on the warm trunk, as if I was being arrested. Officer Monroe held my legs up and apart, driving into me hard so I would have scootched across the trunk if he didn’t have me in his grip. I was open, exposed, so very, very bad. And I was going to come again.

“Oh, you’re getting tight again. Do you have plans for another?” His voice had lost its silken texture. Now it was all grunting, panting, choppy words. I loved it.

“I might, if you, yeah, like that.”

And he did it like that. And then he did it like that harder until he froze like a robber under a spotlight. Then a final jerk and he emptied into me as my cunt gripped around him tight, taking every little slice of friction he might offer.

My hair was a mess.

I let my heart come down a beat, and looked at my watch. Then I was scrambling across the trunk like a madwoman, hair standing on end or hanging in clumps, yoga pants nearly tangling me so that I went down in the dirt. “Oh, God! Oh, God! I’ll never make it now!” I was damn near hysterical.

He took pity on me, bundled me up and put me in my car. Monroe pulled out into traffic, his cherry lights coming on and the siren screaming about as loudly as I wanted to right then. I could swear I saw him smiling in the rearview mirror as he escorted me to the church.

“Oh, my God! Where in the hell have you been! We are never going to—what happened to your hair, Fallon?”

“I, urn …” They all stood staring at me. Kelly’s toe was tapping the way it did when she was furious. “I had a flat and I had to change it and God! It was a mess.”

It must’ve worked because they all rolled their eyes, threw up their hands and flew into action.

How Kelly made my hair go from trailer trash struck by lightning to damn near royalty is beyond me. But I was going to roll with it. The hushed presence in the church had the charged intensity you can feel in a room packed full of people about to yell “surprise!” The anticipation was palpable.

I’d done a quick cleanup in the bride’s “facilities” and was powdered, perfumed, groomed and gowned. It was now or never.

Do or die.

No turning back.

The music cued and my stomach bottomed out. “Oh, God, I am going to pass out.”

“Clench your ass! Clench your ass!” Tracy kept hissing in my ear. “It’s what the fighter pilots do!”

But clenching my ass made me think of Officer Friendly and the frisking, and just as they threw open those big-ass doors to reveal the ivory-draped aisle, I got the giggles.

“Oh, no. She’s freaking out. Good thing Jackson will think it’s cute.” Tracy blew out a sigh. Tapped my cheeks with the tips of her fingers, her version of a snap-out-of-it smack.

“You guys are so gross, how icky and in love you are.” Kelly laughed. She nudged me and I stumbled forward a bit. Remembering the perfect feel of him. The feel of warm metal under my finger and—

“Go!” Tina said.

I went. I nodded and smiled and tried not to throw up. I kept my ass tense, no small feat when you are trying to walk gracefully to your betrothed.

He stood there, smiling. That perfect sexy-as-hell smile. In full-dress uniform, just for me.

In my mind, I was spread-eagle, facedown, being slipped and slid and used and—

“Fallon?” Reverend Scott said.

“Yes, here I am. Here I am,” I repeated, and turned to Jackson.

Nervous? he mouthed.

I nodded. He smiled, took my hand for a squeeze, and I ran my thumb over the dark brown teardrop-shaped birthmark above his thumb. I raised it to my lips and kissed it.

In a few moments we would be man and wife. And then Jackson couldn’t call me “miss” or “ma’am” when he played his game with me and made me damn near insane with want. Then he’d have to call me “missus.”

Or “wife.”




Forever Hold Your Peace


I.K. Velasco


This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. It many ways it was. But I often wondered if I would never be satisfied, if I would always want what I could not have.

The mother of the bride, my sister—the maid of honor—and all eleven of my bridesmaids had finally left the small powder room to give me a moment of peace before the ceremony. The gentle rocking ocean waves and breezes outside the stylishly draped windows sounded like silence compared to the cacophony of a dozen women. I embraced the sound, burrowed under it as if it were down bedding, and allowed myself some refuge in the darkness behind my eyelids. I could feel the stress of the last few days ebb away with the tide.

It was really the stress of the last eight months. Planning a wedding was like leading a war, and I often felt like a general, my flagstaff held high, barking orders to the troops. “Those hydrangeas aren’t quite the right shade of pink. You need to pick new ones. That fondant isn’t right at all! I said the color of raspberry, not Pepto Bismol! I don’t care if you’re falling out of your dress, that’s what duct tape is for.”

And it was in many ways, but all I really wanted right this moment was to see him—my Jacob.

I hadn’t seen him in thirty-six hours and the ache was palpable. I could taste it on my tongue, like an unquenched thirst, an unfulfilled craving. I knew it was only thirty minutes until I would be walking up the aisle, but I wanted to be with him right this moment, to share his space and breathe his air. I felt as if I would suffocate without him.

The door clicked open without warning, but it didn’t startle me. I somehow knew it was him—my Jacob. He stepped up behind me and placed warm, familiar hands on my shoulders. Our eyes met in the mirror and he smiled a wide and goofy grin.

“You can’t be in here!” I chided. “You’re not supposed to see me before the ceremony. It’s bad luck.”

“Luck, schmuck.” He tugged on his collar, uncomfortably. I wasn’t used to seeing Jacob dressed in formal garb—white shirt, suit with no tie, charcoal gray, not black; since the wedding was at the beach, we’d wanted it to be more casual. The color darkened his eyes somehow—made them more gray than green, as they usually were. He looked devastatingly handsome. “Sixty percent of American marriages end in divorce. You’re going to be a statistic in T-minus twenty-three minutes.”

I frowned. “Don’t say that.”

Jacob squeezed my shoulders, his wry smile spreading. “Can’t help it. Jaded, I guess.”

“Well, I won’t be a statistic. I’m very loyal. Nothing to worry about.” I crossed my arms and pouted.

He laughed, reaching up to pinch my cheeks. “You know I love it when you pout! Plus those crossed arms are accentuating your voluptuous bosom.” He straightened up to his full height, peering down at the tightly wound corset of my dress.

I feigned modesty, placing my palms over what I knew was ample, revealing cleavage. I’d chosen my dress precisely for that feature.

“I hate that you’re seeing me when I’m not fully ready. I wanted you to see me later, on my father’s arm, walking down the aisle….”

“See you when everyone else sees you? That hardly seems fair. I’m special, aren’t I? More special than those people out there? I should get the first peek.” Jacob reached up and lifted the layers of taffeta making up my train. He quickly found the lace between my legs, running his fingers along the edges.

I gasped, pushing at his hands. “Hey! Don’t do that….”

He backed away, frowning. “I’m sorry. I thought you would want to …” His eyes changed again, from gray to black.

I reached for him, wrapped my arms around his waist and tucked my chin, pressing my forehead on his belly. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I’m just … It’s a big day. I want everything to be right. I’m nervous, excited.” I felt his soft lips on my hair. “I’m sorry. Yes, I want this to be perfect for you.” I leaned back and met his gaze. He bent down to kiss me, his mouth open and giving.

There was a fleeting thought about Jacob’s kisses messing up my makeup, but that was soon forgotten when he lifted me out of the vanity chair, hands secure under all the taffeta and lace, and carried me to the nearby couch.

He lifted my skirt and bunched the fabric around my waist. His fingers clutched at the flesh of my thighs, pressing my legs apart. Jacob tore at my undergarments, ripping my panties aside and exposing the wet, pink folds beneath. He leaned down and ran his tongue up and down my slit. I shuddered, clutching at his shoulders.

“Oh my … Jacob!” I murmured. “Please, harder, please …”

He acquiesced, cupping his lips around my sensitive bud and sucking. I came immediately, waves of pleasure pulsing from between my legs and out to my extremities.

I did not linger in this place of ecstasy, knowing we didn’t have much time. I pulled Jacob toward me, crushing his mouth to mine. His weight was on me, his hips grinding between my legs. I bucked against him, gasping for air. I reached for his waistband and released his hardness, guiding him to my waiting pussy. He thrust up into me, and I welcomed the fullness of him.

“Oh baby, you feel so good,” he murmured. He tilted my hips up and pulsed his cock deep into me and out again.

“Wait, wait,” I begged, weakly pushing against his chest. “I want to taste you.” I managed to sit up, and switched positions with Jacob, pushing him down onto the couch. I knelt before him, pulling his cock into my mouth. His eyes scrunched shut, and he pressed one cheek against the leather.

The sound started as a low whimper at the base of his throat. He mewled like a kitten. I could feel it building inside him. The pressure began at the bottom of his cock and flowed in gentle waves up to the tip.

The waves swelled his cock taut. I eased back on the pressure with my mouth, and I could feel him twitching up to the roof and down to my tongue. I smiled, reapplied the pressure and sucked him inside. He moaned.

I ran my lips slowly along the ridges, sank down until the tip rubbed the back of my throat. Building a steady rhythm, I rocked against him. His cries became urgent, his hands clenching as if he were reaching for some target just inches from his outstretched fingertips.

I felt connected to him like no one before. More than the physical, it was as if I was leading him up into some alternate plane of existence.

And suddenly, I lost him. It was as if he was the only one left in the world and I was lurking below, observing this massive writhing.

I continued to tug on his cock and the undulations swelled and peaked. The crest broke and he flooded my mouth again and again, the warm wetness flowing past my tongue and into my throat.

His trembling waned, replaced by a palpitation in his chest. Jacob was laughing, giggling beyond control, as if the rush of pleasure was bubbling out of him. I reached for his hands, knelt back and smiled as beatifically as possible.

“That was.” He laughed again. “Incredible, amazing, mind-blowing …”

“The best orgasm ever?”

“The best ten orgasms ever. I had no idea my body could do that. I had no idea your mouth could do that.” “I hope no one heard us,” I said.

“At this point, I don’t care. That was … amazing. Worth any embarrassment you or I would ever face.” He shuddered again, shaking his head as if to clear the last threads of tingling.

I smirked. “I don’t know about that.” The image of my mother’s displeasure passed across my mind’s eye and I shuddered, too.

“Wow, it’s sad, really,” he said, sighing. “It’ll never be the same again.”

I nodded. “Yes, it will be different. That’s life, isn’t it? Ever evolving.”

“I suppose.”

I stood up, attempting to straighten my mussed hair. I would have to do my best to recreate the makeup job that my sister had done an hour ago. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice the difference.

Jacob tugged his pants back on, looking around the room for any leftover carnage from our lovemaking.

A beautiful, uninhibited chuckle suddenly escaped his lips. I looked over as he leaned down to the floor to pick up a swatch of white fabric—the tattered remnants of my lace panties.

“Oh my,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to go commando.” He laughed. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” my father asked.

“Yes,” I said, hoping to still the trembling in my voice.

Dad squeezed my hand, placing it on his arm. He smiled, a reassuring smile that could only come from a proud father. I squeezed him back.

We turned to face them, the crowd of family and friends sitting in rows of rattan chairs, each wooden leg nestled into the sandy beach. They stood when the music started, a lilting symphony so familiar.

I could barely see past the layers of white veil covering my face, but it didn’t matter. I could see Jacob’s shape to the right of the altar, standing beside his best friend, Michael. Both Michael and Jacob looked genuinely happy, and that made me happy, too.

The ceremony went by in a daze. We said our written vows, the classic “I do’s,” the exchange of rings, and then the minister said, “If anyone knows of a reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

I had imagined this moment many times. I had even discussed it with Jacob, discussed the horrifying possibility of someone speaking up at this point in the ceremony. The memory of those discussions did not help me; we never did come to any conclusions. The reality felt surreal, a scene from a daydream or nightmare; which one, I couldn’t decide.

I couldn’t help it. I looked up over my groom’s shoulder, at Jacob’s place as the best man. Jacob’s face was stone, his mouth a tight line. He looked back at me and I saw it, a gesture so minute, I was sure none of the one hundred forty-nine guests had seen it. I saw it because I was looking for it—the slight movement of his head shaking no.

I gasped, the air rushing through my nostrils so loudly it sounded like a last breath. I marveled at this silent conversation, the intricate exchange of glances. And the look that sealed my fate.

My groom followed my gaze, looked at Jacob and back to me again, the panic rising in Michael’s face. Jacob smiled at him—that goofy, devilish grin—and placed a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder. The crowd behind us laughed nervously, understanding the joke.

I laughed, too, hoping my giggles would help to conceal the true sadness of my tears.




A Lucky Wedding


Thomas S. Roche


Avery had asked for a few moments to gather her thoughts in the upstairs bedroom; Kris ushered them all out in a group—Mom, Vanessa, Kerri, Terri, Monette, Jane—and good riddance to them. Kris then mouthed, “Twenty minutes,” and winked and blew her a kiss before leaving herself.

God love Kris Keshanski, thought Avery. Now that’s a maid of honor.

Avery locked the door, took a deep breath. It was all so intoxicating—her being the center of attention, which she hated, and being dolled up and beautiful, which she loved. She had barely even looked at herself in the mirror; she had looked, of course, sure, but not looked. For one thing, she didn’t have her glasses on. Plus she’d been so distracted by all the bridesmaids and Mom and the hangers-on flittering about that she’d not had a chance to stand poised in the full-length, wood-framed standing mirror and get close enough to see, and say, “Damn, girl—you rock this.”

She did. Her dress was white and traditional, maybe too traditional—gathered close at the hips beneath the tight cinch of the corset, which also jacked her breasts up improbably like hot-air balloons, until she looked as if she had a rack to salute to high heaven. She’d never had cleavage before, but she had it today—God’s gift to lady surfboards, this lingerie.

The corset, in fact, was the one thing she had insisted on, but not just for the reason that it accented her moderate endowments. It also felt freaky good, being cinched into this thing, barely able to breathe, desperately wanting to swoon. Traditional or kinky? She’d never tell—let the guests think the white had been earned with long months of horny denial and chaste deprivation. It wasn’t.

Avery gathered the dress up in front. She did not want to wrinkle it, but, she thought to herself, with sufficient care the crinoline could be smoothed down and she’d get a chance to admire herself.

Lord! Was she actually wearing that? This outfit was filth, pure and simple, raw savage depravity in white satin and pretty pink lace. She looked like a whore, which was kind of a turn-on, this being her wedding and all. And when, brightly, her mind filled with thoughts of dear Michael removing the twelve-hundred-dollar dress to find an eight-hundred-dollar see-through white thong with lacy pink flowers and a white, embroidered-rose garter belt, not to mention the seamed white stockings that said “Spread me” in the language of lingerie—when she thought of that, Avery Jacobsen soon-to-be-Vance went wet to the knees, put her hand where she shouldn’t, and sighed.

It was true, then; she was a whore. Shameless, insistent … Good God, that feels good. She steadied herself against the mirror and rubbed faster, wondering if somehow she might get away with a quick one, spread wide on her back with the wedding dress gathered—no, no, fucking no, she’d just wrinkle it. She looked hungrily into her own eyes and rubbed herself gently—just a few more strokes, not a full wank or anything….

Oh my God, being shaved makes you sensitive, Avery thought as she struggled with whether she ought to come.

No, of course not, she decided: Tradition. Wasn’t that the tradition? Get all worked up before the wedding, sure, but wait to come until your new husband fucks you. If it’s not a tradition, it should be, right?

She’d been to plenty of weddings. Brides and grooms in the modern day seemed to change into jeans and T-shirts before hopping on Kawasakis or into rented Porsche convertibles for a honeymoon in Napa. Not so with Michael Vance’s new bride; she’d been told in no uncertain terms she would be spirited away in a Holsman 1907 High-Wheeler reproduction, built from scratch for this occasion—with her very own crackpot inventor at the joystick. She was two-thirds convinced that the thing wasn’t street legal, despite Michael’s assurance that it was. The fact that he’d promised to follow that drive from the Jacobsen home to the Vance Bed-and-Breakfast with a bride’s carry over the threshold if she was good—or a fireman’s lift if she was bad—made her molten inside. Thinking about that cave dweller’s threat-promise would have made her rub faster, if she hadn’t already moved on, in her thoughts, to the growl of his voice at her ear, the warm breath on her neck as he told her with vigor what he’d do to her once he had her inside.

Vance Bed-and-Breakfast: in the family for four generations. Forest luxury. Redwood tubs. Steam showers. Four-poster beds.

Avery bit her lip, panting. Maybe just a quick toss. Just a quick one. Kris could smooth out the wrinkles, right?

Someone fiddled with the door.

Avery gasped. Her heart pounding, she removed her hand quickly from the one place it should really not have been on her wedding day at 11:00 a.m., then adjusted her thong and pulled down her dress.

“Leave me alone, I’m getting ready!”

Whoever it was still fiddled. She could see the knob turning; they hadn’t even knocked. Panicked, Avery checked herself in the mirror. Her dress looked okay. No signs of her recent adventures, other than the almost terrifying pinkness of her face and her cleavage, and the peaks of her nipples showing through the dress.

The door opened.

“Michael!” she cried. She seized a shoe from the nearby rack and threw it at him. He faced it down fearlessly as it struck the door next to him; she hadn’t really been aiming, and in any event, with her glasses off her groom was mostly a blur. Damn that lost contact! She threw another shoe, which clunked at his feet. “Don’t you know—”

“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride—yes, yes, yes,” said Michael, slipping inside. He closed the door and locked it. “But my dear, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“This is bad luck! It’s tradition. Get out! You’re dooming our marriage!”

Avery seized another shoe and threw it, half laughing, as Michael, grinning, closed in on her. He was a hell of an easy target, at six foot four with broad shoulders, but she didn’t really want to hit him—black eye on his wedding day? She’d never hear the end of that one. Nonetheless, Michael got the message—as he’d gotten it before he ever opened the door: This was transgression, raw transgression, the breaking of an ancient taboo to which Michael himself had repeatedly proclaimed his devotion.

It was, therefore, more filthy than anything they’d ever done. And after Avery and Michael’s eighteen months together, there was some serious competition for that slot.

Michael seized Avery Jacobsen and very nearly slammed her against the wall. The feel of his muscles against her made her go loopy. He stooped low to kiss her, and she pursed her lips and turned her head.

“It’s bad luck!”

“Is that right?”

“Yes!” Avery cried. “The worst kind of bad luck!”

“You don’t say,” murmured Michael, and put his hand into her hair, grabbing tight.

Avery gasped, looked up into his eyes, and watched as his full lips turned back in a sneering smile. Her own lips trembled with hunger. He pulled harder; her gasp became a whimper.

“There’ll be lots of this soon, Mrs. Vance,” he growled.

“Not yet, Mr. Vance. I could still change my mind. And some bright bird might object.”

“Let them try.” He grinned, shaking his fist as he looked into her eyes.

Michael kissed her.

She went limp in his grasp as his mouth savaged hers. She no longer resisted, exactly; her squirming struggles against his bulk were familiar and comforting, half weak and half fierce. It was really his hand in her hair that did it. In the weeks before the wedding she’d kept from soliciting his feedback; the comfort of their coupling came from the ease with which she assailed her femaleness, eschewing femininity whenever she thought it unnecessary. With her shorts and T-shirts, her little round glasses, her love of bicycling and her adoration of the works of Geoffrey Chaucer in the original Middle English—which she could recite from memory with a clarity utterly shocking to everyone except her and her professors—Avery was not a high-maintenance girl. She did not intend to be a high-maintenance bride.

Nonetheless, on the matter of her hair, she had craved Michael’s opinion. I think maybe up? she’d mused one day out loud.

No, Avery, down.

Really? Down? she had asked him. He’d answered with his hand in her hair, pulling cruelly as he kissed her with enough ardor to shock Chaucer’s merchant.

So it was that on this, her wedding day, she had surrendered to a sort of a tomboy-chic look, figuring traditionally prim bridal beauty could be forgone at her groom’s request. Now she knew why: the son of a bitch had planned to kiss her like this from the first, to sully their marriage day with the—holy Christ, he was pulling her corset down.

“You can’t do that,” she whimpered. “Everybody’s waiting. My parents … everybody.”

He silenced her with his mouth, hard upon her, his tongue against hers as first one, then the other, teacup tit popped out with nipple already hard, responding to his thumb with goose bumps that went shimmying down her spine and deep into her sex. He thumbed, stroked, kneaded, pinched; she went loose against him, and when his lips left hers there was a string of spit stretched for a moment between them, just as in her favorite-ever movie kissing scene. Fresh, filthy, wet, sloppy—just like their sex life, forever.

“They’ve waited twenty-six years for this day,” Michael said. “Let them wait fifteen minutes while I fuck their girl senseless.”

“You may not,” Avery declared, half convinced, half unconvinced, “fuck me senseless.”

“Of course not,” said Michael, and in moments she was pulled back in his arms and splayed out on the bed, with a yelp. “You’re already senseless.”

“I’m serious,” she panted deliriously. “You can’t. They’re all waiting. I won’t let you do this.”

“Then why are your legs spread?”

“Umm …”

Michael grinned savagely. “So you’re a little whore for your wedding day, are you?” His hands went inside her slim, filmy lace thong, and in moments his fingers slid down her freshly shaved slit, finding her wet as a fountain and her clit throbbing hard. Newly shorn, her sex was exquisitely sensitive; getting dressed, she’d already begun to regret this planned wedding-night surprise, thinking she’d never make it through the day without touching herself. Now she gave it to him hungrily, feeling him explore her newly smooth sex, the smile on his face and the hard cock in his pants telling her everything she needed to know.

She grasped desperately at Michael’s arms, first the one that still held her hair, then the one that was working inside her—holy shit, that felt good!

Avery spread her legs farther and rocked back and forth as Michael began to finger-fuck her. Desperately hungry, she clawed at the front of his tuxedo, cursing buttons and clasps as she fucked herself onto him. He gave her two fingers; when he brought his thumb into the mix, working her clit while her hips worked, her eyes rolled back and she all but tore his tuxedo pants open.

Michael’s hard cock popped free; she went lunging for it, and his hand tightened in her hair.

“Say please.”

“Pretty please,” Avery responded, with not a hint of a smile on her face. This was serious business. “Pretty please, Mr. Vance. Pretty please, may I suck your big cock, sir?”

“My God, you’re a filthy …” His epithet stalled in his mouth, because he’d loosened his grip on her hair and she’d lunged smoothly forward, her red-painted lips gliding down his full shaft before he even knew what was happening. With his left hand now free, Michael reached down to caress Avery’s nipples; she squirmed and rocked on his fingers as she slurped, both hands circling the base and caressing his balls.

There was a loud knock at the door.

Avery’s wet mouth came free. “Go away!” she called. “I’m still getting ready!”

“We can’t find—” It was her father’s voice.

Her mother hissed furiously, almost inaudible, “Don’t tell her that!”

“But we can’t find the groom,” said her father, his stage whisper as inexpert as only a sixty-year-old man having kittens can produce. “Where’s Michael?”

“He’ll be here!” cried Mom. “Let’s leave her alone!”

Long before that last statement, Avery’s mouth had returned to her paramour’s cock, gliding quickly up and down as she looked up at his brightening eyes. He worked a third finger into her, the tightness of her sex making him need to press harder to keep his thumb firm on her clit. She could not suppress the deep, throaty moan that made her lips tremble around Michael’s cock.

“Careful. They’re all waiting. They’re downstairs in the garden. They can hear every moan.”

Avery shivered all over, mounting quickly toward orgasm. She pumped onto his hand, thinking desperately, They can. They can hear when I moan. They can hear it. Oh, God …

Then she came, her hips going crazy as she shook all over, her moans stifled by Michael’s cock deep in her mouth—so deep she would have choked if, expert that she was, she hadn’t taken a breath before climaxing.

As the last of her orgasm pulsed through her body, Avery slipped her wet mouth off Michael’s big shaft and, stroking it with her hand, looked up at him. “Fuck me, Mr. Vance?”

“Spread wider,” he told her, and she did, relinquishing her grip on his cock and reaching down to steady her thighs as she held them wide open for him. Michael positioned himself, guiding his rod to her sex, plucking the slim, white lace thong out of the way, and looked deep into her eyes as he nuzzled his cock head up and down in her slit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” She could not stop saying it; her cunt was so sensitive from the explosive orgasm she’d just had that the gentle touch of his cock head against her opening was enough to make her shudder all over.

Michael grinned. He did not intend to stay gentle for long.

Avery’s back arched; she lunged to embrace him as he penetrated her, but Michael’s hand rested in the center of her chest, holding her at bay while he entered her fully. Her mouth opened wide and she shuddered in soundless moans, unable to find the breath to cry out as he fucked her. He held her, one hand on her chest, the other languidly grasping one knee, helping hold her open, exposing her sex as his hips began to work.

“I’m going to come again,” she said softly, her voice all but ravished by pleasure. Michael withdrew his hand from her chest and put it on her clit, fingers splayed where her pubic hair had been. His thumb worked her clit in small circles, teasing gently at first and then harder, harder, rubbing fiercely as he pumped his cock into her, seizing her eyes with his own, looking deep into her as she trembled all over and came hard—and then Michael let go, fucking deep inside her and coming while she breathed a deep sigh and accepted him.

“Ready for marriage?” he asked as he withdrew.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Still got plans for that four-poster bed?”

Michael grinned and zipped up. He helped Avery to her feet and the two began working furiously to right her corset and her dress. It was not quite perfection, but after a touch-up of her lipstick, she looked rather like a bride who’d been crying.

“Just stick to the story,” said Michael. “You’re crying from happiness—not because you’ve been deep-throating cock.” “You’re a savage,” said Avery.

Michael cinched up her corset, bent her over and smoothed down her dress.

At the door, Daddy pounded desperately, in hysterics. “Av, we can’t find Michael! He’s nowhere to be found! Have you seen him?”

Michael winked, said, “Think eighties teen comedy,” and his lean, six-foot-four frame went smoothly out the window. She heard him climbing the drainpipe and scrambling onto the roof. She thought, Well, that’s it, I’ll be marrying a corpse.

But there was no crash or thump, no great cry of a groom with a broken back—just the thunder of footsteps on the roof, and the climb down the far side; for fuck’s sake, that man sure had feet.

If anyone missed the thumping sound of Michael leaping off the rear deck onto the gazebo, they were clueless—but then, this was her family.

When she opened the door to embrace her hysterical father, Avery really was crying—with a great explanation.

“I don’t have anything borrowed!” she cried.

“Jesus Christ!” cursed her father, and she clutched him tightly, then winked at her mom—who, from the suspicious look on her face, knew exactly what she’d been doing in there.

Outside, she heard cheers and people crying out Michael’s name. “Oh, thank God,” said her father. “He’s shown up.”

“Look at that,” said her mother. “He hadn’t sped away in that goddamned jalopy of his, after all.”

“Yeah, he was busy,” said Avery, taking pleasure in her shamelessness; it still eluded her father, but Mom rolled her eyes—a mother knows.

Outside, Pachelbel’s “Canon” was playing; tradition, right?

Avery kissed her father on the cheek. “Come on, Dad. Walk me down the aisle.”

“With pleasure,” he said, relaxing with a sigh.

She wiggled, straightening her dress. She felt suddenly lucky. She decided she had the best, the very best, kind of good luck.




Something Old, Something New


Sophia Valenti


I sighed softly as I lowered myself onto Justin’s cock, relishing the familiar yet thrilling sensation. My eyes nearly fluttered closed as I savored that initial moment of penetration. I struggled to keep my gaze locked on him, and I was rewarded by the sexy look of longing etched on his handsome face. Although I could tell he was nearly consumed by lust, he didn’t dare think of rushing me. He simply rested his hands on my hips, his fingers occasionally clutching my flesh, but otherwise holding himself still as I enveloped him with agonizing slowness. The anticipation was sweet and the wait maddening, but it only served to make us hotter.

Justin and I had been so busy orchestrating our wedding during the past few months—and, more recently, being gracious hosts to our out-of-town guests—that we’d barely had time to breathe, much less have sex. But finally, it was all over and we were alone—completely, totally and blissfully alone. I didn’t need flowers, limousines or a frilly dress to be happy. All I needed was his hot shaft plunging inside me. I wanted to lose myself in the pleasure that only he could give me.

When I felt my bottom hit his plush sac, I let out a happy little gasp and ground down against him, rhythmically shimmying my hips. Each sharp spark of friction against my clit was like a match strike, the sudden influx of heat inflaming my lust and inching me closer to orgasm. I bucked and moaned, stroking the dark hair sprinkled across his muscular chest. I was torn between wanting the moment to last forever, and being desperate for release. I could see the same lust smoldering in my husband’s gray eyes. I was hopelessly lost in ecstasy, but as always, he knew what to do and how to take us over the edge.

Justin lifted me off him and positioned me on my hands and knees on the bed, so quickly that he made me laugh out loud. But that exclamation of mirth turned into a loud groan as he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back against him, shoving himself inside me with one smooth motion. I glanced over my shoulder and smiled, knowing that I was in his very sexy and capable hands.

As I turned away from him, a flash of white caught my eye. It was the extravagantly priced French silk negligee that my maid of honor had insisted on giving me as a wedding gift. There it was, neatly draped over a nearby chair: a luxurious, full-length gown with a beaded bodice and delicate lace trim. I’d never even put it on. I had been considering slipping it over my head when Justin had stepped out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower. The sight of me standing there naked had been enough for him, and he’d immediately swept me off my feet and dropped me in the middle of the mattress.

Justin kept up his steady pace, pumping into me and occasionally leaning down to scatter kisses on my freckled shoulders. I tossed my head back and bucked my body against his, wanting him to thrust into me harder and faster. The slapping noise of flesh meeting flesh was hypnotic, sending me deeper into an erotic trance. Justin reached underneath me and cupped my breasts in his warm hands. His fingers danced over my nipples, making them achingly erect. He teased the tiny nubs, squeezing them between his fingers and thumbs until I gasped. The little bursts of pleasure-pain caused a rush of wetness to flood my pussy, and I began to corkscrew my hips as I continued to rock back toward him.

I may have begun our encounter with the desire to go slow, but that thought had completely flown from my head. I could hear Justin’s erratic breathing, and I knew that he was also rapidly approaching his limit. I closed my eyes and concentrated on what I was feeling: the blissful sensation of fullness that was now coupled with his fingers strumming my clit. I was so slippery wet—and thrashing about so intensely—that I wondered if he’d be able to keep up his delicious actions. But I had nothing to worry about, because after only a few minutes of his determined circles against my puffy button, I felt weeks’ worth of sexual tension disappear in a fabulous explosion of pleasure. I locked my thighs tightly together, trapping his hand and making an even tighter tunnel for his thrusting cock. Justin was clearly on the edge and didn’t let me distract him from his goal. As I shivered beneath him, he bucked into me one last time. I felt his shaft pulsing inside me as he let out one final groan and then collapsed against my back.

Gradually, my senses returned as we lay entwined on the bed. I glanced out of the window of our little cabin and saw the inky blackness of the night punctuated by the glittering stars we were never able to see at home in the city, even from our apartment building’s rooftop. The ship we were on was gliding through the Gulf of Alaska as we cruised our way toward fields of ice-blue glaciers. Most of our friends thought we were crazy, wanting to honeymoon amid snow-capped mountains, but Justin and I were never much for beaches, so we’d politely declined everyone’s well-intentioned recommendations of resorts in Jamaica and Cancun and forged our own way.

Justin lay back with me in his arms, trying to catch his breath as I lost myself in my thoughts. Sex with him had been amazing from the day we met, but I did occasionally have nagging little worries. Would we still feel the same way—have the same desire for each other—one year from now? How about ten or twenty? I’d heard married friends complain about disappearing sparks and mind-numbing routine creeping into their beds. I didn’t want that to happen to us, but I wasn’t yet convinced of the possibility of lifelong passion. I wanted to believe that it wasn’t a pipe dream. I knew there were happily married couples out there, and I hoped that Justin and I would be one of them.

Once we’d rested, we were both eager to rejoin the world. Well, the world as it was at that moment. Since we’d boarded the ship, we’d been hidden away in our tiny cabin. It was late and well past the official dinner hour, but we were ready to put on some clothes and explore what would pass as nightlife aboard our floating hotel. We weren’t expecting much, to be honest, because we’d been warned by our travel agent that the vacationers who favored that particular tour were often considerably older than us. We’d confirmed that fact during our check-in, when we’d noticed that most of the people surrounding us were elderly couples and there wasn’t a single child in sight.

I collected my tousled auburn curls, slipped on a dress and heels and headed out the door with a casually attired Justin, who led me through a maze of decks and hallways toward one of the ship’s lounges. As we approached the doorway, I could hear the smooth notes of an old standard that sounded as if it was being performed by a live band.

We crossed the threshold to find a cozy lounge lined with red velvet banquettes and dotted with small round tables. There were a handful of sweet-looking older couples slow-dancing to the band’s interpretation of an Ella Fitzgerald classic. Justin smiled and squeezed my hand as he led me out onto the dance floor. As I swayed in his arms, my eyes kept wandering to a handsome-looking man and woman who seemed to be greatly enjoying each other’s company. They appeared to be much younger than the other people who were twirling around us, but they still had a good twenty-five years on me and Justin.

The man was tall and tan, and his dark hair was fading to gray at his temples. Every time he laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he’d occasionally lean forward to kiss his companion on the top of her silver-streaked head. His dance partner was a trim lady who was smartly attired in a stylish black dress that I envied, her bare legs looking as fit as those of a woman half her age. Her hair was styled in a chin-length bob that accentuated her high cheekbones and beautifully framed her face. They effortlessly danced across the floor, looking breathtaking and elegant, and seeming to have eyes only for each other. But it wasn’t just their good looks that caught my attention. There was something about the way they interacted with each other that seemed so alive and affectionate: the way he’d stroke her cheek, the way she’d melt into his embrace. I actually wondered if they were newlyweds themselves. Don’t get me wrong, the other couples also seemed like they were having a swell time, but I didn’t sense the same sort of electricity sparking between them.

Justin pulled me closer, and we danced out the rest of the song before stopping for cocktails. As he handed me my drink, he noticed that I seemed distracted, and questioned me about it. I discreetly pointed out the arresting pair, who were still gliding across the floor. The man’s baritone laugh mingled with her lighthearted chuckle, creating a sweet melody that merged seamlessly with the music.

“They just seem so happy,” I said in an awestruck whisper, as I followed their every move.

“That’ll be us in thirty years,” Justin said, kissing me softly on the cheek. My eyes met his and I smiled. I was feeling more confident by the second that he was absolutely right.

Justin and I spent the next day enjoying all that the ship had to offer, and that evening eagerly dressed for dinner. After weeks of eating fast food on the run and dealing with seating-chart crises, it was luxurious fun to don formal attire and head off to the ship’s dining room. It was as if we were going out on a dinner date for the first time in months.

We were to share our table with only one other couple, who had not yet arrived as we took our seats. I wondered which pleasant set of grandparents we’d be spending our evening meals with. At the same time, I saw the attractive pair from the lounge enter the dining room and stride toward us. My mouth literally dropped open in surprise, but I managed to regain my composure before they’d reached the table.

Rafael and Suze greeted us warmly and introduced themselves before taking their seats across from us. We announced that we were on our honeymoon, which made them both smile as they told us they were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. So much for them being newlyweds—although they could have fooled me! As we chatted throughout our meal, the depth of their affection for each other was even more obvious in such a close, intimate setting. I could sense their connection, and without either of them ever saying anything remotely sexual to each other, I just knew that sparks still flew between them. During our conversation that evening, Suze assured me that there weren’t any deep, dark secrets to being a happy couple, aside from remembering to have fun and enjoy each other’s company. It was as if the heavens had made our paths cross to allay all of my unspoken fears about married life.

For the rest of our weeklong trip, I looked forward to our dinner conversations. I found the two of them absolutely charming, and I eagerly listened to their stories. The entire trip was everything I could have wished for: plenty of alone time with Justin, the opportunity to meet new, interesting people, and awe-inspiring views of Alaska’s sweeping vistas. However, Justin and I stumbled upon the most amazing sight of our vacation on the last night of our trip.

As much as I’d enjoyed our honeymoon, I was really looking forward to going home and beginning our life together as husband and wife. I was too excited to sleep that night, and I was sitting up and gazing out our window at the full moon. Justin wasn’t having much success falling asleep, either, and since it had been unseasonably warm the past few days, he suggested we take a walk outside on the deck.

I slipped on a spaghetti-strap dress and a cropped cardigan, while Justin stayed in his drawstring pants and T-shirt. His black hair was cutely mussed, and I ruffled it with my hand as I passed him to fetch my sandals. He simply laughed and grabbed the key card for our room before we quietly made our way outside, being careful not to disturb our slumbering neighbors.

The night breeze was soothing—cool but not cold—and perfumed with the scent of the salty sea. Justin wrapped his arm around my waist as we strolled along the deck. Aside from the crashing of the waves against the sides of the ship, there wasn’t another sound to be heard—until we approached a nook near the ship’s bow. We soon realized we weren’t the only night owls on board.

As we neared the corner, we heard voices—those of a man and a woman. They sounded like hushed, breathy whispers with a decidedly erotic edge to them. I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at Justin, my lips parted in surprise. I could easily make out his amused smile in the silvery glow of the moon. Silently, he cocked his head toward the source of the sound and urged me onward with a steady hand at the small of my back.

I was conflicted. The strangers’ whispered words were becoming interspersed with feminine moans. Their encounter was escalating, as was the pace of my rapidly beating heart. I knew we were about to spy on a couple’s most intimate moment. The rational part of me knew that it would be proper to turn away and head back in the opposite direction. But at that moment, the last thing I wanted was to be proper.

Justin and I hugged the wall, ensconcing ourselves in shadow as we approached the bend. My husband urged me in front of him, resting his hand on my shoulder as, together, we peered around the corner. There, in an oversize deck chair, were Rafael and Suze. He was sitting up and his wife was facing him as she straddled his hips. Her silky white robe was parted slightly, showing off her delicate shoulders, and her silver-haired head was tilted back as Rafael trailed sensual kisses down her neck. Her whimpers carried on the night air to our ears. The hungry, desperate sound of her cries made my own sex ache with longing.

Suze tangled her hands in Rafael’s thick hair, her diamond wedding band glittering in the moonlight as her fingers roamed wildly. Rafael responded by pulling her robe off her shoulders, stripping her to the waist. Her teacup-size breasts were capped by already-erect nipples that her husband clearly found irresistible. His mouth slid downward to kiss and suckle each nub in turn. Her moans of pleasure increased in volume. It was as if they were in their own private world, even though that world happened to be in a very public place where they could be discovered at any second.

Of course, they had already been discovered, but Justin and I were careful not to make a sound. I was nearly holding my breath, feeling the dampness in my panties grow as I took it all in. I was hesitant even to blink. Their passion for each other was electric and inspiring, and I didn’t want to miss a second of it.

Justin was resting his head on my shoulder, and I heard his gentle breathing grow more erratic. He turned toward me, and the hot puffs of air that he exhaled against my neck caused shivers to travel down my back. I wiggled against him playfully, and I wasn’t surprised to feel his cock thickening underneath his pants. He swallowed a moan and grabbed my hips, both to still me and to pull me tightly against him. I kept staring at Suze, who was grinding against her husband as my own man began bunching up the sides of my dress to expose me to the night air. I silently thanked myself for being so lazy and forgoing panties; they would have only gotten in the way.

I blindly reached behind me to grope the bulge hiding in Justin’s pants. With his help, I eventually managed to tug them down enough to release his erection. It popped free from the waistband of his pants, which were now bunched at his hips, and I wrapped my fingers around his warm flesh, stroking him gently and pulling him toward me as I watched Suze rise and reach between her spread thighs for Rafael’s erection, which she’d freed from his shorts. I bent forward slightly, urging Justin to slip inside me just as Suze lowered herself once again, her head turned toward our hiding spot. It was almost as if we were in her line of sight and she were mirroring me, although I was fairly certain that we were still hidden in shadow and it was all simply a sexy coincidence—especially since Suze didn’t seem startled in the least.

I bit my lip to ensure my continued silence as I rocked back against my husband, my ears full of our friends’ moans and groans. Watching such a private, forbidden scene was thrilling, and the knowledge that we could possibly get caught ourselves excited me in ways I didn’t know were possible. I’d never done something so daring before, and was fairly sure my husband hadn’t, either.

Justin steadied me with one hand on my stomach and the other cupping my left breast. He gently toyed with my nipple as he kissed my neck and buried his face in my windblown curls. I, however, kept my eyes locked on the couple in front of us. Rafael had grabbed Suze’s hips and was raising and lowering her on his cock as she threw her head back and moaned loudly. The two of them were gilded in moonlight, their figures glowing as though they were imbued with some sort of sensual energy that I could see as well as sense.

I braced myself with one hand against the wall as I reached between my legs with the other. My fingertips grazed Justin’s cock the second before he thrust himself back inside me. I reached for his shaft again when he pulled out of me, to gather up some of my sticky wetness. He moaned at my brief touch, and I brought my slick fingers to my clit, too impatient to wait another second. Justin continued to thrust himself in and out of my clasping sex as I rubbed my puffy button in frantic circles.

Justin’s dick was hitting me exactly where I needed it to in order to trigger my release. I struggled to keep my eyes on Rafael and Suze, but the sensual image in front of me seemed to shimmer like a desert mirage as my sense of sight was dulled by the ecstasy swelling inside me. I let the feelings overwhelm me as I spasmed in pleasure, squeezing Justin’s thrusting shaft and sparking his release. He came with a whispered groan against my neck, holding my body tight to his.

Our friends’ orgasmic cries were still ringing in the air as we caught our breath. Suze collapsed on top of Rafael’s strong body, and from our hideaway we heard their breathless laughter, which inspired restrained giggles of our own. As they lay there together in an exhausted embrace, we straightened our clothing and sneaked off before we could be discovered.

As we rolled our luggage through the ship’s lobby the next morning, we heard our names being called behind us. We turned to find our dinner companions, who wanted to say goodbye. Suze hugged me tightly as she congratulated me on our wedding one last time and wished me a lifetime of happiness. “Although something tells me,” she said with a wink, “the two of you are going to do just fine.”




Kiss the Bride


Lana Fox


“No, lower,” said Jake, sliding my fingers down his side. His breath was warm against my cheek as he pressed me to the wall. “So I pull your veil off—” he mimed doing just that “—and throw it on the ground … like this … and now …” He cupped my face, leaning right in, and I felt my eyelids closing, felt his thigh brush mine. The smell of him filled me—a strong, herbal heat—and I parted my lips, ready for his.

“Just a stage kiss,” I whispered.

“Sure.” He opened his mouth on mine.

“So let me get this straight,” I’d said, the night Dan offered me the part. “I have to screw this guy in front of—what?—a hundred people?”

Dan groaned across the phone line. “Sweetness, it’s an act. Besides, the boy’s hot. If he liked men, I’d be in there like swimwear.”

“Do we have to do the sex?”

“Darling, it’s amateur theater. Who’s gonna come if there’s no serious action?” Dan, who was training as a drama teacher, was required, as part of his course, to stage a play for adults. “Besides,” he added, “they’ll be generous on the feedback forms if we make ‘em hot ‘n horny.” He went on to tell me what Kiss the Bride was about. Two marriages—one that starts well and one that doesn’t. “Two brides, two grooms,” he said.

“So you wrote a play that has no gay characters?”

Dan gave a snort. “I’m obsessed with weddings, dollface. And it’s not as if I’m ever gonna wear a veil myself.”

I asked him how explicit the sex was going to be.

“Think steamy.”

“Keith’ll kill me,” I said.

“Well, if he won’t give you mouth-to-mouth the bastard can’t complain.”

Dan was right. Since the arguments had started, Keith and I had hardly kissed. We’d fight, get hot and bothered, then he’d turn me to the wall, enter me briskly and take me. It wasn’t bad sex, but it was all about the fight, and he gave me no passion, no warmth. And the kissing rarely happened—even when I begged. Oh, many times, when we weren’t fighting, I’d fall to my knees as if I was joking, pleading for a kiss.

“Me first,” he’d say, pulling my head toward his groin. I’d feel his fingers running through my hair—and this, at least, was a kind of affection. Then I’d quickly unbutton him and take him in my mouth. His long groans of pleasure made me feel like I was wanted, and he’d slam his head back so it thumped against the wall, crying, “Terri, oh baby, go harder …” When he came, he’d ram against my throat, and though I’d gag, I felt like I was his.

But afterward, he’d laugh and take me in his arms, just for a minute before he drew away. “I should shower,” he’d say, blue eyes crinkling. And I’d watch him walk off, buttocks perfect in those jeans, my lips tingling, an ache between my thighs.

Dan always said, “If ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ is his idea of tender, the guy isn’t worth it. Let him go.”

But I’d stand up for Keith. A medical student, he worked most nights, and I’d find him in the early hours, sighing over his books. Sometimes, in those moments, I’d come and kiss his head, and startled, he’d reach up and squeeze my hand.

“Dan, he’s training to save lives,” I’d say. “I have to give him some slack.”

“Dollface,” said Dan, who knew me too well. “No man who treats you badly is getting slack from me.”

Jake, who was to play my onstage groom, really wasn’t my type. For starters, he was fair, and I’d always liked them dark, plus he thought he was God’s gift. Once, when he caught Dan eyeing his arse, Jake sauntered up, tipping him a wink. Dan laughed it off. “You’re a prick-tease, love. You know I’d eat those buttocks!” And Jake grinned sexily, enjoying the attention.

Still, onstage the boy was sublime. He occupied the space with a pantherlike grace, touched my body easily without a single prompt. The first time we practiced the proposal scene, he fell to his knees and kissed my hand; the feel of his lips, so warm against my skin, and his breath on my wrist made me flush. For the first time, he gave me The Look—twisting his head, he glanced at me sideways, blue eyes glinting, smile half-cocked. I’d never been regarded with such absolute flirtation. As Dan directed from the seats below the stage “—Jake, hon, turn or we can’t see your face—” Jake remained kneeling beneath me, my hand still in his. While he talked with Dan, he stroked my fingers, and I imagined those hands sliding down my body. A few inches closer and he’d be against my groin, unbuttoning my jeans with his teeth. I let go of his hand. He cast me a grin. Then, still replying to Dan down below, he idly touched my thigh. As he slowly caressed, I felt my breath give, and I arched against him, imagining his mouth.

“And Terri, love?” called Dan, from the row below us, his sandy-colored faux-hawk soft beneath the lights. “A touch more romance! He’s inviting you to marry him, not ride him like a mule.”

Blushing, I asked what he meant.

Dan flapped a pale hand. “More Audrey Hepburn, less Joan Jett. You’re eyeing him up like he’s sex-on-a-stick.” And I’d notice, in that moment, Dan’s wandering gaze, as he himself inspected Jake’s superhot bod.

But Jake was now feeling up the back of my thigh, leaving a trail of heat. “Okay,” I gasped. “Hepburn. I’ll give it a try.”

I liked Dan’s idea for the sex scene. While Lee and Tina staged a fight to our left, Jake and I, to use Dan’s phrase, would be “at it like bunnies.” The sex was meant as the ultimate contrast—though our marriage started well, Lee and Tina’s was doomed. As Jake and I stage-fucked, the classical music would build, and both scenes would come to a climax.

“Listen, cupcakes,” said Dan one night. “Before we rehearse the sex scene, you two should prep it yourselves. Bring me something you’ve worked out already. I’ll add my thoughts. Okay?”

“I forbid it,” Keith had announced the week before. “No sex scenes. He so much as touches you, and you and I are through.” This seemed unfair. After all, I’d recently caught him with Ella Rogers in the beer garden at the Stony Swan. It was December, and the garden was empty, the wooden tables slick with ice, but there was Ella on the edge of one, thighs parted, spine arched, knee-high boots jerking as Keith pounded into her. She’d dropped back her head, eyelids closed, scarlet lips glossed with saliva, and Keith was grunting like a dog in heat, his hips thrusting, his hand on her breast. As he grew wilder, Ella’s eyelids fluttered and she cried, “Oh, do it, do it …” and the table jolted beneath them, as her fingers gripped the wood. But I’d soon forgiven him, knowing it was for kicks. Besides, Ella Rogers went with anyone who asked.

Yet now he was jealous of a sex scene? I felt my anger spark.

In our bedroom, as he was pulling on his socks, I told him he couldn’t stop me. “After the thing with Ella …”

“Sex is different for men,” he said. “We don’t attach like you do.”

“Tell me about it!”

He rose and grabbed my shoulders. “You wanna do your sex scene? Fine. But I’ll be there, so you’d better behave.”

I blinked at him. “You mean I can get you a ticket?” He’d never come to a play of mine before.

Softening, he smiled. “I’ll be there, Terri, baby.”

“To check on me? Or what?”

“I just want to see you shine.”

But I knew the sex scene was still an issue, so backstage, I told Jake we couldn’t meet at my place. “My partner wouldn’t like it,” I said.

Jake gave a boyish shrug. “Let’s do it at mine.”

We agreed to the following evening. He winked as he walked away.

That night, in bed, I dreamed of screwing Jake, his body hard on top of me, his hands on my breasts. I could feel him filling me, warm between my thighs, and thrusting with a wildness I hadn’t felt in years; but still, in spite of the vigor, he pressed his lips on mine, moaning into our kisses, drinking at my mouth. The more crazed his thrusting, the hotter our kiss, and I splayed my thighs widely, begging him for more. He worked me deep, plying me open, nudging at the perfect spot that Keith had never reached. But just as I was coming and our bones were jolting hard and the bed was rocking savagely, I woke quite suddenly and found Keith upon me, sweating like an animal, no tenderness, no kiss. I cried out, but he didn’t stop rutting, eyes half closed in the darkened room. “Christ,” he groaned, pelvis slamming down, as he came at my ear with a long, loud moan. At last he rolled off me, groaning with pleasure, and my insides twisted as I saw his proud grin. “See, baby?” he said. “We can screw when we’re not fighting.” And the saddest thing was the kindness in his voice.

The following evening, I stood in Jake’s kitchen as he poured us amaretto. Aroused by our rehearsal, I’d chosen thigh-high stockings, and I kept on flushing at the thought that he might guess. “I’m serious,” he said, with a shy smile. “If we don’t have some alcohol, I won’t be able to do it.”

Amazed at his coyness, which seemed so out of character, I took the glass and asked why he was nervous.

“It’d be fine if you and I weren’t attracted, but.” He shook his head, as if he’d said too much, then raised his drink and downed it. He widened his eyes as he swallowed. “Fuck it, you’re hot.”

I sidled in next to him and said I felt the same.

He laid a hand on my arm. “What would your guy say if he knew you were here?”

“He’d probably throw me out.”

With both hands, Jake smoothed back my hair. “Because we’re rehearsing a sex scene?” I nodded, smitten. “Can’t say I blame him.” His words smelled of almonds. “If you were mine, I’d be just as possessive.”

I wanted to tell him what life with Keith was like—how the sex made me feel cheap, how we rarely shared affection—but the scent of the liqueur on Jake’s warm breath made me lose my thread. It seemed like years since I’d kissed a man, like decades since I’d felt this way for anyone. All I could think of was his mouth on mine. “Why don’t we start?” I asked.

“What? You mean, now?” “Why not? We’re in position.”

With a boyish laugh, he began to walk me backward. “We need something to lean against, remember?” I felt the countertop behind me, felt him pressing up against me.

“That’s better,” I sighed.

“No warm-ups needed.”

His thigh touched mine. His scent drowned my senses. His hands slid down my sides. “So I pull your veil off—” he said, miming just that “—and throw it on the ground … like this … and now.” But all the while, he held my gaze, and I pulled him up against me so I was sandwiched there. He cupped my face.

“Just a stage kiss,” I told him. “Sure,” he said, and he kissed me.

His mouth was wet and sweet with amaretto. I leaned into him, sensing him there, firm beneath his sweater, warm against my chest, and when I felt his tongue I wasn’t surprised, just grateful. Our kiss was seamless, and he moved with ease, raising my thigh, pressing against me. The sudden feel of him between my legs made my body jolt, and I gasped a little, astonished at my need. His hand slipped higher till he found my stocking tops, and then I felt him lunge against my core. The shape of his hard-on dug against my clit and I felt a sudden desperation. “I want you,” I whispered, as he kissed along my neck. “Let’s get it out of the way.”

Suddenly, he stepped back, eyes jerking open. His hair was tousled, his cheeks red. “What does that mean, baby?”

I caught my breath.

“Are you saying once we’ve fucked, you won’t want me anymore?”

“It’s just there’s all this heat between us! Keith need never know…. Once you and I have … done it … this won’t be such an issue.”

He held his head, turning from me. “Dan told me about your man,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve you. But I won’t be a one-time screw. It’s not the way I work.”

“You’re saying you want to date me?”

He spun around. “Of course I do. Why does that surprise you?”

I must have looked astonished, but he still strode up, pushing against me, his hands on the countertop behind. “Is this just an act for you? Being with me like this? Are you faking, like you do with that man of yours at home?”

I told him no. This was genuine. I wanted him.

“How genuine?” he said. “You wanna go to dinner?”

“Maybe,” I said, but I was so damn wet that I foolishly added, “afterward, perhaps.”

“You mean after you’ve used me.”

“That came out wrong.”

He lurched away from me, turning on his heels, walked to the kitchen door and pulled it wide. “Tell you what,” he said coolly. “Think on it. You want to date me, let me know.”

I was floored. “But … our rehearsal?”

“This was never a rehearsal.” The righteous anger in his eyes made me feel ashamed. Still hopelessly in lust, I walked from the room.

“I really am sorry,” I said.

The following weeks, our rehearsals were steamy, not the least because of the tension that sparked between us. Returning to the drawing board, Dan marched us through the sex scene, directing each movement in detail. He’d tell Jake he was throwing the veil too far. “If it falls from the stage we’re stuffed.” And he’d urge him to be more tender. “Frankly, you look angry, hon … is there something wrong?” I was forced to endure Jake’s body on mine, his fingers creeping up my thigh. My skirt would ruche when he raised my leg and pressed himself close. I’d sigh, eyelids heavy, as our bodies fell together, a stiletto dangling from my foot; and through my shirt I’d feel his free hand, clutching, slipping lower, gripping firmly….

“Dollface, that’s perfect,” praised Dan from down below. “But moan a little louder. Project!“ And I’d suddenly realize I’d been trying to keep things quiet, worried that the others would guess I was aroused.

Worst of all was the thrusting. Jake would lunge between my thighs, both of us groaning, and I’d push against his hardness. I’d grow ever wetter, my sex burning up, the scent of him making me drowsy. The contortions I tried for just a moment of his hardness seem crazy to me now; and every time I felt his sex on mine, I’d gasp and slam the wall.

“Lovely, Terri!” Dan would shout. “Sweet Jesus, this is hot!”

When Dan first praised us like that, I realized Jake was laughing. “What is it?” I whispered.

“I’ve never received such kudos for a bit of dry humping.”

Embarrassed, I said I was sorry. He winked. “I’m not.”

Then came dress rehearsals. Which meant undressing. The crowded little room behind the stage was dusty and lined with benches. We could hardly fit all four of us in, and there was no separate place for the women to undress. Plus we had several costume changes—from party clothes to wedding gear to party clothes again. “We’ll act like pros” was Tina’s mantra, as she ripped open her blouse and stepped into her dress. Lee would turn his back and change discreetly, while Jake and I pretended not to watch each other. Truth was, Jake smelled of this heavenly aroma, which flooded the room when he took off his shirt. He knew it, too, and would glimpse me sideways, watching as I tried to stop my tongue from hanging out. To make things worse, he’d strip off yet another layer—a smaller, tighter T-shirt that clung around his pecs—and beneath this, scented and bronzed, he’d linger as I stared.

But two could play at that game.

Hardly noticing Lee, who was changing behind me—and not worried about Tina as she struggled with her outfit—I’d strip right down so I was standing in my bra. Sure enough, as I stepped into my bridal dress, layers of net and satin pooling round my feet, I’d sense Jake’s stare hot on my skin.

One night, he snapped, “Must you always stand there naked?”

“So you noticed?” I said. “I thought you averted your eyes.”

Seeing his mistake, he flushed and said nothing, but unbuttoned his jeans, pulling them down. As he straightened, I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open. There he stood, proud and tall, wearing no shorts whatsoever, his cock long and perfect, his buttocks bronzed and tight. Oh, what I wouldn’t have done to feel him inside me, to have him thrust like crazy as I fondled that ass! When he pulled up his trousers, a smile on his lips, I began to wonder who was really winning here. He sent me a sly grin as he fastened his belt. It was I who was blushing now.

My home life was nothing like the play. Keith slaved away until two in the morning, scribbling notes at the desk in our room, scratching his head so his hair was messed up, groaning, “Anatomy’s hell.” I’d bring him mugs of coffee, massage his shoulders, tell him he was going to be a wonderful doctor; but he hardly said a thing, just sighed and carried on as if I wasn’t there. My own course was in French lit, and I’d sit in the kitchen, reading alone, turned on by the sensual language. Je t’adore. Mon plaisir. Oh, je t’aime, je t’aime. And I’d dream of Jake—his hands, his mouth, his body firm on mine. At other times, I’d reach for my script, testing myself on the lines: Of course I’ll marry you. I feel you in my bones.

When at last Keith and I would get to bed, I’d want to make love, but he’d turn away. I’d ask if he was sleeping with Ella. After all, he came home stinking of the pub. If his nights out were innocent, why wasn’t I invited?

“Look, I love you,” he’d moan, pulling the pillow over his head.

“Then why don’t we kiss?” I’d ask, but he’d already be snoring.

He’s coming to the play, I’d tell myself. That’s the important thing. And when he reminded me to get him a ticket, I booked a front-row seat.

The final dress rehearsal was the toughest yet. Dan had decided our kisses were too quick. He made us practice the wedding scene over and over: Jake pushing back my veil, kissing me fiercely, his scent in my head, his hands sinking…. Then later, while the others performed their fight, we had to mimic sex. Jake smelled better than ever, was fiery when he held me, slamming me hard against the stage wall. The background music built in a rapid crescendo as I ran my hands across his chest. Just before he kissed me, with his fingers on my waist, he whispered, “See how well we’d work?”

And as he leaned in close, I said, “Oh, yes.”

I was so wet I kept forgetting my lines. When we were meant to be romancing or arguing on stage, I was just dreaming of Jake’s firm thighs, and the way I felt him harden as our bodies pressed together. Dan kept getting snippy. “Terri, act for heaven’s sake! We’ve been through this often enough.” And I’d try to focus, not only to save the play, but also to make Keith proud.

On opening night, we were nervous as hell. According to Dan, all tickets had sold. “Full house, darlings,” he said as we waited on the stage. “Now come on, hold hands and gather in a circle.” Dan told us to close our eyes, then guided us through deep breathing. “Let yourselves relax,” he chanted. “We’re all in this together.”

Jake leaned in close and breathed at my ear, “I want your answer tonight. Are you my girl or not?”

“I wish I was,” I whispered, my insides twisting up, “but Keith …”

“Fine,” Jake muttered, letting go of my hand. His rage flared and he was beautiful; with his jaw raised and the pain in his eyes, I longed to be close to him again. But when I curled my fingers around his, he quickly shook me off.

I tried to tell myself this was for the best. Keith would be watching and I shouldn’t get aroused. But in truth, I knew I longed for Jake and loathed that I’d hurt him.

An hour later, I was in the wings with Jake, who was straightening the cuffs of his dress shirt. Our first scene was a dinner party, and standing tall in a paisley bow tie, he was every inch the gent. Nervy, I asked for a hug, but he sighed and shook his head. “It’s hard enough we have to fake sex when you’ve just turned me down.”

Heart thumping, I glanced beyond the stage to the noisy audience. The seats were filled with students chattering and laughing, but where was Keith? When I’d bought him his ticket, I’d checked where he’d be sitting—front row, next to the aisle—and though we were late starting, the seat was still empty. “Where is he?” I said.

“Who?” asked Jake.

I bit my lip.

But Jake grabbed my elbow, twisting me toward him. “See?” he said. “He isn’t gonna come. Terri, he’s not worth it.”

“He’ll be here,” I said, turning back toward the audience. “He knows it’s important.” But no—the lights were dimming and still no Keith.

Throughout the opening scene, I kept checking the empty seat. I even lost a line and had to be prompted. There was a moment between scenes three and four where I needed to rush backstage and change into my dress for my next grand entrance. Pausing by the mirror, I saw myself in white: pearls gleaming on my satin bodice, my skirts shimmering, my veil floaty … If Keith asked me to marry him, I knew I’d never say yes. Snapping from the dream, I grabbed my phone and quickly checked the messages. Keith had texted: Sorry, something came up.

Something came up?

Livid, I ran to position and entered the stage in my wedding dress, approaching gorgeous Jake with the carnation in his buttonhole. This was our marriage scene and I was the blushing bride, but my cheeks were flushed out of rage, not modesty. Dan, who was playing the vicar—his one and only role—gave me a warning look when Jake slid the ring on my finger. Dan was trying to remind me that our kiss was meant to be subtle, but when he said, “You may kiss the bride,” and Jake pushed back my veil, it was I who dived in to kiss my groom. What was meant to be a gentle peck became a fiery clasp, and the audience whooped as Jake kissed me back. Our tongues slid together and he clutched my waist, as I ran my hands down his chest. He pulled away, eyes wide, and whispered, “Had a change of heart?”

Knowing that I had, I gave a nod.

In that moment, I’d worked it all out. Tonight I would pack my things and run to Jake. I had a vision of riding him in this white dress, our hips thudding as the netting crinkled around us. His smooth body arching, our rhythm growing quicker, the bedsprings squeaking in a building crescendo … He would rip off my veil, grab my breasts through the bodice, and I’d tear his shirt open, run my hands down his chest. All that muscle, just waiting to be felt! This dream made me so wet that I started rushing my lines. See, I needed our sex scene.

Now.

By the time Jake was pushing me up against the wall, and Lee and Tina were acting downstage, and the music was starting to build, I’d stopped feeling nervous and was enjoying Jake’s touch. His mouth on mine was violent, his kiss wet and deep. He raised my thigh and I hooked my leg around him, pulling him onto me like never before. He groaned loudly and I felt him growing hard—a fact that made me gasp. As he rubbed himself against me, I reached between us and unzipped. I saw his eyes jerk open, saw him catch his breath; felt my sex burning, so thirsty for his. Then he leaned into my ear, breathy and wet, and whispered, “God, let’s do it.”

I glanced toward the audience, and though I couldn’t see them—just a hundred silhouettes in a long, dark hall—I could feel their stares, could sense their growing pleasure, as we moved against each other. It was as if the whole room was holding its breath, swallowing, readying, leaning forward.

“Screw her!” someone murmured from a seat near the front.

“Is it real?” hissed someone else.

“Jesus,” said a female voice from just below the stage. “This is really hot.”

The music grew louder and faster. Jake grabbed my breast through the tight, boned bodice, and I reached down below again, guiding him inside me. He shuddered as he filled me, and the pleasure of his length made me arch, head falling back. How I groaned to feel him thrusting, feel his teeth on my neck, feel the shape of him inside me growing harder every time, feel the wetness of my clutching sex, my fingers in his shirt, as his warm scent rose.

“I’ve wanted you so long,” he groaned.

I said I felt the same.

I saw him glance out at the noisy crowd, who were muttering and gasping at our obvious display. There were excited whispers, ripples of chatter. Somewhere near the front, a man gave a groan. Turning back, Jake grabbed my face and kissed me, while his hips thrust harder and I spread my thighs wide. I pulled his shirt open, laying my palms on his chest, and felt the quick pummel of his heart.

I tried to call him gorgeous, but only managed, “You feel …”

The heat in me grew heavy like a perfect weight, burning, working deeper till I figured it would give—but no, it kept building as we bashed against that wall, our kisses now wet as my sex. The music burst into a growing crescendo, building and building, dramatic and loud. When at last I was so aroused that the nearness of my coming felt like pain, Jake began to fuck me in a beautiful stampede, and we groaned together, long and deep, the pleasure rolling through us. Only when it died did I notice I’d been drooling, with saliva trailing down my chin.

The actors’ voices behind us fell, and the lights grew dim. It was the end of the first act. The audience applauded, but Jake didn’t move.

“That was quite a performance,” I said.

He didn’t return the joke. Instead, I felt him smoothing my hair from my face. “Don’t tease me, angel. Say you’ll come to dinner.”

Gently, I told him I would. “We should go,” I added, “before the lights come up.”

I felt him slide from me, then raise me in his arms so I gave a little gasp of surprise. And humming an aria, he carried me offstage, my wedding dress loose, my cheek pressed against his lapel.




One Last Time


Saskia Walker


Why have you come back, Frank?

The last customer had left and I slid the bolts home, closing the world out. We were alone. Turning my back against the door, I stared across the pub at him. He sat at the bar as he had all evening, brooding and watchful. When I’d gone about my business, serving the other customers, he’d followed me with possessive eyes, making no attempt to hide the fact he wouldn’t be leaving when time was called. I’d requested space and yet here he was, back again—and on a Sunday night when he knew it would be quiet and I’d be locking up alone. Frustration welled in me. Why did he have to make splitting up even harder than it already was?

As I walked back to my post I was unable to stop myself from noticing the breadth of his shoulders through his worn leather jacket, the way his thick, dark hair brushed his collar, and the outline of his buttocks through snug jeans.

“What do you want, Frank?” I stepped behind the bar, picking up the bar cloth as I went. Moving quickly, I rubbed it across the polished wood counter, trying to ignore him, but his hand shot out and closed over my wrist, halting me.

My back stiffened and tension beaded up my spine. His demanding grasp made my heart trip. I silently cursed myself, because this is what he did to me, so easily. I was aroused by this simple action—an action that merely hinted at the immensity of his power and self-control. My resistance faltered, as he knew it would. My hand fisted inside his grip.

“I want you,” he whispered.

I tried to tug free, but couldn’t. “I told you, it’s over.”

I’d told him that the week before, and he’d stared at me for the longest moment, then nodded and left. Not even a goodbye kiss. I’d shoved my emotional armor into place, but deep inside I was hurting, badly. And now, a week later, he was back. Did he want to say goodbye properly, or did he think I’d buckle and give in to him?

“Mel, you also told me that you loved me.” His eyes blazed across the bar at me, so intense that I couldn’t look away.

My chest tightened, my hand slackening inside his grip. I did love him, and I knew that would never change, but Frank’s a long-distance trucker and he loves the road. “I need a man who is there for me at the end of the day,” I responded, as levelly as I could, “not someone who passes through every couple of weeks to show me a good time.”

“One last time, here and now,” he said. It was a statement of intent, not a request.

Our eyes remained locked, and everything that had been between us surfaced in my memory. This man knew me, inside and out. He could tell what I was thinking, and his thumb stroked the side of my hand. Even though I knew it was wrong, heat pooled in my groin, my body anticipating him. I opened my mouth to object but my core clenched, showing me how much I needed him, and I couldn’t deny it. Instead of words, I heard only my own labored breathing.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/alison-tyler/with-this-ring-i-thee-bed-42418842/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.