Stolen September: A Military Romance

“He seems like he’s determined to make you happy.”

We both get off the bed and I let her help me slip the dress on, stepping into it and lifting the long lace sleeves that once adorned her arms. The aunts are skilled seamstresses, and between the three of them they turned my mother’s beautiful gown into something new and special.

“Well isn’t that a sight to see.” Aunt Doris beams, followed by Aunt Elisa, who has her arms full.

“What is all this?” I ask as they put down items on my bed, unwrapping things.

“It’s your something old.” Doris plucks at the sleeve of my mother’s dress.

“Your something new.” Elisa drapes a small bolero over my arms in white rabbit fur, explaining, “I had a man once who liked to spoil me. Bought me this fur which I never wore. Seeing as how it’s winter, you don’t want to catch a chill before the big night.” She winks and my mother fans herself. We’ll need to turn the AC on if this keeps up, because my husband to be is seriously hot.

“And this, my darling daughter, will be your something borrowed.” Mom reaches for a box on the bed and opens it up. It’s her county fair tiara—a beautiful, delicate crown made in silver with pearls and sparkling gemstones. She places it on my head and adjusts the veil. “Perfect,” she murmurs, kissing my cheek.

“Not quite, but I got it. Girl needs something blue.” Doris waddles around my room, reaching for a shoebox. She tosses the lid and pulls out a pair of open-toed blue booties. The same blue as Tank’s uniform.

“Doris, I love them.”

She ushers me to sit at my vanity and helps me put them on.

“Well, I think our work here is done.” Elisa grins, clutching her bosom.

“You think it’s time we had that talk about wedding nights or what?” Doris cackles, and my mother shoos her from the room.

“Pretty sure she don’t need that talk, Phoebe.” Elisa snickers, following them out of my bedroom and giving me a wink.

I’m going to miss my aunts and their meddling ways. I walk to the top of the stairs and see my dad standing below in his best suit, a dark gray pinstripe.

“Beatrice Nicole.” Dad uses my name with a waver in his voice.

I sniffle, taking his arm as he leads me to the car. “Dad, don’t make me cry.?

??

He pats my hand, nodding. “Let’s get you there on time.”

It’s true what they say about weddings: they’re fun to attend but you barely remember your own beyond the fleeting highlights. Champaign was passed, but I barely drank. Food was served, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach had been twisted in knots, being the center of attention. My feet ached from standing, greeting, and dancing the night away. For a rushed affair, Tank did more than deliver on his promise.

The things I remember most from the day start with the way he sighed in relief as I walked up to him, like he was weak in the knees. His perfectly pressed dress blues made him seem larger than life as my dad handed me off to Tank. I’ll remember the vows he wrote, declaring to love me and care for me always as a partner should. I wonder if his dad and mine gave him a crash course on women, the way they bantered back and forth at the reception while I stood across the room being oohed and ahhed over by his mother, mine, and the aunts who seemed to think we missed out on an opportunity for fireworks and another parade through town. I think I’ll always remember the way he grinned, toothy and wide, as the priest told him he could kiss me. My back ached a little from the buttons pressed into me when he dipped me over his knee to kiss me with everyone cheering. It was a heady rush feeling, that love, as my mother dabbed her eyes. As far as fantasies go, Tank is the real deal.

A lacy garter and bouquet toss marked the end of the evening and the beginning of all our tomorrows, with Tank hoisting me into his arms to carry me off into our happily ever after. Sure, my family had reservations. I had reservations, but I also had a man looking at me like I was his everything, and tonight I believed in him.

“My wife.” Tank carries me to our bridal suite. He swings around to shut the door, locking us in. Rose petals are crushed under his boots as he puts me in the middle of the bed.

“Henry,” I whisper, pulling him close. I kiss his lips and taste the shots of whiskey I watched him take with his friends during the party. It’s not nearly as potent as the alcohol, but his lips on mine make me drunk with need.

“Honeybee.” He flips me over and I feel him slowly unbutton the back of my dress. Leave it to my mother and aunts to find the most difficult dress to alter so removing it becomes a tedious chore, stealing more time away from us.

I groan, rubbing myself against the comforter. “Rip it, Tank.” Those little buttons will be the death of me.

“Not a chance in hell.” With each button he slips through the silk fastenings, he kisses my spine with aching precision—a row of neat little nips over each vertebra designed to drive me insane. His hands cup inside the dress, easing it off my heated skin that’s chilled by the automatic AC in the room. My nipples hurt and I crave physical contact to soothe me.

Turning, I glance at him over my shoulder. Hungry eyes meet my own. I struggle to get up. “I can manage the rest.”

His face is a study in determination. I can only imagine the things he’s done in training to prepare him to be a Marine. He’s gone without sleep for days, marched many miles, and hit a target hundreds of yards away with competence. Neither of us have trained to be partners, let alone be husband and wife. I don’t know how we’ll make this work, but the want in his eyes freezes me to my place on the bed. Like most things, I’m coming to learn with this man, I’m sure Tank will show me with action.

“Why should you have to, Bea?” He lays another tender, unhurried kiss along my neck. “We’ll only do this once.” He crawls back up the bed and I flop onto my back, welcoming his hover on top of me.

“Is that all?” I tease him, earning me a much-needed laugh to the brevity that tonight is really all we’ll have. It’ll be weeks before I see him again. What is it with time robbing me of my first newlywed days with my husband? Except this time, I know what thirteen long, dreaded weeks will feel like. We’ll have spent more time apart than together, and even now, with his possessive desire, I don’t know if I’m strong enough for him.