The girl arched and bowed as the man drove his fingers, and her hips lifted when she rose to meet him, adjusting the angle of his thrusts. My pulse kicked when the man leaned forward and buried his mouth between the cheeks of her ass.
“Dirty,” I whispered with excitement.
Royce jerked in my hand. “Yeah? You want me to do that to you?”
Yes.
The girl gasped and moaned. One hand flew back to her husband’s head, but not to push him away. It seemed reactive, like she was overwhelmed by the sensation. Her mouth rounded into a silent ‘oh’ of bliss.
“Maybe,” I said in a hush.
Royce chuckled sinfully and tossed the iPad aside, scooping a hand into my hair. “That’s a fucking yes if I ever heard one.”
His kiss was blistering. Addictive. His tongue pressed to the seam of my lips and demanded entry, and I gladly gave it. While he kissed me, he curled his fingers around the waistband of my shorts and began to stretch them down.
“You should know, this is my favorite part of the day,” he said. “Waking up next to you.” He grabbed my hip and pulled me toward himself, encouraging me to lie on my stomach. When I did, he got on his knees and pushed a finger inside me from behind. “I get to do it for the rest of my life, don’t I, Marist?”
“Yes,” I said mindlessly to both his question and his possession.
His voice was rich, like decadent chocolate. “Because you’re mine.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
Because I was so very his.
My bridal bouquet was a hand-tied collection of white and blush pink roses, set against silvery green sprigs of eucalyptus. It perfectly matched the soft pink bridesmaid dresses Sophia and Emily wore, along with the crystal embellished Manolo Blahnik heels on my feet.
I’d told the florists I didn’t want to see a single stem of lily of the valley. I would have had the groundskeepers dig up Alice’s plants from the garden too, but Royce had beat me to it last October. It was one of the first things he’d done after I’d come home from the hospital.
For appearances’ sake, Alice had spent the last two nights in the main house, back in her old room. The staff was discreet, but people were coming and going as the wedding machine geared up. I’d forbidden her from entering my room as I got ready, but her hair and makeup team was here, texting her pictures and making adjustments based off her feedback.
“I can’t believe Sophia is a bridesmaid,” my sister whispered. “Why is that again?”
“She’s useful.” I used my thumb to turn the enormous engagement ring on my finger like a screw being tightened to hold down my anxiety. “I mean, look at how good she is with Selene.”
My sister turned her gaze across the room to Sophia, who sat on the floor with her pink dress flounced around her, cooing endlessly to my niece in her bouncy chair. In Sophia’s defense, six-month-old Selene was the most adorable flower girl ever. She’d charmed everyone, including the pair of photographers in the room who were furiously snapping pictures.
My parents sat on the couch nearby. My dad looked handsome but uncomfortable in his tuxedo, although I wondered if it were his surroundings that really bothered him. Did he feel like he was losing his little girl to the Hales?
A quiet but persistent stream of tears had been leaking from my mother’s eyes since I’d put on my great-grandmother’s Harry Winston necklace. It was my “something old” to satisfy the tradition. My “something new” was my dress.
The borrowed item was one of the cufflinks from the pair I’d given Royce for his twenty-sixth birthday last month. Ares, cast in white gold, that I hoped he’d wear the day he usurped his father. He rested in the tiny pocket I’d had Donna sew into my dress.
My sister had given me an ice blue handkerchief with the words keep your shit together embroidered on it, which tucked around my bouquet to serve as my “something blue.” So, I had all of the tradition satisfied, my dress and veil on, and my half of the bridal party at the ready. And while I didn’t have cold feet, I had nerves in spades. I was quaking inside the bodice of my dress. The world was spinning too fast.
Selene began to fuss, no longer satisfied with Sophia’s baby talk or the light-up stars dangling from the arch over her chair, and both my sister and my mother made a move for her.
“No, I’ve got her,” my mother said to Emily. “What if she spits up? You don’t have time to rinse it out before we head outside.”
“That means you won’t either,” my dad quipped. “Give her here.” He held out his hands enthusiastically.
“Oh, my God, Dad.” Emily laughed. “You are such a baby hog.”