Crazy Good

by Rachel Robinson

  The doors open a final time and they appear. Windsor, clutching onto Kathy’s arm, starts down the long aisle. I can’t see past the huge, happy smile on her face and in her eyes. She didn’t wear a veil, because that was my only request. I wanted to see her blue eyes the entire time. My stomach feels like it might implode while every single hair on my body rises. She’s mine. This beautiful creature is mine. It’s unbelievable. Her eyes meet mine and I know what she sees. The fucking dimples, which are probably out so hard they’ll be engraved there for the rest of time. Her simple wedding dress hugs her body and flares out at the bottom, accentuating every curve I’m so obsessed with. Simply put, Windsor is perfection.

  As the wedding march plays, she gets closer and closer. I see smaller details. Her necklace, the trident—that means so much to me. I see her understated makeup and the loose waves of hair that fall over her shoulders and down her back. Her beauty takes my fucking breath away. No one will ever be more beautiful in my eyes than her. It’s a fact of life.

  Kathy leans over and whispers something into her ear before placing her hand in mine. It’s poignant. This moment is so significant. It’s Windsor telling her mother that she loves her, no matter what. It’s Kathy telling Windsor that she’s always been number one. Always. It’s forgiveness. It’s second and third chances. It’s new beginnings. Windsor kisses her cheek and then she focuses on me. Blue eyes glass over. And the tiny fragment of my heart that I held back is hers. Forever.

  The pastor goes through the motions, saying things I don’t hear because I can’t tear my gaze, or focus off of her. I’m sure I’m supposed to respond to something because I feel Steve nudge me from behind. He hands me the ring.

  Vows. I stumble through the words that the pastor tells me to repeat, ending with, “I do.” And me slipping the delicate band of platinum on her finger above her engagement ring. “I love you, Windsor,” I whisper when I look into her eyes. Do I ever. They weren’t scripted words. They burst from me on their own accord.

  She sniffles and tears up through her vows, and as soon as the dark titanium band is in its place on the second finger on my left hand I feel immeasurable relief. I smile wide and wipe a small teardrop from beneath her eye. I pull her against my chest. She’s my wife. Windsor Hart is my wife.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride,” the pastor says. I do hear that much and I do exactly as I’m told.

  I kiss my fucking bride. Then I kiss her some more because I just can’t stop. The roar of applause breaks out and I feel Windsor’s smile against my mouth. She pulls away to break the kiss and squeals in delight, covering her mouth with her free hand. I raise our joined hands in the air and Steve lets out a huge whoop from behind me. Manly shouts from the rest of my uniformed teammates break out, and it’s complete and utter chaos. The best kind—the Team kind. My brothers. I swoop up my wife and walk down the aisle with little Goose close behind.

  The music starts up again, but I’ve already got her outside the church alone. And all mine. I put her and all the layers of her dress down on the steps in front of the church. “Mrs. Hart,” I whisper.

  “We are married. Oh my gosh. You are my husband,” Windsor exclaims, rubbing my wedding band. “It was perfect, Maverick.”

  I lean down and kiss her. For real this time. With tongue and passion, tilting her head with my hands to get the perfect angle. She moans into my mouth and her small, cold hands come up to cup the sides of my face. I lift her off the ground, pulling her against my body, but keep kissing her.

  I hear a female throat clear from behind me. Windsor’s head darts at the noise. It’s Morganna. “The masses will be out here any second and this looks like it’s about to turn into wedding night festivities a little early,” she says, her southern drawl stringing out most of the words.

  “Why Morganna. Your country is showing!” Windsor says excitedly with a fake country accent. “We can fornicate on these steps if we deem it appropriate.”

  I laugh. God, I love her. She kisses my neck. Then my jaw. I capture her lips with mine.

  “He would be happy. You know that right?” Morganna says, smiling.

  My stomach knots. “I know he would. He wanted this to happen when I wasn’t sure if I deserved this to happen,” I admit sadly, trying to keep my emotions at bay. I put Windsor down, but keep her close at my side. I touch one of my cuff links and close my eyes.

  “Tighten your fucking towel, Mav. You have a reception to put on,” Morganna says before disappearing into the mass of people who swarm around us. I swallow back the memory and focus on the happiness in my heart. The happiness that I get to enjoy because he’s no longer here. His sacrifice indirectly gave me this. Windsor.

  Everyone congratulates us with huge smiles. They shake my hand and hug Windsor. I kiss the top of her head, to remind her I’m still here while well-wishers swallow her alive. Everyone tells her how beautiful she looks and what a lucky man I am. They are all generic phrases that people say at weddings.

  Except today they aren’t generic at all. I am so fucking lucky, for so many reasons. For this reason, I’m going to live my life like the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive.

  For myself. For him. But mostly for her.

  *****

  The reception went by as quick as molasses. I’m sure no one else thought it was that long. I did because the only thing I could think about was how quickly I’d be able to get her out of the wedding dress. I want to make love to my wife. It’s going to take a while to get used to saying that. Or even thinking it. It won’t feel absolutely real until tomorrow after we’ve spent an entire night doing exactly what our vows said: loving and cherishing.

  “How tired are you?” I ask when we’re finally alone in the back of the limo. She kicks her feet up into my lap and I take off her high heels, which I know for a fact have been killing her all night. She won’t admit to it though. I love that she thinks I don’t know.

  She scoffs. “Tired? Honey, I’m just getting started.” I ask her what her favorite part of the day was and we both agree it was the vows. She admitted she didn’t really hear what the pastor was saying either. I wonder if that means we’re not technically married because neither of us paid attention. The night was awesome, the food was good and all our friends were drunk as skunks when we left. That’s a successful party. Both Gretchen and Steve’s speeches were upbeat and happy, not mentioning anything about any hardships. I was thankful they both gave Win happy memories of the night. I didn’t want anything to taint her day. I even talked her into inviting Nash to the wedding. He declined, thank the deities above. But I think she was proud of herself for extending the invite nonetheless. It’s something she’s able to bury in her past and let it be just that…the past.

  Windsor didn’t have anything to drink at the reception, and I obviously didn’t either. I wouldn’t fault her had she wanted to drink all night, though. I just don’t extend that kind of offer to myself. Nothing will cloud our wedding night together. I want to feel everything tonight. When the limo pulls up to the hotel valet, I hop out before the driver can open our door and offer her my hand. Slipping back into her shoes, she takes it, her face already flushed, her eyes all fucking mine.

  I checked in earlier in the day so all of our stuff would be here already and so I could make sure everything was perfect for when Windsor walks in for the first time. This is like a transitioning night. Starting tomorrow she’ll be living in my house all the time. I wanted her to move in with me after Vegas, but she resisted saying that we’ve gone this far, we might as well keep her an honest woman. Which was sort of a joke because I’ve defiled that woman every day since I proposed to her. Sometimes even multiple times a day. She stayed with me most nights because I needed her to. I couldn’t sleep without her. When she had early mornings I would spend the night at her house. Practicality wasn’t really on the top of our list when she decided we wouldn’t live together full time.

  “I know you’re supposed to carry me o
ver some threshold or something, but maybe you should, like, dangle me over the threshold by my ankle to break tradition or something? What do you think? You game?” Windsor asks when we stand in front of the suite door. She has her hands on her hips as she stares at the door like it’s going to bite her.

  “I’m game. You carry me,” I offer. I scan the key card and kick open one side of the French doors, exposing the expansive suite the size of a house in front of us. Her mouth drops open. This was a surprise for her. I’m sure she expects flowers, but what I’ve done is even better.

  “How did you get all of these photos? And blown up this quickly?” she asks, eyes wide. I motion for her to hop on my back. Her eyes dart around taking in everything at once.

  “I’ll piggy back you inside. It’s not technically carrying,” I explain. She has to hike up her dress to get up and I get a small peek of her black, sheer garter. It sends a shock directly to my groin. Keeping her on my back, I walk over to the first series of huge canvases. She slides down, holds my hand, and puts her free hand over her mouth, her eyes teary.

  Julio Bigcock made a return to Facebook to steal every photo of Windsor he could get his fat hands on. Cropped portraits of her smiling face, photos of her and Gretchen, and the rest of her friends. He even went back so far as to get a photo of her and John Nash when they were dating. The photos are larger than life. Literally. They are huge.

  She walks slowly from each image to the next. I stay where I’m at, by the door, and watch her expression as she takes in each one. Windsor gets to the photo. The one I never told her I saw. It’s the group shot of her and the Rosy Team on their night out with Nash. She laughs a little and moves on to view a black and white photo of her and me. She’s sitting in my lap gazing at me with a look of love on her face. It’s not the same as the look she’s giving Nash in the previous photo and that’s the point. That nothing is really as it seems. Different types of love look different ways. A photo of her mother and her when she was in middle school comes next, then one of her and her father at a father-daughter dance taken a few weeks before his accident. At the very end of the row is a photo of all three of them. Her family. Her mother is looking at her father with that same substantial look.

  I wrap my hands around her middle and pull her back against me as she cries happy tears. “My family,” she says. I turn her away from the photo and face her toward the largest canvas in the room. It’s six feet tall and leaning against the bedpost. It’s the first time I’ve seen this one. Windsor looks fucking stunning in this one.

  It’s a photo from only six hours ago. The photographer snapped it seconds after we sealed our marriage with a kiss. Our hands are entwined and raised to the sky. Her face and that smile are the happiest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I vow in this moment to make her that happy every day of my life. Ironically, in the photo that I had no part in choosing, I’m looking down at Windsor with a huge sappy smile on my own face.

  I turn her around in my arms and whisper, “Our family.” I wipe a few spilled tears with my finger. “This is our family now,” I say. She leans up and I lean down, and we kiss.

  “Thank you, Maverick. For all of this. Thank you for our family,” she says reverently. They’re photos. This was easy. Well, the wedding photo wasn’t easy, but anything can happen if you offer the right price. Windsor has given me so much more than photos. I smile.

  “I know how you can thank me,” I whisper while reaching over to the side of her dress where I know the zipper is. During our first dance as husband and wife I mapped that shit out real quick. I know exactly what needs to happen. “I just want you,” I amend.

  “I think we can safely say,” she murmurs while fluffing out her gown, “that is the one thing you got today with absolute certainty.” Windsor pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and cocks her head to the side. Devilish move. “And if you ever wonder how I feel about you, all you have to do is look at that life size canvas of me smiling like a crazy person, wearing a wedding dress, clutching your hand.” Her gaze wanders back to our wedding picture. “You kind of love me,” she says, sighing.

  I use her distraction to unzip the dress. She lets me unsnap the top clip, too. The gown pools around her feet like a billowy carpet. Only then does she look back at me. I’m not looking at her face anymore. Sorry, babe.

  I lace my hands behind my head and pace backward a few steps. “You’re trying to kill me off on our wedding night. It’s the only explanation,” I say, my voice terse as my eyes rove the black-as-night lingerie she wears under her pure white wedding gown. No bra. Only sheer black panties and her black garter. I glance between the wedding photo and her current state, and can’t form coherent words. I get the best of both worlds. I fucking get it all.

  Glancing down and back up quickly, she shrugs. “I wouldn’t dream of it and this old stuff? It’s no big deal. You are supposed to take this off,” she points at the garter with a red fingernail, “with your teeth. No hands allowed. It’s seven years of bad luck if you touch me before your mouth gets it off,” Windsor explains. My man brain gets lost somewhere in between teeth and touch, but I get the gist.

  Loosening my tie by yanking it side to side, I plan my attack. I look at my wife’s body like a challenge. A hot fucking challenge.

  “Oh and to make things interesting…here.” She slides the black thong down and kicks it to me. All she wears is the trident necklace, her wedding rings and the black garter—all things that link her to me. The primal male rears to the surface, beating his fucking chest in victory. “Let me help,” she says, reaching for the buttons on my shirt. My hands reach for her automatically. She tsk’s me, while beaming a huge triumphant smile, all teeth and full glossy lips.

  I take the shirt out of her hands. “I got it,” I fire back.

  She puts both hands up and says, “Fine. Fine. Have it your way.” I strip down to a pair of black boxer briefs while Windsor walks around the suite looking at all of the canvases again. She pauses in front of a wall of glass that overlooks the ocean, her back to me. I drop the stone cufflinks onto a table so I don’t lose them and approach her quietly. Not quietly enough. She spins on me, her gaze darting down to my dick.

  “Seeing as we both obviously want touching privileges while also obtaining a lifetime of good luck I’m going to get to work,” I tell her while dropping to my knees in front of her. She points her leg out while reaching down to raise the garter up higher, until it’s almost level with her God damned freshly waxed pussy. Shaking my head, I glance up at her and raise one brow.

  She hikes her shoulders. “Just leveling the playing field. It’s an easy task, right? Maybe the more you work for it, the better luck we’ll have?”

  I don’t respond. I take the garter in my mouth, blowing a mouthful of hot air on Windsor as I get a grip with my teeth. I smile when I see her skin raising in response. I flick my gaze up to find her watching me, no smile, parted lips, and heavy eyes. I smell how turned on she is. Pressing my palms against the glass beside her ass, I shimmy the scrap of lace down a little further and blow again. This time she whimpers. Let’s be honest. I could have this thing off blindfolded, anesthetized, underwater, at the beach, during a tsunami in mere seconds. She made it a game first. So I take my time.

  When I finally get done a few minutes later, teasing and blowing all the way down to her calf, she says, “Okay good job. Touching commences now.” I come away with the black garter in my mouth. Windsor grabs it out of my teeth and flicks it across the room. It lands on the table where I put the cufflinks. Stone would appreciate that, I think.

  “Touching now?” I ask. She nods reverently, leaning her body against the glass. Well, it is right there. I grab both of her legs and sit them on my shoulders. She wraps her legs around my face and I finally get to taste her. Windsor moans at first contact and I love that I know she always does that. I hope she always will. I also hope there’s no one down on the beach watching me go down on my wife right now.

  “That feels s
o good, Mav. Yeah, just like that,” she pleads, her voice breathy and so fucking turned on that it causes my dick to twitch. “Bed. Bed. Bed,” she repeats.

  I look up to make sure she does indeed want me to stop. She nods, so I disentangle myself from her and stand. She leaps at me, almost taking me down to the ground. Her mouth is fierce, her tongue probing, like she’s trying to taste her on me. Wrapping her legs around me, I grab under her ass and carry her to the huge bed, passing our wedding picture resting against one of the bedposts.

  I fall down on top of her, breaking the fall with my arms. “I want to make love to my husband,” she explains, reaching between our bodies to grab my dick. Her small, soft hand strokes up and down. The word “husband” coming from her mouth makes my heart pound. I get to be her husband. I’m going to wake up from this dream any second I’m sure of it. My dick brain takes over for the moment and agrees with Windsor’s statement whole-heartedly—especially because I haven’t been inside her for days. She was busy with wedding stuff and the night before the wedding she spent away from me. I need this more than food, water, breath…more than anything else. I move a couple fingers to her sex and hot wetness greets me. Sliding one finger in, I feel her gripping me, wanting more. With the wet finger I circle her clit and watch her gorgeous body writhe with pleasure. I lick up the front of her neck and across the bottom of her jaw, over to her ear.

  “I’m going to make love to you now,” I whisper before biting her lobe, probably a little harder than I meant to.

  She grabs my face in her hands. “Yes,” she says before pressing her lips against mine, eyes open, blue eyes gazing into mine. I slide home and her eyes flutter shut.

  “Open your eyes.” She does. I rock into her slowly, softly, deliberately. She moans softly and I know I’ve got the right pace going for her. She raises her hips each time I thrust into her. The world is silent around us except for the sounds of her breathy moans, my heavy breathing, and the rhythm of my strokes as they slide in and out of her tight body. Her hands are around my neck and her lips don’t leave mine as she climbs higher and higher. I know the moment she’s about to come. I’m right there with her this time.