by Kira Blakely
“Is she all right?” a stewardess’ voice penetrates our moment.
“Just a little feverish,” Stuart answers smoothly, not even losing the rhythm of his finger circling my nub with expert precision. “Little shaky. She gets nervous on planes.”
“Oh, dear, is she going to need a bag?”
I don’t dare look but there’s a pause in conversation, and I’m sure they’re examining me, trying to decipher whether or not I’m about to puke. Nope. I’m about to have a reluctant public orgasm because this is my future husband, the master of the house... and I’m his sex slave.
I have to look, and the stewardess watches me closely, her head cocked. To her, I probably just look sweaty and shaky. As long as I don’t orgasm right in front of her, she might keep believing it.
“Are you going to be sick, dear?”
“I... I, uh—ahh—don’t think so,” I finish, trying to rush through and simultaneously needing to pause and hold in my moan.
“Maybe a little one,” Stuart suggests. You can’t tell what he’s doing at all. His muscle control is so amazing, his shoulder isn’t even twitching a little bit.
“Okay then,” the stewardess chirps, flouncing off, oblivious.
“What are we going to do when I have to come?” I wonder, my eyeballs rolling around in my head like I’m possessed, my pussy clenching and grasping at nothing, practically drooling in my pants now. “I’m not going to be able to hold it in any longer.”
“Shh,” Stuart advises simply, taking his other hand and pinning it over my mouth. “There you go. Now...” His dark gray eyes smolder into an even darker shade. “Come for me.”
I whimper longingly against the hard palm of his hand and unleash against him, my entire body shaking in the seat like I’m having a seizure. It goes on and on and he doesn’t stop, leaving behind this Delta flight completely, just like I did.
He extracts his hands from my panties and invites me to meet him in the men’s room in five minutes. Then he stands, buttons his suit coat, and strolls toward the bathroom like we aren’t a couple of sex maniacs set loose in public together. I watch him go, hungry for more, and when we crash together on that tiny sink five minutes later, when his hardness is plunged to the hilt and his seed spurts into me... I know that I can’t go back.
“Get me pregnant,” I groan, my brain hot and loose right now. “I want all your cum, Stuart.”
He levels his gaze at me, and then slowly grins. “My fucking destiny,” he breathes against my lips. “I’ll get you pregnant tonight, Rose. Tonight,” he says, never breaking eye contact.
The annoying banging continues. “What’s going on in there?” A voice – muffled by the door to the bathroom.
“We’re coming,” Stuart snaps, and I have to say it. It’s too perfect.
“Actually, we already came!”
Stuart guffaws and pulls himself out of me, both shimmying back into our clothes, tugging up zippers and exiting the bathroom like it’s nothing, in spite of that miffed passenger.
“God, I want to marry you,” he says as we make our way back to our seats. “Always full of surprises.”
This is crazy but I feel it, too, and I blurt it out. I can’t hold it in anymore. “I want to marry you, too. Forget the promise. I want to be... yours.”
Stuart grabs my elbow and pulls me back against his chest, right in the middle of the walkway. He cups my face in his hand and kisses me soulfully.
“You are mine,” he swears. “You were the only woman I wished for, and you came. Now, Rose, you’re mine.”
Epilogue
Rose
Butterflies riot in my stomach as the corseting on my wedding gown is tied by my maid of honor, Cheryl, whose last name I now know is Benson.
She begged to be in the ceremony when she learned that another Island couple was tying the knot in upstate New York! Exhaling my nerves, or trying to, anyway, I twist from side to side and admire myself in the full-length, gilded mirror in the upstairs of this cathedral.
I’m not sure what this thing cost. Stuart wouldn’t let me know; he covered up the price tag with his hand and bought it for me. But, if the other gowns in that boutique were any indication, it could probably have fed a small country.
The hem of the gown sparkles subtly in the light, inlaid with diamond dust. I like it because it reminds me of the thing that started it all: an invitation with diamonds spangling my name.
Of course... that’s our little secret. Stuart and I are the only ones who know about our history with Mystique Island, except for the Bensons, of course. And the master of the island, di Reyes... who apparently knows a little bit of everything, even if he’s barely involved at all. I heard that he was going to come to the ceremony but I don’t know if that’s true. You know, I’ve heard a lot about him but I’ve never actually seen his face anywhere.
“Rose... you look gorgeous,” Cheryl tells me, hugging me from behind. “And you smell amazing, too...”
I burst out laughing and twist away from my sexy redhead best friend, because this has been an ongoing struggle between the Bensons and the Goldmans ever since we started seeing each other outside of the island. They’re constantly trying to convince us to swing with them! But Stuart says that I can’t. “I can’t bear to share you,” he says. “I’m the only man who’s ever been inside you... the only other person to ever make you come. And I want to keep it that way forever, Rose.”
“All right, all right,” Cheryl allows, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair. Her sex appeal is off the charts, so the slight sting of rejection never fazes her. She arches one perfectly manicured brow at me, considering me with a faint hint of concern. “How do you feel? Ready?”
“I was born ready for this,” I breathe, really meaning it. Stuart Goldman was my destiny. That was why I ended up on that island, even though it went against everything I was told to be and do... Because it was destiny. “More importantly, how do I look?”
Cheryl gives me a light shove and laughs off my vanity. I’m being partly serious, though.
This is my wedding day, and I’m twenty-three-years-old now. I’m tired of looking like a little girl all the time. My golden curls are twisted up into a tight beehive, which works to elongate my tiny face and give me some maturity and grace. The makeup is shockingly light for a wedding day but I’ve never been a big fan of makeup. If Stuart is going to go through with this and take me forever... for better or worse, in sickness and in health... then I don’t need a ton of makeup to convince him. Luckily, he feels the same way.
“You’ll already be wearing one veil,” he joked when I told him my plan to eschew the beautician. “I don’t need any more layers between me and you than whatever the bare minimum is.”
Cheryl confirms for me that the light makeup and the hair and the dress are all perfect together. “You look like a fairy princess,” she says, “but then again, that’s how you always look.”
I scowl. “I want to look like an adult woman,” I remind her. “But I guess it’s not your fault that it’s never going to happen.”
Cheryl grins and toys with the thin gold cross still around my neck. “You look beautiful, and young, which you are. Don’t rush it. When you start to notice bags under your eyes and little lines on your forehead... you’ll wish you could still be insecure about looking too young.”
I laugh with Cheryl, who is only thirty-one and looks no more than twenty-five, and we head downstairs to take our positions before the ceremony can begin. It’s while we’re passing through the entry hall of the massive cathedral—all the guests have been seated and Stuart is probably waiting for me alongside the priest and his best man—when the door to the parking lot bursts open and sends a blast of winter air into the hall.
I spin against the bitter wind by sheer instinct and my eyes go round. My jaw goes slack.
It can’t be, but yet, here they are. Here they are in front of everyone.
My parents.
My “dad” is wearing a suit tha
t looks like it hasn’t been washed since the last time it was worn, and the last time it was worn, he partied hard. It’s just as wrinkled as he is. He’s lost all the luscious hair I remember him having when I was young, and he lost the slim figure that youth and hunger can allow, so that now his belly bows out in middle-aged tragedy. His lifestyle finally caught up with him. You might think that losing his daughter to the state would have been a wakeup call but I know that it wasn’t. It just let him party freely again, like he used to.
My “mom” alongside him wears a dress that looks like it was bought this morning for less than ten dollars. Her makeup is sloppy and thick, probably applied in the car. Her brittle hair is teased to give the illusion of body. Like her husband, much of her youth and beauty is faded and chipped. She partied too hard and now she looks terrible. They’re Stuart’s age but they look an easy ten years older, minimum.
Stuart takes good care of himself. It’s comforting that now such healthy focus and strength surrounds me, too. I finally have a man in my life truly capable of caring for another living thing.
“Impossible,” I breathe. “How... how did you get here, Barry? Rhonda? How did you know?”
I honestly think of them as Barry and Rhonda. I have thought of them the way a child thinks of a negligent stepparent ever since I was very young. They were always tourists in my life. I had to live it every day, taking care of myself, not understanding that I was being robbed of a childhood... and they would drop in and do “Mom” and “Dad” stuff when it suited them. Tourists in my life.
Cheryl’s eyes tick back and forth between me and my parents. “What’s going on?” she wonders. I barely register that the organ music in the chapel has come to a halt. The entry hall swirls around me like I’m going to pass out. How dare they come here? How dare they stop in on the best day of my life?
“We read about it in the paper,” Rhonda says, blinking her big eyes at me like she can’t believe she’s getting this reaction. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s everywhere,” Barry agrees. His eyes are glassy, and I realize with a jolt that he’s probably high. Nothing changed... at all. “We weren’t going to miss our baby girl getting married.”
“I thought your parents were dead,” Cheryl blurts. “But... that isn’t why you got adopted.”
I shake my head. “I was taken from them because they weren’t bothering to feed me, or take me to school, or take me to the doctor,” I explain bitterly. “But now here they are. Suddenly.”
“We were sick!” Rhonda insists. “We were mentally ill, Rose.”
“No,” I answer. “You weren’t. I was there. You were selfish and lazy. That’s why Child Protective Services never sent you to any hospital. The only help you needed was rehab... and you didn’t get it.” Tears cloud my eyes, even after all these years. I thought that I was over this! “You just let me go.”
The doors to the interior of the chapel swing wide and Stuart stands there, holding them open. For just one second, I catch a glimpse of the guests struggling to see what is going on in the entry hall. Then they clip shut and Stuart is the only one staring, looking as ruthless and powerful as a god.
His tailored suit showcases his massive body and I’m sure it makes my parents think twice about setting foot on hallowed ground. His dark hair is beautifully styled but loose. His slate gray eyes, always so warm and attentive when they’re on me, rage like storm clouds right now.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “I saw them leave and I figured something was up.”
I hesitate and nod. “I’m fine.” I glower at my parents and shake my head. “Because I spent my entire childhood making sure that I would always be fine... even on my own.”
Stuart’s rough hand snakes into mine and gives it a squeeze. “But you’re not alone,” he promises me firmly. “You’ll never be alone again.”
I swallow but I close my eyes and I listen. I let the words wash over me. I’ll never be alone again.
“This must be Mr. and Mrs. Parsons,” he guesses. “Am I right?”
I just nod, and Barry comes forward to defend himself to Stuart. This ought to be good. I’ve never heard them defend themselves before... rarely, at least...
“We weren’t like you, and we couldn’t give her all these fine things,” Barry slurs. “But we’re happy that she found them, and we want to share in your...” He loses track of where his sentence is going for a second. “...in your happy day.”
Stuart exhales heavily and shakes his head. “The fine things that Rose has, she deserves, because of the bullshit deal she got on parents.” His eyes on them are harsh. “Get out of here. There is a reason you weren’t invited.”
Rhonda turns her eyes on me and pouts hard. “Baby,” she pleads. “You can’t be serious. We can’t even be here? We can’t even take some pictures?”
“You already had your chance to be there,” I tell her, and Stuart squeezes my hand again. I feel so stable and strong when we’re together. “And you didn’t take it. He already told you, and security is about to tell you again. Get out.”
With downcast expressions, they shuffle back out the door, and Cheryl actually says, “Aw, I feel bad.”
“Don’t.” It’s one of the coldest yet easiest things I’ve ever said. I smile up at Stuart. “Are we ready to do this?”
“Are you?” Stuart wonders with a genuine smile... and concerned eyes. “I don’t want you walking down that aisle with those losers on your mind. When my wife walks down the aisle, I only want her thinking about us.”
“I am,” I tell him certainly. My eyes take on a shine. “I’m only thinking about us, and I’m totally ready. Standing with you feels so strong, and so right. Let’s do this.”
Stuart sweeps me into his embrace and gives me one deep, long kiss, completely breaking tradition and mussing my lipstick. But I don’t care. There are no rules when it comes to us. Whatever feels right is what we do. That’s how we got here, and I’ve never felt better.
“I love you, Stuart,” I tell him when our lips part.
“I love you, too... Mrs. Goldman,” he says.
“And I love both of you,” Cheryl purrs off to my side, stroking down my back with one hand and Stuart’s back with the other.
We grin and shake her off, shoving open the chapel doors. “From the top!” Stuart bellows, and everyone stands as the organ begins its wedding march anew.
Epilogue
Stuart
I’m almost afraid to ask her if she’s ready yet. Rose and I have been married for almost a year now, and it has been heavenly. But the past few weeks, something changed. She became so moody and sensitive. We’re tumbling into fights that I didn’t even foresee being a thing, and now I’m actually scared—in my own home—to open the bathroom door.
I hear a clatter on the sink and hear Rose’s voice utter a low curse. I know when she swears that she’s either very angry or very horny... and I’m not sure she’s going to be horny this early in the morning but I’m leaving on business tomorrow and she insisted on going out for the day. “Since you’re about to leave me all alone for almost three weeks,” she sniffed.
Now I tap at the bathroom door, hesitate, and wonder, “Everything all right in there?”
“Everything is fine!” Rose bellows, sounding completely unlike herself.
I twist the doorknob and open the bathroom door. Her makeup looks a little off, like she’s been applying it while also being upset, and her complexion is blanched.
“What?” she snaps.
“We’re going to be late for our brunch reservation if we don’t leave now,” I inform her, keeping a measured tone. A smart man does not want to set his wife off, and I’m a genius.
“I’m almost finished,” she mutters, letting her tube of lipstick clatter and fall into the sink again, betraying how little she truly wants to go to this brunch now that it’s upon us. “I just... I...”
I think she might cry when she suddenly lunges for the toilet and heaves up her li
ght breakfast.
I go to her, and even though things between us have felt strained lately, I easily pull her hair back for her and gently stroke her neck and her back. She’s a good woman and she deserves my help, even when she’s being a little moody.
But this is odd. She already skipped out on all the sausage and bacon and eggs. “I don’t know, in the trash,” she said when the chef asked her how she wanted her eggs. “I can’t stand the smell right now.”
“I think I’m done,” she says, shakily clambering up from the porcelain tiled bathroom floor. I stand with her and pass her a warm, damp cloth to wipe her mouth and face with. She groans, pressing her face deep into the terry cloth. “There’s something I need to tell you, baby. I was trying to wait for the perfect opportunity but... I’m such a mess, I don’t think anything will be perfect until after this baby is out of my damn body.”
“What?” The words come catapulting out of my mouth. “You’re pregnant?”
“I think so,” she says. “I missed my period this month.”
I sweep her up into my arms and squeeze her tight, until she groans with nausea and I immediately loosen my hold.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so, you know,” she grumbles against my shoulder.
“Oh, baby,” I say, pressing a kiss hard onto her forehead. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her more than I do right now but then again, I think that all the time. And I’m always wrong. “You’ve been perfect. Don’t worry yourself.” I kiss down her cheek and down her neck, cradling her delicate body against my own, fascinated with the image of our child, nestled inside her womb right now. “Let’s cancel brunch and get back in bed. I want to rub your feet.”
*
The next eight months pass in a blur. I thought they would move too slowly and I’d be more prepared for the birth of our son but all the appointments and the classes and setting up the nursery—not to mention my usual business plans—unravel our preparation time and leave us sitting just a couple weeks away from her due date, still not even sure what to name him.