It’s too fucking hot to handle. His mouth goes back to my clit, licking and sucking and nibbling on it until I’m whimpering, and it’s swollen with need. I have to cling to the altar cloth just to have something to hold onto, the sensation is so intense.
I’m going to come. Holy fuck, I’m going to come.
My first orgasm as a new bride is going to be at the altar where I was wed.
No other bride in the history of matrimony is going to be able to top that.
I rock my hips back onto my new husband’s face, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by what a good fucking idea this is. You’d think, right, that I’d be second-guessing myself right about now. Especially since I’m about to smash into an orgasm on the altar of what passes as a church in this state.
But in fact, I feel like I dodged a bullet.
Fuck, I feel like I dodged a firing squad.
Dan the Man was nice while he lasted. But now that he’s fucked things up between us?
Sexy Elvis is all I fucking want.
“Aaaaaaah!” I whimper, and that whimper quickly turns into a scream.
My pussy is undulating. My hips are gyrating. I think I’m fucking ovulating, for fuck’s sake, because every fiber of my being is being forced into hyper-mode, and I couldn’t be hornier even in the wildest reaches of my imagination.
“Is hot, your friend and her husband,” I hear a Russian voice say back in the pews. One of the showgirls, I think. I don’t remember when we picked up the showgirls, but they sure have been fun to have along for the ride.
“Y’all, I am sweating, it is so hot,” I hear Mysti May reply.
And Mysti May sure likes those showgirls.
I think Mysti May might be a little Mysti Gay, come to think.
As I hear kissing and sucking and Russian cooing coming from the pews—and the sounds of a blowjob accompanied by the most expletive-riddled Hail Mary in the universe—I feel Sexy Elvis twist up a fist of my hair beneath my veil.
“You orgasm like a fucking dream, Becky,” he purrs in my ear.
“Let’s see how you orgasm…husband.”
“As my wife wishes,” Sexy Elvis replies.
I turn, kiss my honey off of his lips and unzip his Sexy Elvis jumpsuit like my life fucking depends on it.
Now I’m blowing my new husband at the altar. I’m probably going to hell for this, and at this point? Yeah, fuck it. I don’t even care.
We’re in love. Like, actual, honest to goodness love. I know it in my heart. I know it in my gut. And in my cunt—I especially fucking know it in my cunt.
He takes a rose from my bouquet and traces it along the contours of my cheekbones. Down my jawline and my neck. He tickles the mounds of my breasts where they rise up from my trashy wedding dress—which is, yeah, easily the trashiest thing I’ve ever worn in my life, but for some reason, I couldn’t be fucking happier in it.
It’s not about being classy with my new husband. We’re not keeping up appearances. We’re not keeping up anything, except for maybe his erection and my desire to please it.
We’re just in love, being together, enjoying each other’s bodies and behaving like the fucking animals we are.
“Bloody hell, Becky,” he pants while I slobber up and down his cock like the cum-hungry slut I can’t help but become for him. “I’m so fucking close—just like that, that’s it. Keep going—don’t stop—don’t bloody—”
He pulls my head back at the last second, and I open my mouth to take his load on my face. It gets in my hair. Lands on my tongue. Drips down between my tits and gets all over my SLUT veil.
I smell the slight scent of smoke and look up to the altar, giggling.
He’s even put out the candles.
When my husband cums, he cums a lot. It’s not just on me—It’s fucking everywhere.
“Woah,” I hear Sammi say, pausing her extensive exploration of how much of the rent-a-priest’s balls she can fit in her mouth at once.
“Now that’s what I call a white wedding,” Percy says, crossing herself.
“What the fuck is going on here?” a bitchy voice calls out as I hear the doors to the back of the chapel open.
Whoever that voice belongs to, they just walked in on three separate sex scenes in a rent-a-church, so…I guess that’s probably warranted.
“Pop up, love,” Sexy Elvis tells me, pulling me to my feet. “I’m not done with you yet.”
While Sammi, Mysti May, Percy and the showgirls run interference, he pulls me into a confessional booth. It’s a tight squeeze…but I don’t think I mind being in tight places when Sexy Elvis has such a sexy body to match.
“I love you,” he rasps, pulling me into a kiss.
“I love you, too,” I try to say, but I lose the words against his tongue and his lips.
Chapter 14
Liam
12:36 AM THURSDAY
All of Becky’s kisses taste like my cum. In another life, I might have cared.
But she’s my Becky now. My fiery-haired, fiery-tempered hot little mess.
Mine. All fucking mine.
My woman, my lover, my wife.
She’d better fucking taste like my cum.
Just means that she’s doing her job right, doesn’t it?
Becky has my cum in her hair. She has it on her bridal veil. It’s dripping from that silly little tiara she picked out: SLUT, it spells out in sparkly pink rhinestones. She picked it out specifically for that reason, wild little thing she is.
“Slut,” she told me, smiling as she held it up to the light. “It’s perfect—I’m your slut.”
And if I wasn’t in love with her by that point, I certainly was after.
It’s insane, is what this is. It’s not normal, and it’s certainly not what anyone would have expected.
Eight months ago, Becky Brooks was so-called “saved” by my tosser of a step-brother. She agreed to marry the dumb bastard and made the worst choice of her fucking life in the process.
And now, tonight, just days before the ceremony between them is supposed to take place…she’s married me instead, and I’ve baptized her in my cum to seal the deal.
The marriage license is signed. The fees are paid, the priest said the words, and she kissed my mouth while I showed everyone in this little fucking rent-a-church that Becky Brooks is mine.
Best of all—she chose me. She tossed her fucking ring at her pathetic excuse of a fiancé and she ran right into my arms. Right where she belongs.
“Any sins to confess, love?” I say, leaning against the back of the confessional booth and pulling her against me.
My cum dangles from an upper row of her eyelashes, clinging to her cheekbone every time she blinks. I wipe it away and let her suck it off my thumb.
“Well,” she giggles, “I just did that. Seems worth confessing.”
“I concur, darling. You’ll have to do penance for such naughtiness.”
“Should I say a rosary?”
“I think I’ll just spank your ass red again like the little tart you are.”
She coos at that—and fuck’s sake, when Becky coos, it’s like my cock swells another three inches taller, and my heart fucking explodes.
I need to have it inside her…now. Immediately. It’s not a want, it’s an urgency. A need.
I’ve fucked women from all walks of life. Fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds and aging grand-duchesses. Strippers, doctors, lawyers, and escorts. The notches in my bedpost come from nearly every country in the world—women of every race, religion, creed and kink…
In a room full of every woman I’ve ever fucked, I know damn fucking well that I could sniff out Becky Brooks by the smell of her wet fucking cunt alone. The rest of them would be welcome to just watch—because if ever there’s been a match for me, it’s this gorgeous little redhead that I now have the pleasure of calling my wife.
Not Becky Brooks anymore, but Becky Black.
That makes my
cock even fucking harder.
I bloody like the sound of that.
“Confess to me,” Becky coos at me while I pick her up by the thighs and hold her body against mine. “Tell me your sins now, Elvis.”
“Mm,” I moan. “That’s a very long list, love.”
“Good,” she gasps as I slip a hand up her skirt and between her legs. “That means you’re—oh. God, fuck, that’s good—that means you’re bad, doesn’t it.”
“Rotten to the core.”
“I like you rotten,” my bride tells me while I roll her clit beneath my thumb.
I watch as her eyes roll back in sheer, unbridled pleasure. “I fucking bet you do.”
“Tell me, though,” she moans. “Tell me how bad you are.”
I chuckle. I have to admire her fucking pluck.
Most women want to ride the wild stallion for a night. They like the idea of taming him, if only temporarily. Or they’re looking for something, it’s fulfilling some kink that a good man could never possibly unravel.
Some hate themselves and are looking for a bad boy to treat them like trash, just to verify their own self-loathing. Those are some of the worst—because they expect me to hate them in that same way, and I fucking love women so I just fucking can’t.
Others think so fucking much of themselves, they expect me to change. Give up this bad boy tomfoolery and become something that I’m not. Something that I never was. As if a good pussy or a set of lips around my cock would possibly make me want to stop drinking or gambling or carrying on all hours of the night.
Those, I think, are even worse. Women like that get off by stripping away everything that a man is, everything that he’s ever been or has ever had.
Becky isn’t like that, though.
I finger-fuck Becky in the tight little confessional booth that we’ve hidden ourselves away in until she’s orgasming around my fingers and moaning into my shoulder. For the first time in my life, I know that this is the woman with whom I’m going to spend the rest of my life.
“I put on these sunglasses so I could stare at your tits during the ceremony without anyone noticing,” I confess to her while she claws at my Elvis cape and gasps for fucking air.
“Yes,” she moans. “More.”
“The whole time you were saying your vows, I was thinking about putting my cock in your mouth.”
“Yes!” she moans again as I lower her to the ground.
Her mouth slides over my cock like she was born to service my hard, thick man meat with her pretty little lips.
“I knew from the moment I saw you I was going to make you mine,” I rasp as she sucks me hard and good, the way blowjobs feel in the best wet dreams. “If Dan hadn’t fucked up so royally—”
“Beyond royally,” Becky gasps, coming up for air then going right back down on me, exactly where she belongs.
“If he hadn’t,” I confess to her, “I would have taken you anyway, Becky. I would have stolen you away just before you walked down that aisle to marry that bloody fucking bastard—”
“Mmmmm,” Becky moans.
“Taken you into a closet—not so unlike this one, really—and I would have let Dan fucking sweat it out at the altar while I took you. Just like this.”
“God,” Becky gasps. “I would have thanked you for it. I would have been grateful for that. Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
Outside the confessional, I can hear crashing and banging. There’s the gentle scent of incense, spilled wine, and flame.
“I love you, too, darling,” I confess to her.
“Oh my god,” Becky says, clutching my long, thick cock in her fists like she’s praying. I’m the one confessing—but she’s the one on her knees. “Call me darling again.”
“Darling,” I name her, “Love. Wife. I’ll call you whatever you fucking fancy, Becky, as long as I can call you mine.”
“Mmm,” Becky says with a wild little glint in her eye. “How about slut?”
“My slut,” I purr, stroking her jawline. “Come here, darling.”
I help her to her feet, and I know we can both feel it. It’s something beyond electricity between us. It’s our genetic codes, screaming at each other in ecstasy, begging to combine.
I shouldn’t knock my wife up on our wedding night. Especially not when, as of this morning, she was meant to be my bastard step-brother’s wife instead.
But I want to.
And I might.
“Let’s consummate this, darling,” I say, pressing an eager kiss onto her lips. “I want you.”
“You want your slut?” Becky teases, kissing the corners of my mouth, then my jaw, then down my neck.
“I want my wife,” I growl at her, and then there’s no stopping us.
Whatever happens after that is out of our control. I might be a bad boy…but Becky is a very bad girl to match.
I don’t know what Dan ever saw in her that made him think he could tame her—but now that I’m the one probing Becky’s insides, I know that tame is the last thing in the world I want.
Chapter 15
Becky
1:04 AM THURSDAY
If tonight has proven anything, it’s that I’m still a party girl at heart.
He lifts me up like I don’t weigh anything at all. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.
Our bodies slam into the side of the confessional so hard that for a second, I’m sure it’s going to tip over.
It doesn’t, thank fuck, because then where would I bang my husband? In a hotel room like proper newlyweds? Girl, please.
I’m a party girl at heart, and now I’ve finally found the playboy that’s my other half.
If I had married Dan, we would have consummated our marriage in the most boring way possible—if we even consummated it on the night of our wedding at all. Knowing Dan the Man, he’d be snoring like a fucking water buffalo before the reception was over, and I’d spend my wedding night trying to get myself out of my own dress.
But my new husband—my real husband—is fucking me right now, with the ceremony barely even over, and my bridesmaids outside this tiny little booth we’ve shoved ourselves into just to make sure that no one tries to stop us or calls the cops.
“Hail Satan!” I hear Percy bellow just on the other side of the confessional booth door that my husband currently has me shoved up against.
Oh boy. I have this crazy feeling that the rent-a-priest is going to love that one.
Some couples consummate their marriage to the dulcet tones of Lou Reed or Lady Gaga or, if you’re real classy, Def Leppard. But me and my new hubby?
Yeah. We’re fucking each other to the sound of chaos, pure and simple.
I can smell something on fire inside the church, just edging towards creating enough smoke that it sets the fire alarms off. But who cares? Right now, I can also smell my husband, all expensive cologne and pheromones and aftershave.
And as my husband lifts my skirt, I can smell my pussy: wet, wild, and more than willing to take my husband’s long, fat cock inside it until I’m so full, I cream all over it.
That’s the dream, right? Handsome husband, last-minute elopement, orgasming around his huge dick, and the delicious scent of the church you were married in being burned down around you while you fuck in a fucking confessional booth.
If the smell of fire isn’t the altar on fire, it’s probably the scent of the level of hell we’re going to for all this.
Outside the confessional booth, it’s clearly chaos. In sound and smell and—fuck—I can even taste the smoke.
But within the confessional booth? It’s love, baby. Pure, true love.
And lots of fucking, too.
My husband levels his dick with my entrance. I’m tight, even after all the fingering he’s been spoiling me with. I’m tight—and he’s thick. It’s a match made in fuck heaven, even if we are probably going to hell.
When he slips inside me, my juices coat his tip so completely that th
ey start to drip down his shaft. My cunt is hot, but somehow, his cock is hotter.
He pushes into me like a hot knife through butter, and I feel like I’m melting everywhere he touches me.
But then his cock slides up against my G-spot, and I’m not just melting. I’m exploding. I’m on fire.
Maybe that’s the real source of all the smoke. They’ve always called me a fire-crotch. Now, I can finally feel it. My cunt is burning up, the scent of burning is in the air, and my husband’s fist is wrapped up in my hair as his lips conquer mine.
It’s the most passionate thing I’ve ever felt, and I once drank champagne out of a Mickey Mouse hat while drunkenly watching the fireworks at Disney World.
“Babe,” I whimper, because I can feel some fireworks of my own beginning to be set alight in my womb. “Babe, I’m gonna come.”
“Fucking good,” he growls. “Lose yourself, love. Give it to me—give me everything.”
The orgasm hits just as the fire alarm sounds and the sprinklers go off.
The water sprays down on us and the alarm sounds so loudly, I can’t even hear my husband’s name as I’m screaming it. His mirrored sunglasses are askew, his faux sideburns are melting off his face, and he’s definitely not getting the deposit on this stupid fucking Elvis costume back—but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter at all.
I’m his, and he’s mine, and we just fucked in a confessional booth after getting married in Las Vegas. All of my girlhood dreams have finally come true, and whatever I promised Dan—whatever he thought I owed him and whatever life we had planned to live together—has been left so far behind me, I couldn’t even see it in the rear-view mirror if I squinted.
This man—this gorgeous fucking man with his cock still inside me right now—he’s my future. Now and forever.
And it never has to get boring, and it never has to get old.
Christ, considering the way we’re spending the first few hours of our marriage…I don’t think it could be anything but fun from here on out.
I can feel my husband’s hot, thick cum pumping inside me, filling me up and dripping back out again as the water sprinklers soak us from above.
The Other Brother_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 9