by Jianne Carlo
With that, he scooped her into his arms and fused their mouths together right there in the middle of the restaurant in front of the roaring fire.
Cameras flashed, the other patrons broke into applause, and they left amidst a swirl of shouted congratulations and best wishes. They were in the car when the manager came out with the Tiffany boxes and her present for him.
She didn’t know how they made it home. Not even aware of the roar of the Porsche, Sarita wallowed in Rolan’s musky scent, the way he curved one hand under her left thigh, and his muttered endearments. They made record time.
A hand in the small of her back, Rolan guided her straight to the curved wooden staircase. At the top of the landing, he halted, cradled her face, and said, “Are we okay? I know we have to go over the Glory bit, but can it wait? I need to be inside you, to hold you in my arms, to kiss every inch of skin, smell you from head to toe, and lick everywhere. I’m burning up and I can’t wait. If ‑‑”
She slid the jacket off his shoulders and unbuckled his pants belt.
“Sarita? Honey? Say something.”
“Open it,” she ordered and shoved the black box into his palm.
“What?”
“Open it,” she repeated and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Sarita sighed. Never had she seen a more mouthwatering sight, his ripped chest and the pink nipples saluting his arousal.
“Yours are so pink,” she said and suckled the taut point, letting her tongue memorize the feel of it stiffening, responding. Her nose absorbed the spicy scent of his increasing excitement.
“Jesus. Jesus.” His palms cupped her jaw and he drew her back. “Do I have to open this now?” He held up the black box.
“Yes.” Panting, moisture creaming the tops of her thighs, she slid one ruby strap off her shoulder. “Now.”
“Stay still. Don’t do that. I’m so close to losing control ‑‑”
She grabbed the box and opened it, effectively silencing him, and dangled a pair of manacles off one hand.
Pupils darkening, eyes narrowing, Rolan’s gaze moved from the bracelet to her eyes and his lips curled. “Payback time, is it?”
He held out his hands wrists touching. “Go for it.”
She did.
Rolan didn’t protest when she handcuffed him to the bed. His chest rose and fell faster when she slipped the blindfold over his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Same rules apply, darling. Talk. Tell me everything you feel.” She located the feather purchased a couple of days earlier and trailed it over the arch of his foot.
“What is that?” Rolan’s lead lolled left to right.
Sarita bit the ridge of his left buttock. “You’re not talking, darling.”
“It tickles.”
“And this?” She traced a circle on the inside of his thigh and her lips lifted when his penis leaked precum.
“Suck me, honey.”
“Uh-uh, you’re not behaving, Rolan Paxton. Speak to me.”
“You’re torturing me, woman. I can feel how wet you are. Your honey’s wetting my leg. I can smell your sweet pussy. I want to feel it on my cock.”
“Like this?”
She straddled his hips, held his penis close to his stomach, and rested her pussy at the base. Sidling up and down, she rode his glistening organ, one slow inch at a time. Flattening to her elbow, her teeth grazed his tight nipple and she blew on it. His belly rippled under hers and he groaned.
“Faster, harder.”
“Nope.” Using the feather, she outlined his belly button and lifted his cock with her left hand. Tracing a figure eight across Rolan’s pelvis, Sarita held the base of his prick in a tight grip, and she smiled when he bucked into her hand.
“Jesus. Let’s have a quickie, honey. Take the edge off? It’s been weeks.”
“Uh-uh.” The feather tickled its way up his rigid arousal and around the underside of his crown. Sweeping her tongue along the same path, Sarita buried her nose in his pubic hair and inhaled, loving his musky scent.
His cock twitched against her cheek and she stroked him one slow up and down.
“Yes. That’s it. Don’t stop. Sarita? Honey? Where’d you go? Damn this blindfold.” The metal bracelet clanked as Rolan jerked against the restraints.
A glimmer of an idea struck Sarita and she bounded off the bed. Scrambling in her carry-on, she found the three-pronged hand massager Tony had given her last Mother’s Day.
“Sarita? Woman,” Rolan snapped the words out and used his heels to leverage inches off the mattress.
Resting her mound on his left thigh, she positioned the tool so that two prongs straddled his thick erection. The third touched the tip of his crown. Sarita pressed the on button.
Rolan stopped thrashing.
“Jesus. Good God. What in hell is that? Christ’s sake, I’m going to come, honey.”
“Uh-uh, not yet, darling.” Edging the massager lower so that the two prongs cupped his testicles, she rolled it around the two plump globes. “Tsk, tsk, Rolan. You’re not talking to me.” She shook her head.
“I’m a hair’s breath away, honey. And I so long to be inside you. I’m begging here.”
Temptation won out. She tossed the massager off the bed and unlocked one handcuff.
He tugged the blindfold off, flipped their positions, and kneed her legs apart.
His prick plunged inside and she climaxed, clamping around his wonderful intrusion, grinding against him. Heavy balls slapped her folds, sensitized labia welcomed their weight, and Sarita hooked her ankles around his waist.
Rolan plundered her depths, driving a hard fast pace. A bead of sweat dripped off his brow onto her forehead. Slickened skin rubbed her breasts, their tips so taut and burning, she neared another explosion. Cupping his bottom cheeks, she ground closer, wanting no space between their joined bodies.
Shouting her name, he pumped faster and shuddered into her tightening pussy, riding through the sweet spasms of her orgasm. His panting tickled the side of her neck, lips brushed her nape. When he tried to leave her, Sarita locked her legs over his ass and muttered a protest.
“Jesus,” he muttered the one word and rolled over still inside her warmth.
“Hmm,” she agreed and kissed his sweaty chest. “I have an idea, Rolan. I want our wedding night to be special. Why don’t Tony and I stay at a hotel until then?”
“Don’t even finish that thought, woman. There’s no way in hell that I’ll agree to that notion.” He didn’t seem bothered by the remaining manacle locking him to the headboard.
“Don’t you want our wedding night to be special?” She groped the bed sheets searching for the key and found it smothered by a pillow. Reaching up, Sarita tackled the restraint and it fell to the mattress.
“Tell you what. I promise to make the second one even more special than the one in Monaco.” He flexed his wrist.
“I don’t know how you can top that night.”
“Ah, Sarita honey, a challenge.” He stoked her back, fingers fluttering over her skin. “Here’s the deal. I arrange the night. We lead up to it with a series of daily instructions. No penetration, but anything else goes. Up for it?”
“Why can’t I give the orders?” she asked, pushing off his chest.
“Either yay or nay, woman. That’s the only choice you have.”
Epilogue
Labor Day, Salem, Paxton Residence
Every major network and newspaper covered their Hindu wedding ceremony. The feast went on for three days and though they Americanized parts, their marriage held true to many of the traditional Hindu rituals.
The third day dawned like a dream and the temperature climbed by midday to the high seventies. A stiff breeze blew off the Atlantic and even though incense burned from lantern-topped bamboo stalks stuck into the grass, the tang of the sea held sway.
She shook her head when Roland and Anthony appeared in the distance. Harrison had let it slip about the elephant, Tony’s idea of transportation
to the wedding. Other people felt privileged for a horse and carriage, or a snazzy heritage car. Not her men; they chose an elephant.
Tony loved the animal and had already begun a campaign to keep the mammal, now called Arnie, for Arnold Schwarzenegger. Pride and an almost overwhelming happiness had her throat jammed, her eyes brimming. Sarita bit her lip and stared at her husband and son riding atop the majestic beast.
A sea gust stirred dried leaves, fluttered the sari against her legs and hips, and sent the delicate pink hearts hanging from her ears into a soft swinging motion. The jewels tickled her skin; Sarita touched a finger to one, stilling it, and images of her manacle control night flashed through her mind. She’d given Rolan a pair of handcuffs, and he’d given her diamonds. Today, she planned to remedy that disparity.
Rizzo waited for them in the center of the mandap, a gazebo-like structure with an ivory textile roof. He held an envelope and a garland of orchids.
She squinted, trying to make out the printed name on it.
Clad in a white Sherwanis, a garment similar to a loose long jacket, and dhotis, Aladdin-style pants, Tony and Rolan laughed and gesticulated when Arnie halted in front of a raised stage. Rolan let down a long rope ladder and both males descended, Tony in second place. Her son patted Arnie’s trunk and the animal curled the appendage around the boy’s arm.
Sarita’s curiosity piqued to fever point when Rizzo strode over to where Rolan stood and gave the white packet and the garland to Rolan. Her husband hung the flowers over a shoulder, tore the packet open, and glanced at the young athlete, his forehead creasing. He upended the envelope and a cloud of paper shreds billowed out in a blizzard, dancing to the verdant lawn.
Rizzo said something, and Rolan cuffed his shoulder and grinned.
Sarita waited until he stepped onto the low stage and asked, “What was that all about?”
“Rizzo wants me to play the whole season and the Super Bowl game.”
“What about the resignation letter?”
“He shredded it. Says it’s his wedding present to me.” Rolan’s lips curved. “Aren’t you supposed to be assaulting me with those flowers?” He pointed at the garlands spilling over her hands.
“Speaking of assault, who has manacle control tonight?”
“No one. Here are your instructions for today.” He slipped her a folded note and waggled his eyebrows. “Get on with it, woman. We have an audience and I’m dying to get you alone.”
So, she performed the traditional Var Mala, attacking Rolan with the garlands of white magnolias and circling him four times. Tony came to his defense with a copper and steel shield, slashing knight moves at the flowers. When Sarita completed the last circle, she exchanged her garland for his, the gesture a symbolic acceptance of each other. Since her mother couldn’t perform the task, Tony poked his father in the chest to ensure he was strong enough to defend Sarita.
They had opted to leave out the aarti, the greeting of the groom by his mother-in-law, for obvious reasons. Terry and Geoff led Rolan to the mandap, while Tony escorted his mother. They left them standing in the center of the octagonal tent. A series of triangular ivory swaths ridged in red bordered the roof and flapped in the wind.
“You look beautiful, Sarita honey,” he whispered when she got close. “Did you get the mehndi where I wanted?”
She blushed, batted her eyelashes at him, and answered, “Not only did I get them there, but the henna pattern they painted is my own special design.”
“Jesus. How long do we have to wait?”
He looked so handsome with the red dot or tilak on his forehead. Much like a fierce Nordic-Eastern pirate, all brooding and marauding, and Sarita creamed, squeezing her thighs together. The thin silk of her scarlet sari proved no match for the thickness pooling at her center. Rolan had insisted they both go commando today.
Fingering the intricate gold pattern bordering the edge of her sari, Rolan asked, “What’s the pattern on your pussy, Sarita honey?”
“Wait and see,” she replied and danced out of his reach, her bare feet cooling on contact with green blades of grass.
“The pundit’s here,” Tony skidded to a halt just short of the clay brazier spewing flames in the center of the canopy. “I still think you should say I do.”
“We did that already, son. Remember I got that priest to say the vows?” Rolan rested his hands on her shoulder and pulled her closer to his chest. “In a Hindu ceremony, the pundit is a witness, he doesn’t actually marry anyone. In one way, it adds to the traditional Christian wedding, as the groom and the bride marry each other without anyone’s interference or consent. It means that your mom and I have decided to be together for a lifetime.”
“You’d better,” Tony muttered. “The pundit’s so short though. He’s my height. Uh-oh, here he comes.”
Wedding guests assembled as the pundit, the equivalent of a priest or minister, took center stage. At first, the sheer size of their guest list had unnerved Sarita. Over a thousand people had witnessed their marriage ceremony to date. She refused to contemplate the size of their television audience.
But from that point onward, nothing crowded her mind, not the cameras, not a single barefoot guest brooked her vision. She had eyes only for Rolan, drawn into the lush lagoon of his gaze, sucked into the whirlpool of emotions blazing there.
The pundit tied their hands together. Then he tied her ruby sari to his white dhoti, the knots a symbol of their now-joined life. It took a while for the diminutive pundit, who bore a startling resemblance to Ben Kingsley, to paint the mehndi on Rolan’s hand. The design, an intricate blending of all of their initials, Rolan’s, Tony’s, and hers. They circled the brazier seven times repeating the saat phere or seven promises.
On the first circle, they asked the gods for ample pure and nourishing food. On the second, they requested mental, physical, and spiritual strength. The third and fourth circles, Rolan and Sarita prayed for wealth and prosperity, and for happiness and harmony through mutual love and trust.
As they completed circle five requesting virtuous, noble, and heroic children, Sarita’s palm slid to her sari-covered stomach, and her mouth curved. She had a priceless wedding gift for Rolan, one she’d share with him later. Circle six they prayed for a long and joyous life together, and she felt so blessed, so complete.
They ended with circle seven, saying the words together.
Let us be friends with love and sacrifice. Let us walk together so we have friendship. With seven steps we have become friends. Let me reach your friendship. Let me not be severed from your friendship. Let your friendship not be severed from mine.
THE END
Jianne Carlo
Jianne Carlo knows multi-cultural romance. Born to an Indian father and a Hispanic mother intent on becoming a nun, she met and married her Dutch-bred immigrant husband in her last year at college. Their children check off the majority of the boxes under the category, Ethnic Origin.
Add to this the fact Jianne grew up on a sixty by forty Caribbean island where the population mixture represents the world's religious, cultural, and ethnic diversity (and some mixtures no one's dreamed up) and you have a multi-cultural woman who believes the word 'Mutt' represents the best of human nature.
For the factually inclined, Jianne has a Bachelor's Degree in English and Sociology, and a Master's in Management Science with three areas of concentration, Computers, Finance, and Statistics.
She's lived and worked in Canada (Ontario, Vancouver), the United States (San Francisco, various small cities in southern California, Miami, and Parkland) and the Caribbean (Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, Barbados, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Tortola) and South America (Guyana).
Her passions in life center around her proudest achievements, a happy marriage (measure of happiness varies with level of irritation), and three grown sons of the finest caliber she's proud to call friends, although they're never allowed to forget the mom factor.
Other areas of interest include, traveling, meetin
g new people, reading, dressage, all animals, cooking eclectic food, eating said food, and sipping good wine, while hanging out, ('liming' in Trini-speak) with friends. Jianne's proud to announce the only carbonated beverage she drinks is champagne. Who needs Coke?
And you never want to be in the same room if she picks up a dart and aims for the target. Run for your life. Her colleagues do. Her family hides such instruments.