by Kira Blakely
I rake her skirt up and pull it over my head, enjoying being trapped in this gauzy heaven with her wetness. I hook my finger into her panties and peel them off. I don't think she'd have been loose enough to let me do this even just ten minutes ago but one intense orgasm will do that for you. Now everyone at the party will be able to see her ass and her pussy. What will two intense orgasms do to her?
I shove her bra off of her tits and roll her nipples between my fingers. I want to get those babies nice and hard, then let the room get a look at them.
I spread her legs far and palm her pussy in my hand, opening it upward to completely expose every nook and cranny of her little button. I know to ruthlessly attack that little bastard. I dive on her pearl and get to work, relishing how exposed her pleasure is, how she must confront what I do to her. How I make her lose control and become my sex slave.
"Oh, god, look at her," I hear one of the partygoers murmur. "She's trying not to come but she's going to. She's coming so fast, Lord help her. What a fun problem to have."
And they are right... Her sensitive nub drags her into orgasms almost against her will, far too quickly in foreplay compared to most women. Of course, what is "too quickly," anyway, if you can have multiple? What if I try to max out this little button? Will I win, or will the nub?
Her body bucks at me, steeling itself against orgasm, but her thighs quake and the honey unleashes itself from inside her. I lap it up with gratitude, relishing her slit, and come out from the veil of her skirt.
God, she's beautiful. She's damn dewy, her youth so clear in her face. It isn't just youth but something else, something like hope or goodness, a dreamy quality that's pure soul. Her hair is everywhere, bright gold in wild snarls clustered around her face. She could be on Maxim but you can't find women like this in Hollywood. Unspoiled. Real.
My chest tightens, and it dawns on me that I want to be up to my balls inside her, getting squeezed down every inch but I want to do it alone. I want to do it making eye contact and telling her that I'm in love with her. She's everything that I dreamed she would be, and then, just a little bit sweeter.
I creep up between Rose's thighs, still kind of quivering, and I whisper to her, "Hey, do you want to get out of here? Let's stop and say hey to Leo... but then we can split. Maybe come back later."
"Seriously?" She still sounds dopey, almost half-asleep. It's those orgasms doing it to her but I have just the thing to wake her up.
"Come with me," I whisper, standing and taking her hand, pulling her through the room. Her bra and panties are gone now, discarded on the Papasan, but neither of us notice. I can't keep my hands off of her, and we don't make it out of the Christmas ball but we do crash into an alcove where I can slide inside of her raw, as God intended. Holy fuck, I want to procreate with this woman. I want to have a little league team with her.
I shudder, and my eyes roll as I slam my full length into her and our eyes meet. There's excruciating pleasure between us and I throb and break, unable to stop thrusting as every last drop spews.
"Oh, my god," I huff against her salty neck, rolling my tongue over its creamy curve. Even the sweat is vanilla. Vanilla and clove... Perhaps the clove is my musk, and our scent together drives me wild. She has to be my wife. She has to. "Oh, my god, baby. I love you."
"I love you, too," Rose sighs, limp as a noodle in my arms. "Fuck."
Chapter Fourteen
Rose
It's harder to leave the island than I thought it would be, and I regret being so timid when we first arrived and wasting a whole day and a half on prudence. I think I made up for that, though, and Stuart insists on accompanying me home on my Delta flight.
"Don't you have your own jets and pilots and stuff?" I wonder.
"I do but I don't always use them, you know. I can get a flight on charter to the mainland, and we can head back to New York from there, right?"
"That's right," I agree, dazzled by what a frugal billionaire he is.
"That's how you keep it in the billions," he says with a wink. "Don't get wasteful."
I suspect that he's really trying to impress me and doesn't want me on that Delta flight unguarded. In spite of how he enjoyed showing me off at the party, his territorial nature is obvious in every gesture of his body. His arm is always around my shoulder or my waist, his hand in mine or beneath my chin... but I like it.
I want the world to know that I'm his and he's mine. I love this ring. Fuck, I do want to be his wife.
We board the packed Delta flight and are upgraded to first class as soon as someone recognizes Stuart's name. I want to resist but the seats would be open anyway, they say, and it is so much more spacious in first class.
"Let's," Stuart rumbles against my ear, and my knees go weak. Let's.
The first half an hour of the flight is spent just settling in, ordering our future meals and requesting a little champagne. Stuart gets a warm towel and I need a blanket, because this airplane is, in my opinion, frigid. The stewardess bustles, getting us everything we need, and I realize that I want a warm towel, too, when I see what Stuart does with it. Genius.
When we return the warm towels to the stewardess, we both settle down into our quilt and I cuddle under Stuart's arm. After such a wild weekend, I might have thought that I'd be a wreck... but I'm not. I feel great.
"I'm bored," Stuart complains beside me, and I lift my eyebrows slightly.
"There's movies," I suggest, gesturing to the little screen embedded into the seat in front of us. "There's the in-flight rad—"
I hesitate and my cheeks flame as Stuart's strong hand works its way up my thigh beneath the blanket.
Doing it in public on Mystique Island was one thing...
But here? In the first-class cabin on a Delta flight?
"Yeah," Stuart breathes against my ear, as if he can hear my thoughts. "I have an idea. It's the perfect cure for boredom, and it will... alleviate the both of us."
I can't deny the tingling between my legs, and I slant my eyes over to Stuart. "What kind of idea?" I whisper, knowing perfectly well what kind of idea he has. His dick pitches a tent with this quilt!
"I want you to touch yourself," he commands, settling away from me. "I'm going to watch. If you don't want to give yourself away—" He places a finger over his lips in the symbol for silence but his dark gray eyes gleam at me conspiratorially. His dick twitches between us. "You'd better not move or make a sound."
I nod and slip my hand beneath the quilt, cracking my legs as far apart as they can go without being too conspicuous. I keep my eyes glued ahead of me and try to look nonchalant. No one is looking, so at least there's that, but then my middle finger slips between my pussy lips and I immediately start to quiver. I have to stop touching myself and take a deep breath.
I probably look like I want to take a nap but I'm super-uncomfortable and frustrated right now.
"Shh, now," Stuart breathes. "Keep going."
I have to obey him, and knowing his eyes are on me makes me feel safe, even while masturbating in public. My finger wriggles back and forth over my clit and I purse my lips, feeling the stiffness of a delayed orgasm brewing in my belly.
I close my eyes and turn my head hard into the chair cushion, wanting to look like I'm fitfully sleeping. But then I feel Stuart's hand crawl over mine, feel his fingers encase mine, and he says, "I want you to take my seat by the window."
My eyes bulge open. That was a sudden shift in tone, wasn't it? "Right now?"
"I want you to sit where no one can really see you," he reassures me in a whisper. A slow grin spreads across my face, and I'm amazed at how he senses my discomfort and responds to it. He didn't even have to guess. He could tell by my body posture that I was uncomfortable, and now I feel much better. Between his shoulders and the chairs in front of us, I'm totally eclipsed.
"Now," Stuart growls, his hand tightening on mine, plunging us both back down into my panties. "You're going to pay me back for giving up the window seat."
My eye
lashes flutter and I melt into the seat as his fingers explore my body again. He's still facing forward, and I'm curled against the window, trying to look like I'm asleep. Every now and then, though, the quilt distinctly writhes. I don't want to scream and come all over my pants. I have to wear these for the entire flight. I didn't bring spare pants in my carry-on!
I fight the orgasm brewing inside me but that never works. I'm always trying to hold it back but the fire breaks through me whether I'm begging for it or not. I clamp my lips together to keep from whimpering. My body trembles beneath the quilt and his finger bends harder, flicking my clit like he's strumming it, and I let out a little strangled gasp.
"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 h
ave 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 that 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.