Unexpected Bride

by Abigail Graham

  The strain on her face melts into a grin as I thrust. I try to be gentle and sweet, I really do, but even as I kiss her and tug at her lips with my teeth and nip at her chin and gently caress her cheek with my hand, I start hammering her, excitement rising inside me as the pressure builds, as her legs rise until her toes are pointed straight at the ceiling and she's straining, trying to delay the inevitable.

  She gasps, and a strained cry bursts out of her as she arches up under me and suddenly locks her legs again. I almost have the presence of mind to pull out, but for someone so light and slim, she's remarkably strong, and her arms and legs lock me into her like a bear trap.

  I explode, quivering waves of heat flooding my body as I feel myself letting loose inside her. There is no better feeling in the fucking world. She bucks and moans and gasps under me, and her body quivers around my shaft. It feels like it goes on for minutes before she gradually relaxes, wincing as I draw out of her, only for her expression to pull into a satisfied grin.

  I kiss her, on the lips, on the cheeks, on the neck. I roll on my side and she curls against me, not caring about her twisted up dress or the wetness between her legs. No words are exchanged. I don't want to lose the feeling invading my mind now.

  Joy. I gave her joy. The expression on her face is the expression of someone who just got everything they ever wanted and knew they'd never get, and a wave of sick, bitter horror twists through me because I don't deserve a look like that. Not from a good woman. Not from her.

  I sit up and lean back against the seats. Julia eventually sits and tugs her dress back into place, though one strap has started to come away at the seam.

  There's a mini bar in the limo. I need a drink. Julia grabs one too, and we both sip tiny honor bar-sized bottles of liquor. I think mine is whisky, hers is tequila. I'm not sure.

  I drain it and let it burn my throat because I deserve to be hurt. Buzzed, I reach for another one and tip it to my lips.

  "Maybe we should slow down," Julia says, taking another drink.

  "Oh, fuck that," I say.

  She giggles, rubbing my arm, and I wonder how I'm going to do this without hurting her. If I do, I deserve to go to hell for it.

  She's an angel, I think, before I tip back a third bottle for a drink and—

  —sit up in bed, blinking the light out of my eyes. Oh shit, what...

  Oh god, I blacked out.

  Julia! Where's Julia? If something happened to her—

  My question answers itself at the sound of a soft groan as Julia sits up beside me, yawning in that trembling way of someone with a severe hangover that makes everything hurt. As she leans forward and curls to rest her arms on her knees, the sheets fall away from her naked body, the silky curves of her nude form gorgeous in the morning light.

  Holy God, I fucked my sister's best friend on the floor of a fucking limo in fucking Las Vegas, how did I let this happen?

  "My head," she whines. "Feels like my brain is made of rubber."

  I don't feel much better, but I stand up, and as the sheets fall away, realize I'm naked, too. Julia looks over at me and smiles a Cheshire cat smile, admiring my body in a way that no one ever quite has before. I shudder in tortured joy from it, from the way she looks at me. She looks at me like I'm the man she deserves, not the shithead I am.

  I grab the nearest pair of pants and yank them on, check my phone. It's nine, so we have over three hours before we have to leave for the airport. Plenty of time to figure this out.

  God, I can't dump her like this. It'll crush her.

  Dump her? I'm not her boyfriend. Okay, so we slept together, big deal.

  Ryan, you rat bastard, how dare you think of her that way.

  Shut up! I'm trying to think! I scream at my brain. I make my way to my suite's stocked fridge and pour two tall glasses of orange juice and hand her one.

  She takes it, stroking her hand through her hair as she sips. The way she moves like that, her breasts are so perfect it hurts to look at her, and her eyes—

  Something is off. I can't say what it is.

  There's a folder on the countertop, some kind of papers in it. A leather folio folder with scrollwork in gold leaf. Fancy. What the hell is that? It must be from the hotel. I push it aside and sit down, trying to calm my pounding head. I need hydration and sugar. The orange juice will deal with that.

  "Should we call room service?" she asks. "We could have breakfast in bed."

  Burning, aching, hateful self-loathing ripples through me. This perfect creature has no idea that I can't (won't) keep her, and I can't bring myself to shatter the illusion.

  "Is that a kitchen? Do they give you food? I could make you something."

  I blink a few times.

  She wants to cook for me?

  I've met girls who offered to let me ejaculate in their ass, but they wouldn't cook for me. With Julia in the room I can't even remember those girls. Their faces and forms recede into shapeless mists, and their names fold up into one. Beckittanyessalie or something. I shake my head, trying not to go into poetic hungover pensive artist mode. I need to keep my head clear.

  Julia moves with her own momentum. Soon she's wearing one of my shirts. The hem just barely covers her ass, and knowing that she's naked under it and catching glimpses of the curves of her butt and her sex has me starting to get hard again. I wonder what it would be like to embrace her from behind while she cooks, kiss her, go full boyfriend on her and not treat her like a transaction has been completed and overstayed her welcome.

  Something is wrong. My hand is weird.

  Standing at the counter, she hums cheerily to herself. I guess they do stock the kitchens in these rooms, because she's deftly cracking eggs into a bowl, doing it the fancy way with two shells trapped between the fingers of one hand.

  Her voice drips with unbridled joy.

  "Do you like omelets? I always made Karen omelets when we were hungover."

  "Yeah," I mutter, "I like them fine. Listen—"

  "Good," she says, pouring into the pan. "I'll make you one. Let me find some cheese. You want ham? I think there's some veggies in here, I can make it western style—"

  "Throw in some onions, will you?"

  "Will do."

  God, I'm letting her get all domestic on me. She does a little dance as she deftly flips the eggs in the pan with one hand, wiggling her butt with an invisible dance partner. My heart tightens up so much it might crack. There's a purity about her.

  "How do you feel?" I ask lamely.

  "Great," she grins, as the toast pops up. "Jam?"

  "Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, are you okay?"

  "Never been better. Okay, fine, I'm a little sore, if that's what you want to hear. I didn't think my first time would be that rough."

  I almost drop the juice glass. "Your what?"

  She stops. "Oh. Is that bad? Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

  Oh God. Oh my God. I'm starting to hyperventilate. Not only did I fuck my sister's best friend on a limo in Las Vegas, I took her virginity. Now I feel like even more of a slimeball. She's going to remember this forever. It's a fucking milestone.

  "You were great," she says. "Besides, after round three or four, it was old hat."

  "What?" I say? "What?"

  "Oh," her cheeks color. "We did it again in the limo and twice more in the bed."

  I stop myself before I say, 'We did?' It would crush her if she thought I forgot our lovemaking—fucking! It's fucking, not lovemaking. I'm not in love with her!

  I look at her, standing there in my shirt, bagging on her slim frame, a crooked smile on her face, and wonder how I could not love her. She's like the only thing real in a world of illusion.

  Oh God, here I go with this again.

  "It'll come back to you," she says in a voice that might be concealing hurt, or just holding back a yawn. "You had a lot to drink."

  I very clearly remember the first round, at least.

  "You were great. I had no idea it was your first time."r />
  She laughs. "Well, I'd been planning it for a while. I kind of have a crush on you."

  She grins so hard it pinches her eyes shut, and she shudders all over with joy.

  "Or maybe had, I guess. Do crushes get consummated? Let's eat."

  She sets the plates in front of me on the counter and hops on the stool next to mine, jabbing her eggs with a fork. Something is off. Different parts of my brain are trying to put it together. I need to assemble the idea, but with the amount of alcohol I had last night and the number of neurons flickering out for the last time in my brain, it's like trying to put together Ikea furniture with the instructions in Swahili.

  Then it hits me. There is a glint of gold on the third finger of her left hand, flashing at me every time she takes a bite. The dawning realization pushes on my rationalizations and I try desperately to shove them back, but it's inevitable. The realization dawns.

  My hand feels weird because I, too, am wearing a ring. We are both wearing plain gold bands.

  Almost choking on a piece of toast, I leap up and grab the folder from the counter. I didn't look at it before, my mind just kind of assuming it was one of those "things to do in Las Vegas" books they leave in every hotel room as if people need to be told they can gamble and go to magic shows here. The full force of it is hitting me now.

  Ryan and Julia, the front is inscribed.

  When I throw it open, I find a photograph. It shows me in rumpled clothes and Julia with a now completely torn strap turning her dress into an off-the-shoulder style, both of us facing each other in front of Elvis. He's officiating the ceremony.

  The other side of the folder holds our marriage certificate. I look at my wife in abject horror and realize what I've done. When I assemble the reality of it, it goes like this:

  I fucked my sister's best friend on the floor of a limo in Las Vegas, twice, and then I took her to the Little Chapel of His Majesty the King and married her.

  She stares at me, but she's not waiting for my reaction. She's smart as a whip, she always was. She's figured it out, and tears already burn hot on her cheeks.

  "You don't remember anything," she says dully.

  "I remember the limo. I remember fu...making love to you."

  "Fucking me," she mutters, her eyes turning hard. "You remember that, but you don't remember any of the wonderful things you said to me after about how sweet and perfect I am. You made me feel like I could fly."

  "Then I married you, apparently," I say, looking at the ring on my finger.

  I toss the folder on the counter. She snatches it, glowering at me as I tug the ring off.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Julia, take a deep breath. You're hungover and we did something really stupid."

  She blinks. "We did?"

  "I can't get married. We can’t just get married after one night.”

  "One night? I’ve known you my whole life.” She chokes back a pained sob. “You don't want me," she says. It's not a question. "I'm such a fucking idiot. I should have just gone to the laser tag place with Karen."

  Harshly, she turns away.

  "We need to talk about how to deal with this, I mean, legally—"

  "Is that all you care about?"

  Her hurt is my heart. Looking at her makes my chest ache. I don't even care that she's stealing a pair of my pants, because the pile of torn cloth at the foot of the bed is the dress I must have literally ripped off her body in a frenzy to consummate our marriage.

  She looks ridiculous with the waistband of my pants tucked up under her breasts and my shirt hanging off her like a dress.

  "I need to get back to my room before everybody wakes up and sees me like this."

  "I think we can get it annulled—"

  She barks out a hitching sob, then hardens her expression.

  "Yeah, fine, we'll talk about it."

  She starts towards the door, and someone bangs on it. Karen's voice bursts through it.

  "Ryan? RYAN! God dammit, where is Julia? What did you do?"

  She looks at me. I look at her.

  "Hide," I say.

  "I'll hide," she says so our words jumble together in an incomprehensible mess.

  She darts for the closet, and I head for the door.

  Chapter Three

  Julia

  My entire body is hot with that overwhelming moment of pre-crying anguish, and I just want to curl up into a ball, dry up, and blow away. I want to fucking hate him. I want to hate the soreness between my legs. I want to hate the burning feeling on my skin where his fingers left sweet welts. I want to hate the memory of his lips and tongue and teeth and fingers and cock and all the things he did to me and all the things he said, and I want to hate the stupid swelling feeling that overwhelmed me when I stood in front of an altar with him and he swore to keep me forever.

  Fuck him!

  I should charge out there now and tell Karen everything as she storms into the room, looking for me, of all people. Ryan kicks my torn dress under his bed and I shudder at the memory of his strong fingers rough on my skin and the ripping sound of thin fabric, signaling that we were about to fuck like animals, which is putting it lightly. I start slipping back into the memory, into the fantasy. I remember the look on his face when I scratched his chest while I rode him as much as the feeling of him inside me, and—

  "Where the hell is she?" Karen snaps.

  "Was I supposed to be watching her?"

  She glares. "Todd said you left the arcade with her."

  Arcade? Did she really buy that?

  I see emotions war on his face. He clenches his fist around the ring I slid on his finger a few hours ago. They lied to Karen about where she was going, and he has to make a decision whether to spill everything now or keep quiet.

  "I guess we both got bored with Pong and Pac-Man. She took a Lyft back here. I went to a bar and got soused."

  Karen looks around.

  "Did you bring some bar skank back here?"

  Hey!

  "It smells like old socks and fucking. And eggs. Is that an omelet? Why are there two plates?"

  "She ate light and left," Ryan says, too smoothly. "Her name was Tiffany. Nice girl. Works as a cage dancer at one of the casinos. Great ass."

  Why do I get the impression he assembled those details from four different girls?

  Karen's eyes narrow.

  "If anything happened to her, I'll skin you."

  "You told me to stay away from her," he says.

  She steps closer. Tall for a woman, she's close in height to her brother, and just as intimidating when she growls and scowls, or as I call it, scrowls. Stabbing an angry finger into his chest, she says, "Yeah, I did, because I know how she feels about you and I know what you'll do to her. She deserves better."

  He looks as wounded as if her finger were an actual knife, but only for a flickering second before a placid indifference settles his features. He shrugs.

  "You tell me to stay away from her, then you gripe at me when I don't throw her over my shoulder and protect her from the boogeyman. I'll help you look, if that's what you want."

  "I don't want any help from you," she says, grumbling. "I should try texting her again."

  As Karen pulls out her phone, horror floods through me like ice water and I stand up too straight, eyes wide. My purse is out there by the bed. I didn't grab it, and my phone is in there. Oh God, oh God, oh God, did I leave it on silent? I can't remember.

  "Where the hell are you," Karen says, mumbling out the words as she types them on the phone.

  No chime, but my purse buzzes.

  "What was that?" Karen says, looking around the room. Her one eyebrow arches and she stalks around the bed. Ryan grabs her arm and she spins.

  "Do you mind? I need to get dressed. We have a flight to catch."

  "I'm not leaving without her."

  "Well," he says, kicking my purse under the bed as he lifts one corner of the mattress, "do you think she's hiding under the bed? Maybe I have her tied up
in the closet. You could check there."

  I freeze. What is he doing, damn it?

  Karen huffs. "Fine. Get dressed and get your ass out here so you can help me track her down."

  The door slams so hard it seems to shake the closet door in front of me, and Karen is gone. I dart across the room and grab my purse from under the bed, inspecting it. He didn't kick it that hard.

  "Text her back," he says, quickly.

  In my room, I text back. Sorry, had too much to drink. I'll be down in a few minutes.

  "Go distract her so I can get ready," I say, sucking in a breath as I fumble through the purse for my room key card. I huff in relief when I find it.

  Ryan goes to the door and peeks out. "Coast is clear, go."

  Purse banging against my hip, I do a very quick walk of shame down the hallway. A jog of shame. Juggling my shoes in my hand with the card, I get the door open and lock myself inside. My phone wriggles in my purse. Text from Karen.

  I banged on your door.

  I text back,

  I was in the shower.

  For three hours?

  Okay, I overslept a little. I'll be ready in a few.

  Grumbling, I toss the purse on the bed, strip out of Ryan's clothes, and fight the urge to bring his shirt to my face and bury my nose in his scent. Now naked, since my underwear have been gone for a while, I dart into the bathroom for an actual shower, then rush to pack while my hair air-dries. By the time I have everything ready, I've got maybe ten minutes to get to the lobby.

  When I grab my suitcase, I feel the unfamiliar sensation of the gold band digging into my finger.

  Oh shit. I reach to pull it off. It won't budge, holding firm until my fingers slip off the smooth surface. Oh shit. Shit.

  In the bathroom, I turn the sink on full blast and soap up my hands. All that manages to do, besides prune my fingers, is make the ring even more slippery. Now I can't even grip it. Karen spots that ring, and she's going to have a lot of weird questions.

  Come on, come on, come off!

  Frustrated, I scream at my hand and make a fist and punch the bed. Then it hits me. I carry a small first aid kit with me when I travel. Not even a first aid kit, really, just bandages and stuff like that.