The Imperfections: A Forbidden Romance

by Sam Mariano

  I’m not afraid of him, but my heart beats like I am as he closes in on me. Still grasping my wrist, he guides my hand between his legs. This time I don’t tease. I open my hand and wrap it around his dick, gently squeezing his hard shaft.

  Brant releases my wrist, but his dark gaze never leaves mine. I can’t look away from him—I don’t want to—so I keep my eyes locked on his while I clean and caress him. Once I’ve adequately soaped his dick, I move the cloth lower and start massaging his balls.

  “Is that good?” I ask, to make sure I’m doing it right.

  “Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with arousal.

  The desire I feel radiating off him seeps into me. The way he looks down at me sets me on fire—there’s lust inside him, but there’s rage, too.

  I know there’s violence inside this man. I know what he’s capable of, but I also know he would never hurt me.

  The danger is still there, though, and I feel like I’m playing with it as I play with him. I drop the washcloth, giving up the pretense of cleaning him. As the sopping wet cloth hits the shower floor, I take his cock in my hand again and begin to stroke.

  Brant sighs with pleasure, his head falling back and his eyes drifting closed as I work him. I’m getting so turned on looking at him standing here naked with the water streaming down his body, running over his taut muscles…

  I kneel and quickly lower myself to both knees, uncaring of the hot stream of water rolling down his strong body and pouring down on me at his feet. It’s like a filthy baptism, and I love it.

  I need to worship, so I lean in and take the tip of his cock into my mouth. He pushes his fingers through my hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling me forward, forcing more of himself into my mouth. I’m not ready for it so I make a little noise of protest, but I don’t try to pull back. It’s less comfortable, but I like letting him set the pace. I like his firm hand on the back of my head, guiding me back and forth and making me take him any way he desires.

  It feels like a punishment, a penance doled out by the keeper of my soul to keep me in line. I hope it is. I hate him being angry at me. I understand why he is, but all I want is for him to forgive me and us to get back to how it was before, when I knew for sure that he liked me.

  At least I know he still wants me. Even if he doesn’t like me right now, we still have this.

  Since it’s all I have at the moment, I give it all I’ve got. I suck him like my life depends on it, like it’s back when we first met and I’m desperate to prove my worth. When he plants a hand against the shower wall and groans as he comes down my throat, my heart soars with satisfaction, even while my pussy throbs with need.

  I was so wrapped up in his pleasure, I forgot about my own. I should’ve only sucked him to the point of desperation, then made him fuck me.

  Now, as I stand back up, he’s sated, and I’m aching with so much need I think I might die.

  “Brant,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around his strong torso and looking up at him pleadingly. I try to pull him against my needy body, but I’m met with resistance.

  He looks down at me. I can see in his eyes he knows what I want, but he makes me ask for it anyway. “Yes?”

  “I need you,” I tell him.

  Now that I’ve confessed my hunger for him, he curls his strong arm around my waist, pulling me against his slick body. “You need me?”

  “Yes. So much,” I say, leaning my forehead against his shoulder.

  Brant snakes his other arm around me then lets his hand slide down to cup my ass. Pleasurable tingling follows everywhere he touches. My senses are so alive, bliss firing from all cylinders. He squeezes my ass and I practically purr, melting against his body.

  “You know what I need, Alyssa?” he murmurs deeply, intimately, right into my ear.

  Me. Please let it be me.

  “What?” I ask breathlessly as his hand moves around my body and slides between my legs. My heart pounds so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t fly out of my chest. Anticipation builds as his fingers dance along my skin, so close. So, so close. His finger traces the curve of my inner thigh then brushes the outside of my pussy, and my knees just about give out.

  I’m completely certain I’ll die if he doesn’t push his finger inside me and relieve my ache right this second, but he’s paying me back, teasing me like I teased him. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can barely stand I need it so much.

  He kisses the side of my face tenderly. Then he says, “I need to know why Theo was in the barn with you.”

  Something shatters inside as he withdraws his hand from between my legs without touching me, then removes his body just as quickly. I shudder, left suddenly cold without him right on top of me. He might as well have dumped an actual bucket of ice water over my head.

  Appearing unfazed, as if I’m not here, Brant moves back under the brunt of the spray, running a hand through his dark, wet hair to rinse out any remaining shampoo. Then he rotates under the shower, his hands running over slick muscles I desperately want to run my own hands over, but I’m stuck plastered to this wall, left wanting and cold while he rinses off.

  When he’s done, he turns the water off and opens the shower door. I haven’t moved from my spot against the wall. I watch with sad eyes as he dries himself, my body still warmed up inside while externally I’m so cold.

  His cool gaze finally meets mine in the mirror as he scrubs at his hair with the towel. He doesn’t say anything, just finishes drying off, then he walks naked to the linen closet and grabs a second towel.

  I don’t move until he stops in front of the open shower door and holds it out for me.

  Swallowing, I step forward and take it. “Thank you,” I say softly.

  Brant nods once then walks into the bedroom to grab some clothes.

  I sigh miserably and finally step out of the shower. My body is pissed off since it thought an orgasm was imminent, so I dry off quickly and go out to get some pajamas.

  On second thought, I skip the pajamas and climb into bed naked. He might be able to say no to me right now because I just sucked him off, but when we’re lying in bed and my naked body is mere inches from his, he might change his tune.

  Jerk.

  As if he can hear my thoughts, he turns to look at me. I pout at him, but he merely shakes his head and turns away.

  God, he’s the worst. And the best. I love him so fucking much.

  Marriage to him is going to be torture, isn’t it?

  Once Brant turns out all the lights, he climbs into bed with me. He’s wearing a pair of dark blue flannel sleep pants that I usually love to admire on him, but tonight they’re my mortal enemy.

  I know I’ll have to lie here long enough for him to get an erection again before I can play with it, but that doesn’t seem like it will be a problem. Unless I take care of my own needs, there’s no way I’ll be able to relax enough to fall asleep.

  The thought crosses my mind as we lie here in the dark, not cuddling, not speaking to one another. There’s no way he would be able to ignore me if I slid my hand down beneath the sheets and started touching myself… right?

  I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure, and the prospect of being rejected by him twice in one night is too much to bear, so I don’t try.

  While I’m lying there thinking about snagging his attention, his mind is clearly on other things. When he finally does turn his head to look at me, it’s not with the lust I was hoping to see in his gaze. He looks a little tormented, and the realization guts me, slicing right through any remaining lust and sexual frustration I had been hanging onto.

  While I’m trying to stitch my insides back together to keep myself from bleeding out over the pain I’m clearly causing him, he sharpens a knife.

  “You told me once that if you had it all to do over again, you never would’ve let Theo touch you.”

  I draw a shallow breath, looking up at the ceiling because I can’t look at him. “I remember.”

  “Did you mean it?
” he demands.

  I don’t even notice tears have welled up in my eyes until I squeeze them closed and inadvertently squeeze a drop out. It rolls down my left cheek and seeps into the pillowcase beneath my head. If Brant notices, he doesn’t mention it.

  It makes me miserable that he even has to ask that this far into our relationship. No, we haven’t been together for a long time like most couples making the commitment we’re making, but he knows me well enough to marry me; he should know me well enough to know the answer to this question.

  He does. Deep down, I know he does, it’s just that Theo planted doubts in his mind that day in the barn, and Brant’s mind was already pre-fertilized to feed any doubt that tried to take root.

  “Yes, I meant it,” I assure him, keeping my voice soft despite the temptation to get defensive. I’m tired of apologizing over and over again for the same mistake. I would do it anyway if it ever helped, but it doesn’t seem to.

  “Is it your greatest regret?”

  “No,” I answer.

  That seems to surprise him. Even though I’m not looking at him, I hear his head brush the pillow as he looks over at me. “No?”

  I shake my head faintly, opening my eyes and looking up at the ceiling. “It’s definitely top three, don’t get me wrong, but no. My greatest regret to date isn’t letting Theo knock me up. It’s not shutting myself inside the house and locking the door when he came over that day. It’s letting him worm his way in between us the way he so obviously has.”

  “That would have never happened if you hadn’t let him touch you to begin with,” Brant points out.

  Finally looking over at him, I point out, “I never would have met you if I hadn’t let that miserable bastard touch me. Even though you seem to hate me a little bit now, that’s not a reality I’d prefer.”

  His brow furrows and he stares at me for a moment.

  I remain quiet, having said all I have to say. It strikes me as perhaps a little sick that even though I’m raw and aching, even though I’m vulnerable as hell and he could strike me down with a single well-placed word right now… at least I have his attention.

  His hot, intense gaze never leaves my face, like he’s trying to burn through my physical layers and see inside my mind, to search it for anything I might have done wrong since I won’t open my stupid mouth and tell him.

  Finally, after searching fruitlessly for answers I won’t give, he reaches for me. My heart thuds against my chest as his fingers clamp around my bicep, then he gets a better hold on me and tugs me across the bed until I’m fitted snugly against his side, right where I’m supposed to be.

  “I don’t hate you, Alyssa,” he says softly.

  Curling my arm around his waist and looking up at him, I ask, “Not even a little bit?”

  “Not at all,” he promises.

  I can finally breathe again, hearing that. I know it doesn’t change anything about how we’ve been since he caught me in the barn with Theo, but it makes me feel better nevertheless.

  “Good. I don’t ever want you to hate me,” I tell him, snuggling closer.

  Brant tightens his strong arm around me, pulling me against his chest and kissing the crown of my head.

  He doesn’t say a word, though.

  He doesn’t offer a single promise that he’ll never do that.

  25

  Alyssa

  They say your wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but I don’t think a shotgun wedding like mine was quite what they had in mind.

  When Brant first commanded our engagement, it didn’t feel like one. For one thing, he was both the groom and the man holding the shotgun, and how does that even work? It was no overprotective, old-fashioned male relative of mine forcing Brant down the aisle; it was Brant himself.

  The problem is, as vehemently as I rejected her proffered words of wisdom at the time, I think Bri might be right—I don’t think Brant trusts me, I’m not sure he likes me anymore, and I am quite sure he no longer wants to marry me.

  Bleak thoughts to be having as the near-stranger who is supposed to be my future sister-in-law curls my hair and tugs it into a perfect up-do for my walk down the aisle. Obliviously, she talks my ear off about how she never thought her loner brother would tie the knot with anybody, and how I must really be something special.

  I met Brant’s other sister at the Fourth of July party when he introduced me as his fiancée, but she was already knee-deep in wine coolers by that point.

  Today, everyone’s focus is on me, and I hate it. I especially hate it because I’m absolutely miserable, and I can tell by the strange looks people keep giving me that they’re noticing.

  Today was supposed to be wonderful and romantic. For weeks I’ve daydreamed about how today would go, and never once was it anything like this.

  When I woke up this morning, Brant was already gone from our bed. Not so unusual since he’s an early riser and I’m not, but I had hoped for some pre-wedding cuddles to ease my jitters—especially because avoiding me and freezing me out seem to be his favorite hobbies these days.

  I thought for sure the dark cloud would pass and we would snap back to how we were before that day in the barn, but Brant isn’t bouncing back.

  Bri was right. I was wrong. I should have known that. She’s known him for a hell of a lot longer than I have.

  Thinking about how miserably lonely Brant can make me with very little effort, a cold wave of fear washes over me. It’s not fear of any physical harm he would ever inflict on me, but a more sinister kind of harm he could inflict a little at a time. Less noticeable, but every bit as soul-crushing.

  He’s given me a sneak peek of it lately, and I haven’t even formally committed myself to him yet. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose. Maybe he’s trying to scare me off. Maybe he doesn’t want to marry me anymore and he’s just too goddamn honorable to say so.

  “It’s about that time,” Brant’s bubbly sister, Crista, sing-songs, walking around the chair and smiling at me. “You look so pretty.”

  I don’t feel pretty. I force a smile anyway, not wanting her to think I don’t appreciate her efforts. I know on a superficial level, I do look the part of a pretty, blushing bride, but I don’t feel like one, and that’s what matters.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, lowering my gaze as I sit forward and climb out of my chair.

  Since we’re getting married here at the house, Brant’s bedroom and master bath have been transformed into a bridal suite. The bed he left me alone in this morning is neatly made, with garments and handbags scattered across the soft surface. My sister and my niece are in the bedroom primping at a makeshift vanity Amber set up on the window seat, and Brant’s sisters are helping me get ready in the bathroom.

  “Time to get this pretty dress on,” Bri says brightly as she takes my lovely lace fit-n-flare gown off the hanger.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  I peel off the white satin robe I wore while we did my hair and makeup. Underneath is my bridal lingerie: white lace panties with sexy garters and sheer white thigh-highs along with a delicate corset tied loosely so it doesn’t hurt the baby. My stomach is still mostly flat; I’m not showing noticeably yet, but there’s a faint curve and thickness that I can feel since it’s my own body that has changed.

  My wedding dress is mostly backless, so before we put it on, we have to take off the corset. I’m not self-conscious about being topless in front of other women until I glance over at Bri and catch her looking at me with an almost wistful look on her face. It strikes me as odd and causes me to frown. When her gaze catches mine, she appears almost guilty, like I caught her doing something wrong, then she flashes me a smile and says, “My brother’s a lucky man.”

  Crista laughs, tossing a look my way and saying casually, “No kidding. What I wouldn’t give to have the body of an 18-year-old again.”

  Even though their words are flattering, I flush with embarrassment and yearn to hide my body.

  I get to bef
ore long, but as I step into the beautiful white wedding dress I was so in love with when I picked it out, it just feels wrong.

  I was supposed to wear this dress down the aisle to a man who adored me, a man whose breath would be ripped straight from his lungs at the sight of his lovely bride.

  That’s not going to happen today, and I know it. Brant is too unhappy, and it’s all my fault.

  I know the dress isn’t too tight, but as Bri and her sister pull the fabric together and fasten it up the back, I suddenly can’t breathe.

  “I can’t,” I say, grabbing hold of the back of a nearby chair and struggling to draw enough air into my lungs.

  Bri’s eyes widen as they meet mine in the mirror across from me. “What?”

  “I can’t do this. I can’t…”

  “The dress? Is it too tight?” she asks, only mildly alarmed as she reaches down to undo the buttons trailing down my lower back.

  “It’s not the dress,” I say, pulling away before she gets any undone. “It’s the wedding. I can’t do the… the marrying. I can’t marry him. I can’t do this.”

  “Oh, God,” Crista says, horrified, as she lowers the veil she was just about to put on me.

  Bri’s jaw falls open, then her gaze darts from her sister to mine in the other room. “Uh… can you guys give us a minute?”

  Nobody wants to leave, least of all Crista, but Bri shoos everyone else out of both rooms so only we remain.

  Cautiously, Bri approaches me, lifting her gaze to my face. “What do you mean, you can’t do this?”

  Shaking my head, all the blood in my body rushing to my face and overheating me, I tell her, “I’m so sorry. I just can’t marry him.”

  “You can’t abandon him at the altar, Alyssa. You will break my brother’s heart,” she states, her gaze unwavering.

  “You’re the one who told me not to do this in the first place.”

  “Yes,” she says, her eyes widening. “I warned you months ago when you still had time to back out. This is your wedding day, and it’s too goddamn late to change your mind. You were able to overlook murder, so what could possibly be the issue now?” Taking a deep breath and attempting a more peaceable tone, she tells me, “This is just cold feet, that’s all. Everyone gets like this right before the wedding. It doesn’t mean anything.”