He’s harder, faster, slamming into me, and I gasp out as my mind propels itself away from us and into the stars, gritting my teeth as an orgasm builds – without the usual friction needed upon my clit.
Damn.
I always heard it was supposed to be harder for women to climax. I don’t seem to be having those issues around Reon. Like, at all.
With a shuddering moan, I climax, the endorphins splitting my lips into a sleepy smile, and my eyes glaze over. My inner walls convulse around Reon’s erection, and it’s not so long afterward that he comes as well.
I keep getting taken by surprise. Just when I think my body’s reached the limit of what it can experience with Reon, something else comes along to blow that notion out of the water.
“I still feel like I’ve gotten the worse end of the deal, somehow,” Reon confesses to me, even as we lie together in the hotel room for what may be the last night here. I’m tracing my fingers over his light brown skin, admiring the contour, enjoying just having him nearby.
I don’t tell him of my dreams of home. Of the fantasies that seize me of being able to make it out of here, back to North America, though I know that high school has long since finished, and all my friends will be in University. My little sister will be in her first year of high school. My older brother will be doing whatever the fuck it is he’s doing. Ripping people off and doing his best to become the 1% of rich people in our ultra-capitalist society. I don’t think I will be able to fully shake off the memories, to forget the life I had before I came here, even though clearly, the Yaru prefer it that way. I do know that with Reon, I have a higher chance of one day making it home than in any other situation. Especially if I can travel with him on the ship, ingratiate myself as a language teacher, like I think Tia might do. If her partner listens to her at all, respects her mind at all.
I hope so. And I hope we’ll be able to maintain contact. I’m sure Reon can help with that, as Tia’s partner will likely enjoy the influence of a lord.
I also wonder if I might actually be happier in this place as compared to earth. Yaru society isn’t that drastically different from our own in aspects. Their bonuses are that they travel the stars, and they’re in contact with other galaxies, though I get the impression that not so many sentient life forms have yet learned to navigate the universe. Since the Yaru prefer to take women from places that haven’t developed that far.
“What are you thinking about?” Reon says, stroking the underside of my jawline. His eyes keep trailing over my soft skin, my red locks, clearly enamored with what he sees.
I snap my attention back to him. One way or another, my future will take shape with Reon. I hope to hell it’s a good one since my brain’s going to be busy getting up to speed with the mechanisms of the planet and its people. I still don’t have a good sense of the world, what countries exist, if people fight among one another if they have religion. The Yaru I’ve been with don’t seem to practice religion at all – and they don’t seem to have a word for it, either.
I lean forward to kiss Reon upon the lips. We have a lot to do. “I’m just thinking about what sort of future I can look forward to. What I’ll need to learn.”
“Does any of that future entail you finding a way back to your planet?” Reon sees right through me.
“A little,” I admit.
He nods, not sad. “We’ll see.”
Yes, I think. One way or another, we will.
Disarmed
Mail Order Bride
Victoria Bell
Disarmed
Copyright 2017 Victoria Bell
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
WARNING:
Due to mature subject matter, such as explicit sexual situations and coarse language, this story is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older, and all acts of a sexual nature are consensual.
Chapter 1 - Phoebe
When he says “I know what you are,” I know it’s all over.
On the Thompson balcony, away from the crowd, 10 stories above Toronto, Antoine picked the perfect time and place. No one will see what he does to me now.
But then he smiles gently, takes my hand and, in my ear, whispers “You’re a firecracker. Not nearly as timid as you pretended online, aren’t you Phoebe?”
I let a smile slide on my own face.
“What gave me away?”
Drawing back now, his dark eyes dancing, he declares “Your laugh. It’s too free.”
At this, I laugh again. I can’t hear the giveaway myself, but it’s hard to be objective when it’s you. Like me being here, now. I just arrived a few hours ago, and everything seems to be going well, but there’s no real way to be sure. The minute I step foot in Antoine’s house, there could be a black-masked man with an AK-47 waiting for me.
I scratch at my thigh, feeling the band that’s holding my own Glock 42. Whatever happens tonight, I’ll be prepared.
“I’ll go get us drinks.”
Antoine leaves before I can say that I’m not in the mood tonight.
No matter, it gives me time to think, to go over these past few hours’ happenings. The flight went fine, no unexpected stops or passengers who shouldn’t be there. Meeting Antoine went as smoothly as could be expected, the way his face lit up at the sight of me, his shy smile for the whole car ride here, his excitement was clearly unfeigned. The paperwork was already done, my bags he had taken back to his house. No one has seemed to follow us here, and this rooftop lounge’s other guests seem as obliviously rich as could be expected. Yes, everything’s been going to plan. Just like a regular old mail order bride transaction.
“You do like wine?” Antoine says, holding out a red-filled glass.
Although it was more of a statement than a question, I shake my head.
“Not tonight. I get pretty bad motion sickness, and alcohol, even hours later, doesn’t exactly help.”
Antoine nods.
“You get bad motion sickness, eh? You never mentioned that when we spoke – I could’ve broken up your flight a bit more, or gone there myself to get you.”
I shoot him a cheeky grin.
“I never mentioned lots of things.”
At that, we both chuckle. Though really, how many things I didn’t mention he has no idea. If he did, he wouldn’t be chuckling at all.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Antoine’s saying, grasping my hand, “All those weeks talking online, all those long conversations… that it’s really you.”
“Me neither,” I say sweetly, losing myself in the honey swirls of his eyes.
This Antoine really is a nice guy. It’s too bad. I turn to direct my gaze to the lit-up skyline. Antoine takes my hand.
“It really is something, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“Your city certainly is beautiful. Less crowded and polluted than mine.”
“Yes, but it’s more than that,” he says, “Look.”
And, for a minute, I do. I take in the towering skyscrapers with their army of little lights, the huge stretch of the city extending as far as the eye can see. There are not many people here on the rooftop with us, it’s a bit too cool for that, but there’s enough.
“Are you nervous?” he asks suddenly.
I glance over. It’s in his eyes, the truth, and yet it can’t be. I turn back to face the skyline.
“Yes.”
He nods, squeezes my hand, his kindly gaze probing my face.
“It’s a huge change. Leaving your family, your job, your life.”
I nod.
“But also a worthwhile one. I couldn’t stay there. And as soon as we started talking, I knew coming here, being with you, was right.”
Antoine’s gaze isn’t on me anymore, however.
“And I meant what I said the last time we talked. If you ever want to visit home and your family, you just tell me and the arrangements will be made. I’m not a ridiculously rich man, but I have enough for that.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Thank you; you’re too generous. But I meant what I said too: I probably won’t need or want to visit them for half a year at least. I want to get settled here before I go visiting back home.”
“You’re braver than you know,” Antoine says.
As he draws me into a hug, and I gaze at the skyline, I’ll only get to enjoy for another year at most. I smile. Not for what he said, but for me. I’m braver than he knows, too.
--
The rest of the night is a more pleasant conversation. Antoine offers me another drink, but I decline. I can’t forget myself here. So, I don’t go over to the music, don’t glance at the other people. I keep my gaze on Antoine’s handsome tan face. He’s the only one who matters now and is going to matter for the next year or so. Just one year here, that’s all I have to make it through. Just one year and then the world is my oyster.
By the time Antoine suggests we go home, I gladly accept, was ready to leave over an hour ago.
At the curb in front of the Thompson, an overly-alert cabbie is already ready for us.
“Where to?” he asks as soon as Antoine opens the door. As I get in, Antoine slips beside me, telling the cabbie:
“665 Rain Road.”
He sits too close so that our legs touch. Well, not too close. He is my husband, after all. But still, the whole thing feels like a movie or novel, not like something I’m really living, really experiencing. I didn’t even know mail-order brides actually existed nowadays until I chanced upon that article about one of them. No, none of this feels real at all.
The cabbie drives like he’s the one on the run, swerving around any car going anything less than 80, doing hairpin turns just in time, speeding through red lights.
By the time we pull up to the remote house and stagger out of the taxi, Antoine lets out a long, loud sigh of relief.
We both crack up.
“Thank God,” I say.
As we head into the house, Antoine nods, still chuckling.
“I did think that was it for me – that the night I finally met my beautiful bride would be the same night I died tragically in a car accident.”
At the door now, he unlocks it.
“I had the driver leave your suitcase inside.”
Finally paying attention to my surroundings, I notice that this is not at all a normal house.
“Your walls… they’re all-”
“Glass,” Antoine’s smile finishes for me.
As I take in the beautifully simplistic design of the room we’re in; he continues “I have top-down electronic curtains for privacy, of course. But in the morning, when all the sunlight streams in, you have to see it; there’s nothing like it.”
I nod dumbly, still pleasantly surprised by the tastefulness of the décor, how every object is in its perfect place.
“Now,” Antoine says quietly, turning to me, “Why did you do this?”
My heart goes cold, while I will my face not to register any expression, to look believably surprised or confused, anything but the stone-cold fear that’s crawling down my spine.
“Why what?”
Another shy kind smile. Taking my hand, he leads me to a staircase. We sit down on a light wood step.
“This,” he says, gesturing to himself, “Marry me. Be a mail-order bride at all.”
I don’t look at him – can’t, won’t. I had expected this question – had even prepared for it, sure, but not so early on. And I didn’t expect to feel this nervous, for some reason.
“I could ask you the same question,” I say in a low voice.
Silence. I’m trying to buy time, and he knows it. So, I look at it. I really look at him, and I tell him the truth.
“Life there was stifling. I never wanted to stay in Japan. Too many people, too many expectations. I chanced on the idea in a newspaper article. I started out thinking the whole mail-order bride was a joke, an ironic get-out-of-Japan free card. I never took it seriously, was chatting with a few men on the site before I started talking to you.”
“And?” Antoine presses.
“And, I don’t know why there was something about you.”
He nods, and I keep my gaze on my hands.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. The creak of the stairs as he ascends, then quiet. I’m glad he didn’t press me further; for that, even a partial truth wouldn’t have worked. Because of the “something” about him, was that he was the only man I had talked to who I didn’t feel sorry for. Yes, he was the only man who hadn’t seemed like a down-and –out loser, whose life would be ruined once I invariably left. He was the only man I felt like I could bear to go through everything with.
Something hard and cool presses into the back of my neck, and I whirl around, hands out.
“Whoa, whoa!” Antoine says, his face now white.
The cool and hard vase he still has clutched in his hands.
“It’s an orchid. Your favorite flower.”
My heartbeat is still pounding against my chest like a series of gunshots. It takes me a minute to calm down enough to say, “Thank you.”
He nods dumbly.
“You’re… welcome. Are you ok?”
Trembling has overtaken my body, and I see it again – Samuel dead, that puddle of blood, his wide-open eyes... I’m back on the step now, on the stairs, crying. Antoine is stroking my head.
“Phoebe, Phoebe… are you ok?”
“No,” I say.
And, for the first time that night, I’ve told the whole truth.
Chapter 2 - Antoine
I let her sleep in. She’s had a rough day, and the more relaxed she is, the easier this’ll all be. Although I do peer in every hour or so, just to check in on her. It never hurts to be too careful. Every time I peer into the yellow-walled room, her face is as calm and unsuspecting as ever, her eyelashes only fluttering slightly.
As she sleeps, I make the day’s arrangements. I confirm our spa appointment, set out the orchid on the kitchen table, and get breakfast ready. By the time I finally do hear shuffling coming from her room at the end of the hallway, I’ve got the mountain of waffles all ready.
“Good morning,” I say, marching in.
Her slanted eyes open, her peach lips manage a sleepy smile, then both close again, as if she’s zipping herself back up into sleep. Before I say anything more, I take a second to study her. My first impression last night was correct - she’s not how I expected – more open, less formal, prettier than I expected, not that it matters much. I’ll have to be careful.
When I sit down on the bed, it lets out a great creak.
“Wakey, wakey,” I say.
She doesn’t move and, when I put my hand on her arm, she rolls over to deliver me a glare.
“Five more minutes.”
I shake my head.
“We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. It’s already 10:30; I let you sleep in a lot.”
Closing her eyes, she murmurs “Jet lag.”
I poke her in the side.
“C’mon Phoebe.”
So, yawning mightily, eyes in an expression of sleep and irritation, she positions herself upright. When her gaze falls upon the plate of cut-up waffles with strawberries, her eyes widen, then she grins.
“For me?”
I nod, kiss her cheek.
“For you.”
At the contact, she blushes, her gaze lowering.
“Th
ank you.”
Now it’s my turn to grin. Grabbing a fork, I stab the piece closest to me.
“It’s for both of us, really.”
As she watches me toss the piece in my mouth, I say “Though if you insist, I can eat all of them.”
A second later is Phoebe grabbing a fork herself and stabbing it into a waffle chunk of her own. This is all it takes for her to start eagerly devouring the rest of the waffle. It’s not long until the plate of waffles has been reduced to an empty porcelain circle. As she devours the last piece, I survey her furiously chewing face with a smile.
“You really like eating, don’t you? You must be some chef.”
Phoebe’s “Ha-!” is halfway out of her mouth before she thinks better of it and closes her mouth again.
“Oh yes,” she says after another minute, and I leave it at that.
Taking the plate and rising, I tell her “You’ve got 15 minutes to get ready. There are clothes in the closet.”
And then I’m closing the door behind me. Waiting in the den with The Great Gatsby open on my lap, I give Phoebe 20 minutes. After all, I know how women are. But when I get there, she’s no closer to being ready than when I left her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, and she shrugs.
“You didn’t tell me what we’re going; I didn’t know what to choose.”
“And you didn’t think to come ask me?”
She’s not looking at me.
“All of this, I think you’re getting the wrong idea about me.”
I take a breath, stifling the urge to tell her that I know just who and what she is. Instead, I take a step towards her.
“And what is the wrong idea?”
She steps towards me so that now, we’re face to face.
The Lost Seal: A Seal Romance Page 37
