One Bride for Five Brothers

by Jess Bentley

  “Oh my God’s not exactly an answer,” he grinned, as he moved down her body and began to kiss her milky thighs.

  “That wasn’t exactly a proposal,” she retorted with a smile, lifting her hips a little toward his lips. He took advantage of the easier access and swiped his tongue along the soft skin her revealed when he pushed aside her panties. She gasped in pleasure.

  “I guess that’s true,” he said. “But that can be arranged.”

  “When it is, then I’ll give you my answer.” He laughed softly. Rory knew she couldn’t resist his mouth anymore, and wriggled out of her thong herself. He licked the length of her, sending ripples through her body and entered her with his fingers. It wasn’t long before she came, but when he went to give her another round, she stopped him.

  “I need you inside me,” she said softly, pulling him to her.

  “Rory, you’re goddamned beautiful,” he said as he looked back to admire her body, the callused fingers of his left hand tracing the skin of her stomach, as the right hand softly caressed her folds. She gazed at him, loving the way his muscles looked through his tank top, how the ripped jeans gave little peeks of the skin underneath. She reached out to stroke the large bulge in the crotch of his pants, and earned a groan from him.

  Undoing his pants, he released himself from the fabric confines and Rory felt that primal burst of desire she did whenever he got naked; she knew he wouldn’t give it to her right away though. He liked to take his time and make her so hot she’d almost beg before he rewarded her. She stroked the heavy girth of him, the hard length with its petal-soft skin, and he moved his hips back and forth as she did.

  “You’re the one who’s gorgeous,” she told him as he took off the tank. “Look at you!” His muscles rippled as he moved, and soon he was naked on top of her, stroking her opening with the head of his cock, teasing her warm slit. She sat up, straddled him and put her arms around his neck, trying to ride him, but he lifted her hips and balanced her sex right above his glistening tip, and Rory moaned in frustration.

  “Come on, Arsen,” she said, her voice low and husky.

  “You want it?” he smiled playfully, and she could only moan in answer as he dipped her hips and let the tip just inside. She gently swiveled her hips and nodded. “It’s all yours, baby,” he growled, and she threw her head back as he lowered her. He was big, and it always felt like it wouldn’t quite fit, but in the most perfect of ways. He moved expertly inside her, hitting all the right spots, as she rubbed her breasts against the sprinkling of his chest hair. It was almost too much, and she nearly came.

  Gripping her ass cheeks, he said in a breathless voice. “I’m all yours, Rory. Forever.” He moved inside, stroking her as he spread her open to fit inside up to the hilt. She squirmed in his arms, breathing heavily. She wondered how she got so lucky to have a rock god inside her. He was as talented with his cock as he was with his fingers, and his rhythm built up until he was at the perfect tempo. His eyes were stormy as he looked at her, his mouth soft.

  “You’re making me come,” she answered in a strained voice, and before long all the tension that had been building up inside her broke in wave after wave of sparkling light. She may have been teasing him by not giving him an answer, but Rory knew she loved Arsen with all her heart. And more than that, she thought, as another wave of orgasm crashed through her.

  As she finished, Arsen growled again and tossed her down on the mattress, holding her hips tight, and began to fuck her hard and fast, his thumb on her clit, and she lifted her knees up to her chest as he owned her. She’d never been with a man who was so skilled in bed, and as he brought her to another wave of orgasm, she cried out, “Come with me, Arsen!”

  “God yes,” he answered. He leaned down and kissed her as he filled her with his seed, and their bodies shuddered together for a few moments before they stilled.

  “I love you,” Rory whispered into his dark hair.

  “I love you too,” he answered. “More than anything.”

  She felt so happy and satisfied that she thought she might burst. The emotions were so strong, and so perfect. They cleared away all the sadness in her mind, all the envy she had for her sister, all the worry she had felt about finding the perfectly style-conscious outfit for her Manhattan friend’s wedding. Nothing about all that mattered when Arsen held her in his strong arms and told her he loved her and when he proved how much he wanted her time after time in bed.

  Did she want to marry him? She knew the answer was yes. She breathed a yes into his neck, so soft that he wouldn’t hear, but his musician’s ears must have picked something up. He tipped up her chin and looked at her with eyes glistening with love.

  “Wanna go ring shopping?” he asked.

  “I would like nothing more,” she answered happily, knowing it was true. She snuggled into his neck and breathed his woody, masculine scent, and as his arm curled around her, she knew she was the luckiest girl in the world.

  “Okay, the car’s here,” called Rory to Arsen as he was grabbing their suitcases. Looking down at her hand as she took hers, she tried not to be disappointed that their trip to the jewelry store didn’t result in a ring. The one she and Arsen had liked best, a cathedral pavé half carat platinum, was far too extravagant and she forbade him from buying it for her.

  Besides, there was probably a ring in her grandmother’s jewelry box that they could use, though they hadn’t gone looking yet. Arsen had been away a couple of weeks, getting his solo stuff sorted out and doing the legal details of leaving Insurrection, so they really hadn’t had much time.

  She also tried not to be concerned that she didn’t have a proper proposal story to tell her friends. Sure it had been romantic, but who tells a proposal story about being in bed?

  Her friends would probably love it anyway, but she thought she might just keep the whole thing to herself. It was still private. No ring, no date, no big proposal. But none of that mattered since she had the love of her life, she told herself, her lips thinning.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” asked Arsen.

  “Nothing,” she smiled, shaking her head, trying to lose the feelings of envy that were brewing inside her. “You have the plane tickets?”

  He patted his pocket. “Sure do,” he grinned, and kissed her cheek. At least she knew her friends would think he was super hot and thanked the heavens that she wasn’t attending the wedding of her best friend Alicia, all by herself.

  They rode to the airport in silence, but when they didn’t go to the regular terminal entrance, she sat up.

  “Driver, I think you missed the turn,” she said. Arsen put his hand on her leg and shook his head. They kept going.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded, but she could see the sparkle in his eye. She hit him on the arm. “What are you doing, Arsen?”

  He rubbed the spot in an exaggerated fashion. “Hey, you brute!” Then pulled her to him and kissed her hard. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Aren’t we going to NYC?” she asked. The last thing she wanted was for a surprise to get in the way of their trip to the wedding.

  “I guess I can tell you,” he grinned. “We’re taking Insurrection’s private plane. It was their final thank you for me.”

  “Are you serious!” Rory almost hit him again, but stopped herself. “Oh my God!” She’d never been in a private plane before, and at least she could tell her New York friends that story.

  “You bet!” The driver dropped them off at a small, private terminal, and they whizzed through the security detail. When they climbed up the stairs onto the plane, Arsen stopped her, told her to close her eyes, and then covered them with his hands for good measure.

  When he said she could open her eyes, she was shocked. The cabin was beautiful, but more than that it was filled with endless red roses, and Arsen was kneeling in front of her. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Rory. You saved me from a life I never wanted, by showing me what rock solid love really is. You’ve made me happier than I ever though
t I could be. You’re a goddess, you’re a woman, and you’re the sweetest girlfriend a man could ever have.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

  Rory couldn’t breathe. He opened the box, and it was the ring that she had secretly wanted him to get the whole time, but didn’t think she was worthy of. The cathedral pavé half carat platinum. “You shouldn’t have!” she choked out as she fell to her knees in front of him.

  “You’re not going to hit me again are you,” Arsen grinned. She vigorously shook her head no. “Rory Loughlin, will you make me the happiest man in the world, and marry me?”

  “I will! Yes, I will,” she said, as he slipped the ring on her finger. She collapsed against him. “Yes, yes yes yes, yes,” she said into his soft dark hair.

  He laughed and kissed her wherever he could reach.

  “Should we celebrate with champagne once we take off?”

  She smiled big through her tears, and hugged him again. “Yes! Champagne, and the mile-high club.”

  His eyes crinkled as he laughed. “I knew I was marrying the right girl!”

  They buckled into their seats and as the plane took off, Arsen put his arm around her. As Rory drew a rose up to her face to inhale its scent, a pure happiness filled her being, and she couldn’t wait to begin the next chapter of their lives together.

  And to tell her friends her fabulous engagement story.

  KING - excerpt

  Jordan

  My head is reeling. I fish around in my purse for the keys to my parents’ place, but I don’t make contact with anything. Maybe it’s unlocked. Just as I reach for the door handle, the door pops open and I’m face to face with a man in a open-necked button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and suit pants. He’s stunning. The look on his face is surprised and receptive, his bright blue eyes bright, their crinkled edges softening his expression. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. He definitely looks gorgeous.

  “Oh, hi,” he says. His voice rumbles softly.

  I fumble a bit, rub my hand on the side of my black dress, and hold out my hand to shake his. I’m flustered. His touch feels like electricity. I try not to stare at the way his collar falls around his upper chest and collarbone, or how the fabric stretches across broad shoulders.

  “You’re Jordan,” he says.

  “Yes,” I manage to say. He opens the door wide and moves out the way.

  “Jordan, honey, is that you?” I hear in my mother’s voice. It’s her “company” voice, modulated and mellifluous. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”

  Yeah, I couldn’t stand being at my best friend’s funeral and wake for a second more, but I don’t want to talk about that in front of the gentleman that’s here.

  “Things ended early,” I say simply.

  “Oh honey,” my mom says, swooping in and kissing me on the cheek. “I’m so sorry. How did it go?”

  “It was fine,” I answer quickly, dismissively. My mind is churning with thoughts and emotions. I don’t know how they did it, but it was an open casket. Kelsey died in a car crash, and her forehead hit the windshield. I guess the airbag didn’t deploy. But whoever did her makeup restored her to the way she looked when we were fifteen, except peaceful. Clear. She looked different later—kind of cagey, somehow. After a certain point there was a shadow across her face when we hung out that never quite left. I don’t know why it was like that. I figured we just were growing apart.

  For me, I tried to hold on too hard, to cling too much to her. But she was my rock for so long that it was difficult to try to get along without my best friend at my side all the time.

  It’s hard for me to trust anyone now that she’s gone, and if I’m honest, some part of me didn’t even trust her, though I did follow her.

  “Jordan, this is Mr. King,” my mother says too brightly. “He and your father were best friends in college, and now they’re going into business together.” Best friends. Like Kelsey and I were.

  “Hello, Mr. King,” I say dutifully. It feels strange that a man my father’s age could be so attractive, and that even on the day of my best friend’s funeral I could feel heat rising in my chest, and tingling in my core.

  “We met before, Jordan,” Mr. King says. “But you’ve grown up a lot since then.” There’s an appreciation in his voice that goes just to the edge of what might be flirting, or might just be politeness.

  “That’s right!” my mother says, clapping her hands to the sides of her mouth. “You met Jordan when she was a little baby!”

  “She was adorable,” he smiles, and his full lips stretch over perfect teeth. “And later too, when she was eleven or twelve? Now she’s a real lady.” His eyes flicker almost imperceptibly over my body. “You must be very proud.”

  My mother smiles. “We couldn’t be prouder of Jordan,” she trumpets.

  I slip off my heels. I’m not usually so done up, but I had to show my respects and wear heels. “Thanks,” I say. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I really need to change into something more relaxing.”

  “I think you still have some clothes in your old room,” my mother says. “Jordan was at her best friend’s funeral today,” she stage-whispers to Mr. King. He looks stricken.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says softly. I glance up at him, and there’s genuine compassion in his eyes, but something else as well. What is it?

  “That’s okay,” I say inanely, caught in his glance. Of course it’s not okay. But neither is wanting to crawl into this stranger’s arms, and I feel like that as well.

  “Go on up and get changed, Jordan honey,” my mother finally says, and I rip my eyes away from Mr. King.

  “Yes.” I walk up the carpeted spiral staircase and head to my old room, the path I’ve walked so many times before. In my mind I hear Kelsey’s voice, feel her fingers wrapping around my hand and pulling me along, me falling behind, her urging me on to whatever scheme she wants to pull. I was her sidekick, her security blanket, and without her, I’m completely lost.

  I push the door open into my room, and crumple on the bed, still in my dress. It’s so surreal. Kelsey, where are you? Why did you leave me? All those mourners standing around, eating hors d’oeuvres, shifting from foot to foot, spouting platitudes. I wanted to jump up and strike the food out of their hands and yell, “She was only twenty-three! How can you people just stand there! The whole world has changed!”

  But it hasn’t, I guess. Not for them.

  I saw the same look in the eyes of her mother and her father. The look of being completely lost, bereft of hope. I would have commiserated with them more, but they never really warmed up to me even when we were kids. They weren’t exactly warm people. Their living room was one of those with plastic covering the furniture. It was more of a sitting room that people weren’t allowed to sit in.

  Kelsey and I spent most of our time as kids at my house, in this room. As I enter, the smell of it is stifling—the slight mustiness, the memories, the near-presence of Kelsey. The feeling that threw me out of here when I was eighteen mostly on Kelsey’s urging is still egging me to leave.

  I stood there at the funeral home with her mother, playing with the napkin I was holding, trying to hide the fact that I was ripping it into tiny shreds. Her mother, clearly uncomfortable and looking everywhere but at me, said that Kelsey left me something in the will, and that I would have to attend the reading. I have no idea what it might be. I know she had some money. I wouldn’t be surprised if she left me a thousand dollars or something. Or maybe it will be like one of those soap operas and I’ll get a video of her talking. That would be spooky.

  “Jordan, if you’re watching this, I’m dead now.” I shudder at the thought. But part of me is still curious as to what she might want to give me on the occasion of her death.

  Whatever. A will is the last thing I want to be thinking about right now. It’s been too much, thinking of Kelsey all day, thinking of her dying, of me being left alone. I feel hopeless at facing life witho
ut her.

  When she was still alive, I never faced the fact that I relied on her too much. I just put it up to being best friends. But I was always more dependent on her than she on me.

  It’s too much to think about.

  I reach up and undo the hook and pull down the zipper of my black dress, then strip it off. It’s funny—sometimes I have the odd feeling that I’m being watched when I undress, but not here in my old home. Must be a little quirk I have. Still, something inside me feels like putting on a show. And for Mr. King, too.

  I imagine his eyes on me as I raise one foot onto my childhood bed and peel off my black pantyhose. I shimmy out of the other leg, and then slowly pull down the black thong I was wearing, not to be sexy, but to avoid panty lines. It catches between my legs and sticks for a second, probably because of the wetness that slicked my folds when Mr. King touched me.

  Why am I thinking of him? My mind is uncontrollable right now. Is it just a reaction to Kelsey’s funeral? It all feels so strange, so fake. Like life is a performance. I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders, clutching the cups to my chest as if I’m embarrassed, before letting it fall down onto the floor. I thought being back at my parents’ house would make me feel like myself again, but then Mr. King showed up.

  Now I’m naked. Part of me wants him to appear at the door.

  “Jordan,” he would say. “Excuse me. I didn’t know you were changing...” His words would trail off and he’d stand there, the bulge in his dress pants getting bigger until it was clearly defined, the shaft, the head. He’d be frozen for a moment, wanting to leave, wanting to stay. Wanting to bend me over, let his cock free, and plunge every inch into me. “I’m sorry,” he’d say, “but I just can’t help myself. You’ve just gotten too sexy. And you’re going to have to obey me.”

  My hand trails down between my legs and I try not to make any sound, but I want to moan when I come in contact with my slick clit. I look at myself in my childhood mirror, painted pink above a pink vanity, and see my nipples, hard and proud, the long stretch of my stomach, the recently stripped-bare mound. That brings me back too, to see my sex so naked, like it must have been when I first met Mr. King.