“I know.” Blair replied, smiling up at me, love shining all over her face. “And somehow we created him.”
I laughed, remembering the craziness of that night, the night he must have been conceived. “Who would have thought? That night would create Little Jason.”
“We are not naming him after you,” she snapped back playfully, slapping me on the arm. “No chance.”
All animosity between us, that had been hanging in the air for many, many months, just vanished in the presence of this young man, and I started to think that maybe… just maybe we could get it back after all.
Maybe all hope wasn’t lost…
“Benji.” She grinned brightly, looking beautiful even after all she’d just been through. “His name is Benji.”
I nodded, loving it. “Okay, Benji it is. Benji Evans.”
She nodded, allowing me my moment with him. This was my son, and I intended to be there for him, no matter what happened between myself and Blair.
But I hoped that there was a small shot, I couldn’t stop myself from internally praying that we could sort it out after all…
*****
Epilogue
Blair
One year later…
The last year had been a whirlwind of diapers and sickness, milk and mess, but I loved every damn second of it. Being a mother was perfect for me, and I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
“How are you, Mrs. Evans?” Jason walked up behind me, kissing my neck. “You look beautiful by the way.”
“I should hope so.” I spun around to face him, kissing him lightly on the lips. “This is my wedding dress after all.”
We really did try to stay away, to co-parent civilly, but we quickly realized that resistance was futile, that there was something between us, and that we were silly to allow some old pettiness from before Benji to stop us from becoming a family.
We’d had a small, intimate low key ceremony, wanting to wed in quiet. It was about us, not the rest of the world. Only our families had been in attendance, and that had been absolutely perfect for the pair of us.
“Mum has Benji tonight,” I smiled brightly. “So this is the closest thing that we’re going to get to a honeymoon.” I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively at him, hoping that he would get the hint.
“Oh yeah?” he asked innocently. “And what might you be suggesting?”
“Well first I’d like to get the hell out of this dress…” He hummed appreciatively at my plan. “And secondly I’d like to get started.”
“On what?” he gasped, pressing his thick erection against my leg, trying to distract me from my train of thought.
“Baby number two of course!”
We’d already decided that we wanted to expand our family now that we were officially together, and I couldn’t wait to get started on that. I couldn’t wait to give Benji a brother or sister – and maybe a couple of others after that!
With that he pushed me backwards, pressing me up against the wall and he lifted my dress up over his arms, trailing his fingers gently up my legs.
“Yes ma’am,” he laughed against my lips. “Anything you say.”
Being back with him like that felt so damn right. Sure it had been a challenging journey, but I no longer cared what anyone else thought of us. I knew that we were perfect together, as did Jason, and that was all that mattered.
“I love you, you know?” I asked him, turning serious for a moment. “No one has ever made me feel the way that you do.” And that was the truth. Yes, our path had been rocky, and yes both of us had allowed our past to get in the way, but as soon as Benji was born and we began to look forward, everything had changed. He’d really and truly become the perfect man. None of what happened before mattered anymore. “I’m so glad I met you.”
“Me too,” he agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “I love you too.”
“Just to think,” I teased, running my hands over his muscles, enjoying the feel of his abs. “All from a one night stand!”
“All because you were crying,” he laughed back, making me think about Gary just for a second. Thank God he slept with his secretary, thank God I found them in bed together because all of that hurt gave me the life that I’d always wanted.
Knowing what I know now about love and feeling, what I felt for him was nothing. Habit at best. We were never right together, and while he should have manned up and dumped me properly, I was still grateful that he’d found a way to finish us.
And then he kissed me once more, filling me with an intense warmth that would keep me going forever. The passion radiating off of Jason’s lips was sparking a fire within me – one that felt like it could burn me up. I needed him, and I had to have him now or I might just die.
I pulled his body closer to mine, wrapping his arms around me. My heart began pounding with desire, almost bursting from my chest as I felt myself so close to getting exactly what I’ve been wanting all day, right through the entire wedding. If I didn’t have him now, my body might just collapse from longing.
I could feel a heat pooling in the bottom of my stomach, slowly zipping through my veins as we made out like horny teenagers. It began setting each one of my limbs on fire, leaving me dizzy with desire. I loved this man, I loved him so fiercely, so damn much, and I wanted to physically express that to him. I wanted him to understand.
“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned loudly, before unhooking my bra and running his hands over my naked breasts, tugging and playing with my nipples as he went, knowing exactly what I liked.
I threw my head back in ecstasy, closing my eyes, fully losing myself in the moment. Jason took full advantage of this, raining kisses down over my neck and collarbone, sending me increasingly wild.
“Oh God…” I started to groan under his touch, acutely aware of the hot, wet desire between my legs.
I gasped out, unable to contain my passion any longer, as his fingers travelled down my body and worked their way towards my panties. He was finally going to find out just how turned on I was, and I was extremely excited for that. I needed him to know just what he did to me. What he always did to me.
As he traced the outline of my underwear, teasingly, until I almost couldn’t take it anymore, I almost yelled out in frustration. I certainly tugged and pulled on his hair, unable to vocalize just what he was doing to me. I needed him, I had to have him, but I couldn’t catch my breath for long enough to explain this to him.
Then, he stood me back up and guided me back towards the wall. There we kissed deeply and I threw one of my legs around him, feeling his cock teasing my entrance through my underwear.
“Stop teasing,” I begged. “I can’t take it anymore. Take my panties off. I need you.”
Obeying me right away, he tugged the lacy material from my body with one hand, whilst yanking down his boxers with the other until we were both ready for one another. I may have been in my wedding dress, but the gaze he gave me at that moment, made me feel more naked than I ever had before, and I loved that.
He continued to stare at me, giving me the most desire filled look I’d ever seen, whilst plunging deep inside me, giving me an experience like no other.
It only took a few thrusts before the waves started to crash through me. By this point, Jason seemed to know my body better than I knew it myself, and his expert way of riding me, had me teetering on the edge very quickly.
“Oh shit,” I cried, as the orgasm shuddered through me. “Oh God, Jason.”
“Mrs. Evans!” he yelled, as he came too. “I love you my wife.”
As we collapsed, panting, exhausted from our encounter, I couldn’t help but smile at his use of the word ‘wife’. We were married now. Together forever, and nothing was going to get in our way…
THE END
Bonus Story 37/40
Blood Moon over the Mississippi
Dead Bouquets
Violet Miller arrived in Louisiana on April 3, 1923. The train pulled into New Orleans Union Station, issuing a cloud of s
team and soot as it slowed to a stop at the platform, groaning with the weight of ten cars and 800 miles of track behind it. A misty rain was falling, and the warm earth steamed up into the cool afternoon air, blurring the outlines of the city. The station master checked his pocket watch. At 4:00 sharp, the doors of the train were thrown open in unison, and a flurry of activity swarmed over the platform. Red caps and chauffeurs rushed forward to take hold of trunks and hat-boxes. Mothers and nannies grabbed hold of wayward children as they sought to slip away into the fog. Men shouted their greetings to each other. Women kissed each other’s cheeks. The din of many accents filled the air as people from every corner of the country congregated there. The train sighed and settled in place. The fireman wiped sweat and black soot from his weathered brow. Violet Miller stepped onto the platform, and smiled.
Even in the chaos of the arrival, she turned the head of every man in her vicinity. She stood poised for a moment, looking around interestedly at the goings on. Her dark chestnut bob was nearly hidden by a peacock blue cloche hat pulled down low over her deep azure eyes. She wore a grey dress that dropped just below her knees, blue shoes, and gloves to match her hat. A sable stole was draped casually over her narrow shoulders. She held a small travelling case. She was lithe and tall. The artist Miró had once said to her, over his fifth tumbler of absinthe, that she was the most perfectly proportioned woman alive. Beyond her slender form, it was her bright blue eyes, shining out from beneath thick black lashes that commanded the attention of those around her.
Her trunk emerged from the train, and immediately a young porter procured it for her.
“You lead the way,” Violet told him, her voice husky, her words carved out into harsh consonants by her New York accent. “I’m brand new here.” She offered him a smile. He tipped his hat and hurried ahead, cheeks rosy from the encounter. He hailed a black cab, and loaded her trunk inside of it. She gave him the address on Bourbon Street, and the driver whisked her away toward the French Quarter. Violet took in the city from the back of the car, gazing out the window into the rainy streets. Through the gray haze, she could make out ornate porches, and cheerfully painted buildings. Naples yellow and crimson, framed with cast iron vines. Flowers and palms spilled from window boxes and balconies. A streetcar trundled by her window. She was staying at the home of a friend from New York, a banker who had roots in Louisiana. He had warned her of the rough and tumble environment as he handed her the keys, and then he laughed, and allowed that it was probably just the kind of excitement she was looking for.
Though the rain fell harder as they drove, the streets were filled with people of all colors and origins, crisscrossing in front of them, huddled under umbrellas or the necks of their jackets. Violet smiled to herself. Soon the car pulled to a stop in front of a two story house. It was painted a deep emerald green with grey painted shutters, and the cast iron porches of each story were overflowing with spring flowers. A light hung just above the front doors, glowing warmly in the fog, beckoning Violet into her new home. As she walked up the steps, the cab-driver close behind lugging her trunk, the double doors opened, and she was greeted by a matronly woman with a friendly smile.
“Welcome, welcome, Ms. Miller. I’m Caroline…Mr. Astor has instructed me to take very good care of you. Come in, come in!” She beckoned Violet forward, shuffling around, taking her hat and her fur and instructing the driver on where to bring her luggage.
“Thank you Caroline,” Violet smiled, relieved to be rid of her belongings. She looked around the inside of her new home with great interest. She was standing in the front hallway. The grey light of the day filtered in through long sheer curtains, illuminating a room decorated in the latest style. There were bits and pieces of Mr. Astor’s travels on display—an alligator head sat on a small table. Violet recognized paintings by some of their friends. A Picasso nude hung next to a Dalí sketch.
“I’ll give you the grand tour, shall I?” Caroline bustled back into the room. She was a small, round woman, with rosy cheeks, dressed in a classic grey maid’s costume with a flour-dusted apron tied about her ample waist.
“Yes, thank you,” Violet replied. “I love it already.”
Caroline lead her through the first floor. The dining room, drawing room, water closet, and through to a back garden, surrounded by high walls, and replete with a small swimming pool. They stood on the back porch for a moment as Violet took it all in. It was nothing like New York City. The colors of the rose bushes that surrounded the yard appeared brighter and more vibrant somehow. The rain had stopped now, and the clouds had begun to turn golden in the early evening.
“Can I take my supper out here?” Violet asked the maid.
“You can take your supper in the bath tub, for all I care,” she replied with a laugh. “Speaking of, you must be in quite a state after two days of travel. Why don’t I show you upstairs to your quarters?” She led the way back into the house. Violet followed her up a staircase lined with photographs of exotic places. She glimpsed the pyramids of Egypt, and a Japanese garden as she passed.
“This the guest room,” Caroline pushed open the door to their right. “And the studio, should you find any use for it.” She opened a second door. This room was unlike any other in the house. It was painted completely white. Even the wooden floor had been whitewashed. The windows were wide and exposed.
“I say, this is awfully wonderful,” Violet breathed, stepping into the room. There was a desk by the windows, and an easel stood folded in the corner. There were two shelves, each bursting with paints and pencils and chalks. “Mr. Astor is terribly thoughtful, isn’t he,” she said, turning to Caroline with a smile.
“Yes ma’am,” the woman replied. “Now if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She showed Violet to her room. It was a large room with windows on two sides. The walls were painted a deep dusky blue, and the dark mahogany bed was dressed with white linens. Before the windows, green plants, exotic ferns, and cactuses were stacked on ornate iron stands. Some hung from the ceiling, dripping with pink and white blossoms. A small white couch sat across from the bed with a matching chair. The room gave off an impression of calm. Violet was beside herself with its beauty. Everything in New York was dingy and dirty compared to the vibrancy of this place.
“And here’s your washroom,” Caroline concluded the tour. “The furnace is going, so the water’s nice and hot for you. I’ll leave you to it.”
Violet stood alone in the blue-tiled bathroom. Slowly, she turned the knobs of the deep tub, letting it fill with hot, steaming water. She sprinkled soap, and a sprig of lavender into the bath, and watched the water as it became milky with heat and the scent of flowers. She stripped off her clothing slowly. First her shoes, and then her dress. She stood for a moment in her grey chiffon teddy, before gracefully slipping off her thigh-high stockings, and letting the last of her clothing fall to the ground. She stepped into the steaming bath, and with a small sigh, sank beneath the suds.
When Violet entered the drawing room an hour later, she was refreshed and elegant in a filmy sea-foam green dress. She wore a similarly colored shawl with bright red tassels over her shoulders. It was almost seven o’clock now. The sun shimmered through the windows, and the furniture cast impossibly long shadows across the room.
“Caroline?” Violet called, gliding from the room and walking towards the back of the house. The woman emerged from the kitchen door, “I’ll spend my evening on the porch, and would you mind fixing me a mint julep?”
“Certainly,” the woman replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Prohibition was the talk of the town, but Mr. Astor’s cabinet was stocked with every manner of alcoholic delight imaginable, and Violet certainly wasn’t going to allow a silly government ruling to impact her cocktail hour. Now was the emergence of the ‘bright young things’, the rise of the bohemians and their exciting, colorful lives out of the ashes of World War I. It was as if an entire generation was attempting forget the agony of conflict.
Violet made her way to the back door. She stepped gingerly out into the evening sunset, following the flagstone path that surrounded the swimming pool through a variety of roses. Her favorites were the bushes of huge white blossoms. Their aroma was sweet and light. In the remains of the day, they appeared almost ghostly, delicate and beautiful. The birds of the garden were chirping their quiet ‘good-nights’, and Violet could hear a murmur of voices from next door. She wondered who her neighbors were, in this strange and exciting city.
Caroline called her back to the porch for her cocktail, and a delicious supper of alligator gumbo. As the sun set, Caroline lit an oil lamp and set it on the table.
“I’ll be turning in now, Ms. Violet, unless there’s something else,” Caroline said.
Violet dismissed her. She wanted to be alone—to take in her new home without interference. She sipped her mint julep and stretched her long legs out in front of her. The train ride had taken two days, from New York to Chicago, and then Chicago to New Orleans. She had hoped for some exciting company on the ride, but was disappointed by the dreariness of her fellow travelers—families and businessmen.
Violet’s life in New York was far from uninteresting. She had been a model for Vogue and Vanity Fair since her discovery by Condé Nast himself at the tender age of 14. It happened that she was working as a maid at the famous Waldorf Astoria hotel, where Mr. Nast enjoyed the occasional indiscretion. She was supposed to have been making his bed and cleaning his rooms, but had become enamored of one of the dresses that hung in the wardrobe there. She could still remember the feeling of the fabric against her skin: soft white silk that clung to her slender frame and transformed her from girl to woman. Mr. Nast had discovered her, transfixed by her own reflection. He should have been angry—furious that a lowly maid would be so bold as to fondle the garments of the rich—but instead he was delighted.
The Crime of Protection Page 120
