by Jess Bentley
His lips slowly form a smile. “You have been studying, haven’t you?” At my nod, he answers, “I love you too.”
I press my mouth to his, harder this time, enjoying the sensation of being in my husband’s arms. For the first time in our relationship, I actually feel secure. I lay my head on his shoulder. “I don’t understand one thing.”
“What’s that?” he asks, as his hands roam over my body.
I lightly slap away his hand when he cups my breast. “I’m trying to have a conversation here.”
“Talk quickly.” He tugs at the hem of my shirt and starts fumbling with the buttons as I speak.
“How did Maia get all the paperwork she brought to the house on Trini Island?”
Jayson pauses, tilting his head as he considers the question. “She either paid someone to steal the forms, she stole them from the office herself, or she convinced my idiot assistant to give them to her.” He grimaces. “I would assume it was the idiot assistant.”
I giggle. “What will you do to him?”
“I should fire him, but I’m feeling generous.” He pushes open my shirt to tackle my bra. “I will demote the idiot to a valet in the parking garage.”
I put my hand over his to stop his fumbling. “Let me help.” To my surprise, Jayson takes my left hand, examining it closely. “Is something wrong?”
“Marry me.”
With a giggle, I answer, “You’ve had more to drink that I thought. We are married, love.”
Jayson waves a hand. “I mean in a real ceremony, with our friends and family.” He kisses the back of my hand. “I want to mark the change in our relationship. I want you to be my wife completely.”
I tug my hand away gently, cupping his cheek. “I’d love to marry you.” Shifting to press my lips to his before dropping my hands to his lap, I tug at his belt. “That is, as long as you give me a preview of the wedding night.”
Jayson changes position to allow me better access. “For you, Harper mou, I would do anything.”
18
Epilogue
The day of the wedding is bright and surprisingly warm, without a hint of cloud in the sky. Being late October, I wonder if it’s wise to hold the ceremony outdoors, but Jayson insists I have the wedding I always envisioned. There’s an indoor backup plan, but it turns out to be unnecessary.
We exchange vows as crowds of guests watch. If anyone thinks it strange that we’re renewing our vows after only three years, they don’t say so.
When Jayson kisses me, it’s profoundly different than any of the other kisses we’ve shared. I’ve been married to him for three years, but now, and finally, I truly feel like his wife.
As we line up to greet the guests, I glance at the new wedding set on my finger. The other one was exquisite and expensive, but Jayson confessed his assistant—not the idiot one— selected the set of rings before our hasty marriage. This set, much more to my liking, was chosen by my husband personally.
Feeling warm inside, I do my best to get through the rest of the afternoon. I’m thankful for our friends, and thrilled to have a real wedding, but I’m also feeling impatient to have Jayson alone.
Sure, I’m looking forward to the “wedding night”, but I also have another reason for being impatient.
It’s several hours later before we can slip away from the reception at the hotel and go up to the honeymoon suite. I squeal with surprise when he sweeps me into his arms to carry me over the threshold—a tradition he didn’t bother with the first time.
With Jayson’s assistance, I shed the heavy and complicated wedding gown, and he removes his tux. I watch each step as the jacket falls off his shoulders, he unties his tie, he undoes the cufflinks and the buttons of his crisp shirt, and undoes his belt with great interest.
The Jacuzzi-for-two in the huge marble bathroom beckons, and we sink into it. As he adjusts the controls, I say, “Don’t turn up the temperature too high, love.”
Jayson grins. “Why? Because we’ll make our own heat?”
I smile. “No doubt, but that isn’t the reason.”
He leans back, tucking his arms around me and pulling me down onto his lap. The light hair on his chest tickles my back. “And what’s your reason?” Jayson caresses my breast, lightly tracing my nipple as he asks.
I wince slightly. “I read it wasn’t safe… for the baby.”
His hand freezes, and he seems to have stopped breathing.
“Baby?”
I nod, turning my neck so I can see his face. “I’m pregnant.”
He cups my stomach. “How far along?”
“About ten weeks.” I lay my hand over his. “I think we might have conceived the night you proposed.”
He nods. “Ah, yes. The night when we didn’t even make it to our room.”
With a giggle, I answer, “We didn’t even make it to the nearest sofa, Jayson.”
Jayson pales. “We’ve done it many times since. I could have hurt you, or the baby.”
I shake my head. “I talked to Dr. Anderson when I found out. She let me know that it’s perfectly safe to have sex, even with my history. As much as I wanted to surprise you with the news on our wedding night, I wouldn’t have put our baby in danger.”
I look down as his eyes fill with tears for a moment.
“I know.” He turns to me again. “How long have you known, agape mou?”
“About four weeks.” I can’t help but feel a little sheepish. “It almost killed me to wait to tell you.” I wanted to wait until the wedding night, but I’d had another reason as well. Dr. Anderson assured me that once she saw the heartbeat, there was a less than five percent chance of miscarrying. The little heart had fluttered away at the ultrasound last week.
“You deserve a sound spanking for not telling me sooner,” he says with a growl.
I grin.
“Promises, promises.”
His expression turns serious. “I will keep every promise I make to you, Harper.”
With a solemn nod, I answer, “I know, Jayson. I trust you completely.” I have no hesitation at uttering the words. Jayson’s proven his love and trustworthiness in a thousand tiny ways, and a few major ones—like taking me with him when he went to Maia’s hotel to confront her. The scene had been ugly, but we haven’t heard a word from that woman since that night.
“S’agapo, Harper.” His voice is soft as the bubbles that surround us.
He loves me.
“Ke ego s’agapo, Jayson.” I turn in the water to face him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “Forever.”
His kiss is fierce, almost feral with passion.
His wet body is against mine, and I can feel his shaft growing against my leg. I want him inside me so badly. In some ways it’s the only time I feel complete when he takes me.
“Fuck me,” I manage to say between kisses.
“Yes,” he growls. “Yes, little Harper.” He turns me around so that my ass is in the air and I’m leaning out of the tub onto a set of towels on the ledge. With a shock I feel his lips against my butt cheeks, as his hands massage them.
“What are you doing?” I ask him softly, but he ignores me. His fingers are tracing the soft skin from my ass to my clit, softly, barely touching, so that I’m practically whining for him. Then I feel his tongue on me, in my most intimate of places.
It’s a sensation I’ve never felt before, to have his tongue circling that opening while his fingers get closer and closer to plunging inside.
But instead of doing that, despite the slick evidence of my need, he grasps one butt cheek in each hand and licks the length of me as he opens me up. I squeal as his tongue moves in like a snake, swirling its wetness as he massages my ass cheeks.
“Jayson,” I say, shocked, as he licks me. The only sound in return is a growling groan, and the vibration of his voice makes me close to coming. Then one finger slowly enters my tender wetness moving in and out, rubbing the g spot as he licks, brushing my clit with his thumb.
I’m weak, b
arely able to hold my head up as he expertly brings me to a climax harder than I’ve ever felt in my life. I scream his name, my husband’s name, my true husband’s name, as he fills all my openings with himself.
“That’s right,” he says as I pant as the orgasm subsides. Then he slaps my ass softly. “That’s right.”
He presses the head of his cock against my slit, teasing me with the petal-soft skin of the head before pushing it in, its hard length filling me and opening me. His slow pace is perfectly torturous, perfectly pleasurable at the same time.
“Fuck me,” I whine again. “You feel so good.”
“It’s you.” His voice is low. “You feel so wet and soft. You have the best pussy, Harper, so sweet and tight.” He swivels his cock around as he grasps my hips. “That pussy is mine forever.”
I know he’s right. It’s always been for him, from the first moment I laid eyes on him and he made my virginal self all hot and bothered, I knew it was for him.
“I’m yours,” I groan softly, leaning into the towel.
“Damn right,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Don’t you forget it.” He slaps my ass again as he increases the pace, and the sting feels good along with the hard strokes of his cock. I shiver, but I’m nowhere near cold.
He grabs one of my breasts and pinches the nipple as he leans over and kisses my back. He’s never been this passionate with me.
“Harper, you’re going to make me come so hard,” he says. “Your sweet little body, your pussy, your tits… all mine.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck me,” I say. He starts fucking me harder and as the pleasure hits, I can hear the sound of him slapping his hips against my ass. I tip my hips for him and he groans in response, his thumb rubbing my hole as he owns me.
“Jayson,” I cry out as I come again and again, his relentless thrusting making me shudder with pleasure.
“I love you,” he says in a strained voice. “S’agapo.” And then the heat and wetness jets into me as I convulse around him, the warmth and heat the perfect start of our real lives. Together.
19
Excerpt - KING by Jess Bentley
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 uncomfort
able 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 without 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.
