A Model Romance (True Love Book 3)

by Anne, Betsy

  “It would seem I have a little problem, love. I had a dream about you last night, and I’ve been a little bit uncomfortable,” he says as he rolls over on top of me, and presses his marble-like erection against my stomach. “Thank God we only have three more days, I’m a bit eager to make love to my wife.”

  He says “wife” with a huge smile and a nuzzle into my neck. I can’t believe in a few short days we’ll be official. All of the rushed planning has created a slight distraction from the fact that we’re getting married, as silly as it sounds.

  He gets out of bed with a groan, and puts on his jeans and a thick sweater: one of my many favorite outfits of his. He looks like a male model–slight scruff to his beard, the mussed hair and the tumbled clothes. The difference is that the models I know take time to look like that; for him it’s effortless.

  “Dad, Lach and me are going to get our suits today. I’ll be back later to grab my stuff.”

  From tonight until the wedding, he’s staying at his parents’ house. His mother insisted so we could have our privacy getting the last minute details ready.

  He won’t tell me what the suits look like. Melanie, Katie and their girls are wearing emerald dresses, so I pray he went with basic black. He’s also chosen all the music for the ceremony and the reception. If I had any time on my hands to stress all the details, I might be freaking out about lack of control, but it’s been good for me to learn how to relinquish having a say in everything. Melanie, on the other hand, is about to lose it. It’s driving her crazy that he’s keeping some things secret, which he finds very funny. He’s been teasing her about the light pink tuxedos and it’s working like a charm.

  The morning of the wedding, I receive one text from Wick: Thank you for sharing your life with me today. I promise to love you more each day than the one before. I cherish you, my sweet lass.

  I send back: I love you, too. Look for me later. I’ll be the one in white.

  The girls look beautiful. Grace and Lou have their hair up in high buns with heather in them. Mel and Katie have flowing curls, and look stunning in the dark green. My dress is a fitted lace bohemian-style, with a slight train. My hair has soft curls with a loose braid around the crown. Small white and purple flowers are woven through it. The purple really stands out against my red hair; he made a good choice.

  When we line up at the doors to enter the ballroom for the ceremony, I hear Katie gasp. She’s at the front of the procession and can see into the room. She pulls Mel by the arm to show her whatever it is that surprised her. Needless to say, I make a push toward the door to see for myself. They stop me in my tracks.

  “No, Bec. You need to be surprised,” Mel says, a strange look on her face.

  Panic rises in my chest. I don’t need bad surprises right now; I’m about to get married! They look at each other, and then back at me once more. I can’t read their faces at all. Too damned late to do anything now, I’ll just take it all in, I proclaim to myself.

  That’s when I hear it.

  A piercing noise, that is so haunting I get chills: Bagpipes are playing. No wonder he didn’t want me to know, it’s a spectacular surprise. The wedding planner lines us up, and my sweet baby Lou walks in first. I can hear the “oohs” and “ahs” from here. She’s carrying a small basket with white heather to sprinkle. After a moment or so, I hear a slight thud sound and raucous laughter. If she fell, I don’t think anyone would be laughing, but it’s Lou so there’s no telling what she’s done. Mel rolls her eyes as if to say, “What fresh hell is this?” and makes me laugh.

  She and Katie follow Grace, and it’s just me and Dad, waiting our turn.

  “I like Wickham a great deal, sweetheart. You both did well finding each other. Of course, if he screws up in any way, he’s gonna have a big can of whoop-ass to deal with!” Dad says in an exaggerated Georgian accent. I laugh, then cry as he offers his arm.

  It’s time.

  When the doors open, the bagpipes begin to play the Scottish wedding march. It’s touching, but it’s not what takes my breath away.

  Wick, Lachlan and their dad are dressed in full traditional Scottish kilts. They have bolero-style tuxedo jackets and ties on top adorned with large silver buttons. They’re also wearing tall white socks, and black shoes that lace up to the calf. They look incredible: especially my husband-to-be.

  His muscular legs and chest were made for this outfit. I can’t believe how gorgeous he looks. His kilt is the familiar Dunmore plaid, with dark green accents. I’m standing still, mesmerized by the sight. I feel a slight tug on the arm that’s linked with my father’s. How embarrassing! I’m holding up my own wedding by drooling over the groom. After I get over the initial shock, I notice the look on his face. He’s beaming with pride. His eyes are tearing up, and I see a tear roll down his cheek the closer I get. I can’t take my eyes off of him.

  I kiss my father, and he and Wick share a hearty handshake. Dad leans in and whispers something to him that pales Wick ever so slightly. With a not-too-subtle slap on his back, Dad takes his place next to my mom. Wick’s shocked look lasts only a second, then his glance is back on me, replaced by one of love. We join hands and stand before the minister.

  Our vows are short and sweet. We promise to love, cherish, and never ever to quit on one another. The minister performs the traditional “handfasting,” where our hands are bound together during the ceremony by a piece of plaid. I love how Wick wanted to incorporate so much of his history into our wedding.

  The rest of the evening disappears in a blur. I’m thankful we have plenty of friends taking pictures and video, or I might not remember it.

  The last surprise Wick wanted for the night, was to choose the location for the wedding night. We’ll stay at my place through Thanksgiving until the honeymoon, but he wanted someplace special for tonight. How in the world could I say no?

  After saying our extended farewells, we climb into the back of a warm, waiting limousine. My faux fur wrap does nothing to keep out the bitter Chicago air, but the warmth of his arms and the limo make me incredibly comfortable. I could sleep in here.

  “Well, that was fun. We should do it again sometime, really soon,” he says with a chuckle as he pops open a bottle of chilled champagne. “Sir, may we have a nice tour of the city?” he asks the driver, who doesn’t look surprised.

  Wick has every last detail planned.

  “Here’s to the newest Mrs. Dunmore, and the man who’s lucky she said yes,” he toasts us, and plants a kiss on my lips.

  “Here, here, Mr. Dunmore. ’Tis I who is the lucky lass,” I say, feigning my best Scottish accent.

  His mouth drops open.

  “Screw what I said before, to the hotel, and now!”

  “No, Wick. I’m enjoying it in here, it’s so cozy. Let’s enjoy it while we have it.”

  He reluctantly agrees, and downs his drink. He raises the partition between us and the driver for privacy.

  “Oh, I’ll enjoy it if you insist,” he says, and he’s on me in a flash.

  I have just enough warning to toss my drink to the floor as I feel his strong hands clasp my face. We’ve exuded sexual tension all night: I feel as if everyone at the reception could feel it. He would dance with me, then pull me to a quiet corner for a quick make-out. That’s not easy to do at your own wedding. This limo ride is delicious foreplay, and I intend to enjoy.

  He pauses for a moment to remove his jacket and other items from his outfit. I have no idea as to the name of these things, but I’m sure I’ll learn. I unzip my dress, and wiggle it down past my hips. He takes notice of my lacy undergarments, and he’s pleased. He runs a finger along the edge of my thin panties, and I hear him breathing erratically. He follows his touch with soft kisses, skimming my skin lightly with his tongue. It’s maddeningly provocative.

  He squats down in front of me, and presses his face deep into my crotch. He bites the lace and rips it with his teeth. I feel his tongue separate the remaining fabric, and he finds my warm, wet slit waiting for
him. He lovingly strokes the folds, alternating between firm flicks of the tip of his tongue and soft, rhythmic lapping. The motion of the car bumping along the rough streets adds to the sensation. He’s enjoying it, a lot. Moans escape his busy mouth; he’s relishing me. For him, with all he’s been through, this finally means much more now that we’re married. Once he decided to change his life, his focus became one of finding true love, not just sex. We have it, and it makes the sexual connection that much greater.

  I’m getting close to orgasm, and I try to stop him. I want him to be inside me. He’s made it clear that he’s not going to stop until I come like this first. His tongue pushes in and out of my slit, as his fingers do their magic on my clitoris. I involuntarily grasp the back of his head and press against him as hard as I can. The waves begin deep within me, and roll into an intense orgasm. I cry out, as I feel him nuzzle into me even harder. I gasp for air, as I ride the waves through to the very end. Not exactly how I thought I’d start our wedding night, but that was incredible.

  He sits up and takes a large swig of champagne straight from the bottle.

  “This is good stuff, but you’re even sweeter.”

  He leans in to kiss me deeply, and I taste my saltiness and the tartness of the champagne mixed in his mouth. It’s a sensuous delight.

  I reach down and place my hand on his bare thigh. His hard muscle, covered by soft hair, tenses at my light touch. I let my hand roam under his kilt–these things are pretty great–and I feel his cock straining against the wool. He certainly went traditional, no undergarments at all. I’m glad that when we were doing the Highland fling with his brother and dad that we didn’t have any mishaps. I definitely don’t need to see them like that.

  He groans as I squeeze it firmly. He breathes deeply through his nose, his taletell sign of control, and pushes a strained breath from his mouth. He climbs back up on the seat, and it’s my turn to take pleasure in attending to my husband.

  I raise the thick fabric covering his lower half, and his erection springs straight in the air. I lick my lips to show him my intention, and he throws his arm over his eyes as he drops his head back on the car seat. My entire body is heated up from before, and my mouth is extra warm. I clamp my lips around the head, and I slowly push my mouth down to meet his torso. I have to take it slow, or I’ll choke. I keep the suction of my mouth tight, as I make my way down, one inch at a time. All his muscles tense and quiver with delight. He’s clenching his teeth as if it’s painful.

  “Are you OK?” I ask, just to make sure.

  “Holy fuck, Becca. I’m trying my best not to come in your mouth right now, it feels that good. I’m not doing that to my wife on our wedding night, no way.”

  I’m satisfied with his reaction, so I go on. I wrap his cock with one hand, as I twist my head back and forth, going up and down his long shaft. I take his ball sac in my other hand, and lightly squeeze it as I tickle his “spot” with a loose finger. It makes him shudder, and I know he’s getting close.

  He pushes my shoulders back abruptly so that I break suction and have to sit up. His brow is sweaty, and his eyes are dark. He presses a button on the console next to his arm.

  “To the hotel now, please. The most direct route you can go,” he says to the driver. “I can’t wait any longer, love. I need to feel my beautiful bride. You know, in Scotland, the bride and groom used to consummate the marriage before the reception began. That was a long time ago, but I can see the benefit in it. I feel like I’ve waited for you for a lifetime, and now I can’t wait one more minute.”

  He helps me get back into my dress, as he replaces his accoutrements. He tries to fix my wild hair, and gives up. He pulls out my braid, as the wild flowers fall around me.

  He whispers, “So beautiful,” and it hits me in the heart.

  The way he’s looking at me, I know he’s not talking about my outside beauty, but what he sees inside. I’ve had a long career in focusing only on the outside, that it’s a difficult transition for me to have someone love me for who I am, not just what I look like. He’ll never know how much that means to me.

  We arrive at our hotel, The Langham downtown. I can’t believe he booked us here: this is the pinnacle hotel in all of Chicago. I’ve done modeling shoots here.

  “The Langham? Are you serious? This place is incredible, Wick!”

  “Well, I figured we deserved the best tonight. When we get to Scotland, the accommodations in some of the areas may be a wee rustic. My gorgeous wife needs to be spoiled tonight.”

  We check in and we’re given the luxury suite. He carries me over the threshold, and I smell roses and lavender as we enter from a huge floral arrangement on the center table.

  “Wickham, seriously? This suite has to be over a thousand square feet!”

  “Actually, it’s twenty-five hundred to be exact, and I’m going to have you on every single inch of this place so we should really get started,” he says with a little laugh.

  He sets me down, and makes fast work of getting me back out of my gown. My torn panties are removed and tossed aside. I’m standing fully nude in my red-soled Louboutins.

  “Oh yes, I like it. You, in nothing but the heels, with mussed hair. You have no idea what a gorgeous sight you are to behold, and you’re all mine. My wife.”

  He unhooks and removes all of the complicated pieces of his wedding suit. It probably took him longer than me to get dressed. He scoops me back up, effortlessly, and carries me into one of the three cavernous bedrooms. This one has floor-to-ceiling views of the riverfront, and it’s a spectacular sight. We’re not here for the view, however.

  He lays me down on sumptuous gray satin bedding. The only light in the room is coming from the windows. His face is bathed in changing neon colors from a building across the water. He closes his mouth over mine, and we really begin to make love. Slow, deliberate touching. No rush, no goal in mind, just a pure connection between two people deeply in love.

  We climb under the covers, and hold each other tight.

  “This reminds me of the night, well, day, in the cabin. I was so nervous after telling you my story, that I was sure you were going to run for the hills and never want to see me again. If I couldn’t be honest with myself or the people I loved, then change wasn’t possible. I needed you to know everything. I felt like the weight of the world was off my shoulders, but I was worried about you.” He looks so serious. “Thank you for believing in me, and not judging me by the man I used to be.”

  “No one is perfect, Wick. We all have things we wish had gone differently in our lives. I’ve told you before, had you not had the courage to change, we never would have met. All of that ended up with the two of us together, so how can I view it in any way but positively? I love you …”

  “I love you, too, my sweet lass.”

  Those are the last words spoken for a couple of hours. My entrancing husband makes slow love to me all night long.

  My life, my heart, my true love.

  About The Author

  Betsy Anne is a happily married, hopeless romantic. Her first novel Mine, Not Hers was completed in April 2014 and published digitally and in paperback on Amazon.com. She and her New Jersey born husband, Henry, enjoy hanging out with their children and families, their secondary children (two cats and a dog), and spending time at their beach house in South Carolina.

  Visit Betsy Anne at www.betsyannebooks.com, Facebook www.facebook.com/betsyannebooks, and Twitter www.twitter.com/betsyannebooks.