by Nia Farrell
I can’t fucking wait.
I’m only slightly worried about my PTSD kicking in. Nico knows what to do, and the scenario has been changed so that he’ll stay with me. Instead of going plain tribal for Grace, Nico will play an Indian scout who rides with me to her rescue. He’ll be with me the entire time, ready to step in if I need him to, while we both watch Grace’s capture from a distance.
Replay’s wardrobe mistress is making my Cavalry officer’s patrol uniform from measurements taken for my wedding tux. Nico will be wearing a tux for the wedding, too. A rental, like mine. While he makes the run to Charleston to pick them up, I watch Grace try on her dress again. Still fits, thank fuck. I do not want to see her crying. Hormones have made her more horny than weepy, but when she gets upset, there’s nothing we can do but ride out the tide.
Last time she cried buckets was when her mom told her they weren’t coming to our wedding. Her dad hasn’t changed his mind. He’s still being an ass. He won’t give Grace to me. To us.
Prick.
I’ll be damned if I ever treat our daughter that way. She’ll marry whom she wants, and as long as he, she, or they make her happy, that’s all the fuck that matters.
Anna James blows into the lakeside pavilion like a whirlwind, ten minutes ahead of rehearsal. From the satisfied looks Jackson and Jacob are sliding her way, I can pretty much guess why they’re running late. I’m guilty by association. Okay, me and Nico. Took us most of one day unpacking, assembling, and installing their shit. High end, custom made stuff that sure as hell didn’t come from any online store. I don’t even want to know what their kink cost them. Our honeymoon’s bill was bad enough, but Grace and Nico are worth every fucking penny.
The rehearsal goes off without a hitch. The rehearsal dinner, too, catered in at our lakehouse, where everyone comes together as equals. Rock star status aside, Jackson and Jacob are pretty down to earth guys, good heads on their shoulders and good hearts, so says Grace, who’s thrilled to see the glow of love in Anna’s aura. I’m happy as fuck to meet Nico’s parents and to finally introduce mine to the people I love: parents, partners, and friends. We’re putting up the parental units at the Apple Tree Inn, a local mom-and-pop motor court motel which has been described as quaint, charming, and a poster child for 50’s kitsch, from the gutted TV fish aquarium in the lobby to flamingo pink everything in the bathrooms.
Everyone eats. Everyone stays. And. Fucking. Stays. Grace, poor thing, is dead on her feet. When I start checking the clock every damn minute and no one takes the hint, I finally declare it’s past our baby’s bedtime, thank them all for coming, and tell them we look forward to seeing them tomorrow morning. The wedding is scheduled for ten. We’ll do a lunch reception at eleven, then drive to Franklin and catch a small commuter flight to Chicago. It’s nonstop from there to the coast, with limousine service from the airport to Replay resort.
We put Grace to bed between us, respecting her enough to let her sleep, knowing that tomorrow she’ll be ours. Honoring the tradition about not seeing our bride in her gown, at least, after an earlier than normal breakfast, Nico and I take our tuxes to the pavilion we rented for the occasion. It sits on a bluff overlooking the lake, just a couple of miles from where we live. It’s a beautiful spot, surrounded by rugged hills, rocks, and trees.
Anna is at the house, helping Grace get ready, with Jackson and Jacob there to drive our ladies in. Mona’s already been here, decorating the pavilion, transforming the space in a way that Grace is going to love. Grace’s official wedding color is white (her tribute to Billy Idol). White candles, white flowers, tiny white lights lining the flagstone walkway outside, circling the ceiling and twined around support posts and beams inside.
My cousin Lena comes early, unpacking her guitar and tuning it, while her husband Ernesto plays games on their tablet with two-year-old Ariana, who looks like a little fairy princess, minus the wings. The harpist arrives soon after, uncrates her instrument, and checks the pitch on every string. Her fingers dance across them, and it’s like she’s channeling music from heaven’s angels. Nico smiles, pleased with his and Grace’s choice of musician.
Lena takes over looking after Ariana, and Ernesto starts seating people as they come in. It’s an intimate affair. My parents. Nico’s folks. Mona, Ron, and Don. The Jackson twins when they get here. Rachel Givens and the Colson brothers, added when we realized we needed a cameraman and Cam seemed the best guy for the job. Other than that, it’s the rest of the wedding party – me, Grace, Nico, Anna, and our spiritualist minister named – get this – Lucia Skywalker.
I shit you not.
Just ahead of ten, Nico and I, dressed in our tuxes, take our place in front of the minister, who stands at the far end of the pavilion. The Reverend Skywalker is wearing clerical robes, a Catholic rosary around her neck, a Buddhist sandalwood mala around one wrist, and feathers in her hair, looking so fucking peaceful, it wouldn’t surprise me to see her start to levitate.
My hair is fairly tame today, my crop of beard stubble trimmed to the soft shadow that Grace loves. Nico’s hair is long and loose, just the way Grace likes it.
Come ten o’clock, the harpist starts playing a Baroque piece that signals the start of the procession. First comes Ariana, playing with the white, pink, and red rose petals in her little basket while her mother steers her down the aisle. Once they reach the front, Ariana sits between her daddy Ernesto and my parents, and Lena takes the chair up front with her guitar.
Next comes Anna, dressed in a romantic flowing dress, purple to match her Liz Taylor eyes. With black lace fingerless gloves, black combat boots, purple-and-red streaked goth hair, and multiple piercings, she looks like Audrey Hepburn gone rogue, sporting enough hardware in her ears to set off metal detectors a fucking yard away. I noticed last night that the diamond stud in her nose is considerably bigger. Looks like Jackson and Jacob are taking care of our friend.
The Celtic harpist resets her sharping levers. When she launches into another Baroque piece that Grace chose instead of the traditional wedding march, everyone stands. Grace steps through the doorway on Ron’s arm, but I only have eyes for her.
Lord help me, she looks like an angel in a sleeveless white chiffon gown that hugs the swell of her pale freckled breasts and flares out, flowing down to the floor, the yards of fabric hiding her thickening waist and the telling curve of her belly. She’s carrying white orchids and wearing pearls. In her hair. On her ears. Around her neck. In my suitcase, I have ropes of them, just waiting for some bridal bondage.
Ron brushes an awkward kiss against her cheek before handing her off to me. She didn’t want to wear a veil – said it reminded her too much of a past life where she was an unchaste nun and Nico and I were spiritual brothers, two monks who liked her best on her knees.
Some things never change.
The ceremony was written specifically for us. Everything goes as expected, which means Ariana acts like the cute two-year-old she is and sings along with her mommy. The video footage that Cam is shooting for us should have some entertaining moments that we’ll talk about for years to come.
Grace starts crying from word one and barely manages to stop long enough for me to kiss her. As soon as we’re married in the eyes of God and man, I put Grace’s hand in Nico’s and step back to witness their joining, keeping my left hand on Grace’s waist and my right hand on Nico’s shoulder. The minister delivers exactly what she promised, a ceremony to bind hearts and souls and tie them, and us, all together.
Our reception is a light lunch at the house. Anna and her men will take care of cleaning and locking up. It was okay to linger longer at the rehearsal dinner, but we’ve got a flight to catch. The three of us kiss our parents goodbye, load the truck, and head out.
Replay, here we come.
Chapter Six
Six hours, two flights, and a limo ride later, we’re met by Dr. Brandt (he prefers Sir Josef), the Replay resort psychiatrist. He’s European born, probably Austrian, judging from the accent,
and wants to talk to Nico and Grace while I go to meet with Piers St. Leger, owner of Replay, Master Dom and kinbakushi, a master of Japanese rope bondage.
His submissive receptionist announces my arrival. A rich, British voice instructs “Kitten” to send me in. She opens the door to an office that looks like an Old World library, with heavy wood furniture and walls lined with leather-bound books and fine art. There’s a lingering scent of fine cigars, and I hear violins playing Vivaldi in the background.
Sir Piers rises from the leather chair behind his desk and proffers his hand with a smile of welcome. His handshake is firm. His overall appearance is as impressive as his personal space. I’m guessing that in stocking feet, he’s an inch taller than my six feet four inches. Add knee-high riding boots, and he’s pushing six feet seven. With long black hair clubbed back, dressed in Regency clothing, he looks and sounds like he’s stepped out of a fucking Jane Austen novel. All he’s missing are Mr. Darcy’s dogs and a riding crop, and the portrait would be complete.
“How was your trip?” he asks, all solicitousness, motioning me to take one of the two wingback chairs across from his massive desk.
“Good,” I tell him. “The flights were smooth, and the ride here allowed us to start unwinding a bit. We’ll be making it an early evening, get rested up for our big day tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. The capture fantasy we’re creating for your bride.” Sir Piers studies me over the top of his steepled fingers, his keen eyes constantly assessing. “I will admit, this has challenged me – how to maintain the element of surprise when one’s sub is a psychic medium with telepathic abilities. I’m used to…unusual considerations,” he admits, “but this one has proven unique.”
“Quite unique. Like our Grace,” I tell him. “I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s…something else. As you may get to see for yourself. Word of warning, Sir Piers. When she meets you, she won’t mean to do it – to get inside your head – but it’s been known to happen. That, or she might be pestered to give you a message. Um, you haven’t had anyone cross over lately, have you?”
“Not lately,” he responds almost absently, as if his thoughts were being drawn to a distant past.
“Well, time is irrelevant over there. Spirits have a way of finding Grace, knowing she can hear them. It can be a damn nuisance, but she didn’t choose to be a medium any more than she chose to be telepathic. It’s who she is. What she does. Hell, I’m still learning to live with it. There is no keeping secrets from Grace.”
Sir Piers crooks a grin, rising to the challenge. “We shall see,” he says crisply. “You’ve told me the scenario. Entrusted me with its planning. Expressed your concerns – hence the change in scenario, to have her rescued by both of you after being taken by others. All while you watch, hmm?”
Several of the raiding party will be equipped with tiny cameras, to show us what Grace sees and how she responds to the experience. Plans are to have her held for ninety minutes to two hours, depending on how the scene plays out. There’s more that we haven’t been told – and won’t know – until Grace is gone, taken to the location they’ve chosen for the raid. But that’s tomorrow, after our wedding night and the things that Nico and I have planned for the three of us.
I appreciate Sir Piers’s efforts on our behalf. “Whatever you have arranged, our priority is safety – for our wife and the baby. I don’t know if you believe in reincarnation, but she’s expressed concern that the scene might resurrect past life memories that could be…unpleasant.”
Sir Piers nods, his lips quirking in a half smile. “A majority of the world’s people believe that we live more than once. I’ve been told that’s one of Replay’s appeals, providing the opportunity to revisit the past and experience pleasure as well as pain.”
His searching gaze meets mine, and I wonder what he’s looking for. I know what he sees. A half-Puerto Rican, three-eighths Anglo, one-eighth Greek ex-Navy SEAL and former cage fighter who keeps himself in shape teaching mixed martial arts and women’s self-defense. I’ve left my biker leathers at home and brought only my Dom leathers to Replay. Right now I’m dressed for travel comfort in a Henley shirt and relaxed fit jeans. The length of my black hair is unruly as fuck, but that’s par for the course. My parents think I should have shaved for our wedding pictures, but the beard shadow that drove my mother nuts is the perfect length to drive Grace wild.
He taps his chin, almost like he’s trying to see inside me. Thanks to Afghanistan, it isn’t nearly as pretty as the outside, but it’s sure as hell better than it was.
“Any problems or difficulties that I should be made aware of?” he says at last. “I know your bride is enceinte.”
“No problems,” I tell him. “Grace’s obstetrician has cleared her for air travel and ‘moderate’ physical activity while on our honeymoon.” I added her doctor’s slip to our medical clearances and the forms we’ve completed outlining soft and hard limits.
Because of my issues, I did my psych evaluation via webcam. Three sessions later, Sir Josef approved me to play. Once I knew I was good to go, I had a boys’ night out with Nico to see what he thought of the idea before talking to Grace.
As soon as Sir Josef gives his final clearance on my partners’ being okay to play, we’re supposed to see the wardrobe mistress for our final fitting. The Master Dom and I complete my paperwork with my witnessed signature, then discuss different forms of rope bondage until Sir Josef arrives with Nico and Grace in tow.
Because we’re in a more formal setting, surrounded by people in the lifestyle 24/7, Nico takes his place, standing in a submissive pose behind me, while Grace kneels at my feet. She’s been instructed to keep her eyes down, but I know that won’t do a damn thing to keep her from reading Sir Piers, however unintentional it might be. Fuck, that inquiring mind of hers will be hard pressed not to deliberately tap in. When she curls a hand around my calf, I can almost feel her resisting the temptation.
There was no doubt in my mind that Nico and Grace are up for this experience, but it’s still a relief to watch Sir Josef give Sir Piers the paperwork approving their participation. All that’s left are signatures – Nico’s, then Grace’s.
She’s been quiet so far, though her body thrums with excitement at what’s in store. It’s only when she takes the pen from Sir Piers to sign the NDA and her contract for the weekend that I see what happens when the two of them touch – like they’ve made contact with a live wire, and I hear Grace’s telling breath, a catch and release that signals something big.
I can’t tell her how proud of her I am when she bites her lip and says nothing, just signs her name and returns to kneel at my feet. This time, though, she places a hand on my thigh, silently asking for permission to speak.
The Master Dom sits tall enough behind his desk that he sees it, too.
“Sir Piers, I believe our baby girl has something to say to you. May she speak?”
At first, I wonder if he’ll let her. He’s still processing that bolt of electricity that flew from her fingertips, yang fire energy that she is. She’s tamped it down by being born female and Pisces, but it’s still strong as fuck. She’s been known to throw sparks just having someone come in contact with her auric field.
And to think, I knew nothing of this shit four and a half months ago.
“Hmm.” He straightens his spine, drawing himself up to his full seated height. “Very well. Speak.”
Grace looks at me for reassurance, then turns to face the desk. “Origami,” she says. A single word that confuses the hell out of everyone in the room, including her.
“That’s it?” she asks no one physically present. I feel my skin crawl. Grace sighs. “I’m sorry,” she tells Sir Piers. “That’s all they’re telling me. Origami.” She tilts her head, listening. “Okay. They say you’ll understand when you hear it. Not that that does him any good right now.” This last line is a snipe, clearly directed at forces I can’t fucking begin to hear or see. Not that I’d want that shit. It’s enough that Gra
ce has to deal with it on a daily basis. Thank fuck with Nico, spirit communication happens mostly when he does shamanic journeys, sweat lodges, and vision quests.
Grace listens again and shakes her ginger head. “Jesus,” she gripes. “Your guides are as obtuse as mine are sometimes. I’m sorry, but that’s all they’re saying. Origami. Again, you’ll understand when you hear it.”
Sir Piers clears his throat. “As you say.” Quickly masking his discomfiture, he turns his attention back to me. “Sir J.T., we thank you for choosing Replay. Be assured, we shall strive to exceed every expectation. Now, Samael will see you to the wardrobe department where Mistress Jewell is waiting.”
An hour later, I carry Grace across the threshold of our suite. Cam had described the resort as being a playground for the rich and kinky, and its accommodations match that to a T. A living space has a massive davenport built for kink, an armless chair that’s perfect for a lap dance or draping a sub across your thighs for discipline, a spanking bench to one side, and a St. Andrew’s cross in the corner. The armoire holds the flat screen TV with unlimited porn on demand, but the big reveal behind its doors are the toys for impact play and kink, cleaned and certified sterilized in case we didn’t bring enough in my carryon.
Our luggage has preceded us. Samael gets permission to move it to the bedroom, and I set Grace down in a long, slow, slide against my body that leaves us all breathing hard. Fuck, yeah.
I kiss her. Kiss Nico. Listen as Samael leaves the three of us to consummate our marriage and domestic partnership however we damn well please.
Yep, it’s time to get Grace naked.
Chapter Seven
I’m not the only one who likes to watch. Truth is, Grace likes it as much as I do, and she’s thrilled as fuck to find a mirror on the bedroom ceiling and walls of them lining the en-suite bathroom, with its kiddie-pool sized jetted tub and a shower that’s almost as big as ours at home.
