The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

Both lost to emotion, neither of us are able to speak, so instead we cling to each other right in front of Central Park, and with a white horse beside us.

  With my face pressed into his shoulder, I breathe in the scent of him—Cartier and that distinctive scent that is all him. The scent that yesterday I was uncertain I would ever breathe again. I shake a little at the thought, and his hands smooth down my back to comfort me.

  And then he pulls back and looks at me. Still shaking, I watch as he removes the glittering diamond from its cushy nest.

  Never, ever did I think this would be something I would be doing. And that is the God’s honest truth.

  I suck in a breath and blink away the new tears welling in my eyes.

  One of his big, callused hands with those magic fingers slides the ring on me. Dazed, I look down at the large diamond and the band that holds it covered in small brilliant diamonds, and then suddenly everything feels so right. Perfect even. Still full of disbelief, I throw my arms around his neck again. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you,” he whispers in my ear.

  As raindrops fall down on both of us, I squeeze him even tighter. He twirls me and twirls me until I can’t see straight, and then he sets me down and asks, “Are you really having my baby?”

  As if it might be a possibility he misunderstood me, I find myself smiling in the way that only he makes me smile. “Yes, I am.”

  The thrill in his eyes isn’t anything that can be denied and I throw myself in his arms again. Right now it’s the only place I want to be.

  And this time when he twirls me, and twirls me, and twirls me, I think, yes, I do believe in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters…because this man is without a doubt my very wicked Prince Charming.

  40

  TODAY WAS A FAIRYTALE

  Keen

  I was expecting a flying Elvis or two.

  I was expecting guitars, white jumpsuits, big glasses, and a pink Cadillac, but that wasn’t what I got.

  Instead I got heaven.

  The chapel is swathed in a bluish glow that sparkles off the silver chairs. The carpet is white. There are lights everywhere. And there are even clouds painted on the ceiling.

  The Elvis on duty dons an open-necked black jumpsuit with red rhinestones and a pair of aviators.

  Spot-on look-alike.

  My palms are sweaty and I wipe them on my slacks. I am ready for this. Ready to be about more than myself. Ready to allow my world to revolve around more than my success, around more than my anything.

  But do I deserve her? I have no fucking clue. Really, I don’t know anything aside from one very real fact…I love this girl.

  I am in love with Maggie May.

  Whatever the definition of love is, it’s what we share, and maybe it’s a fucked-up version or maybe it’s crazy or maybe it’s upside down and backwards at the same time, but whatever it is, it is real.

  Up at the altar, I wait impatiently for the woman that I call mine to make an appearance. And then she does.

  Like a vision, I take her in. Her short white dress. Her long blond hair with flowers pinned in it. The white sparkly Converse sneakers we bought on the way here because her feet were hurting her in her fuck-me white pumps.

  We will save those for later.

  And then I look at myself in my white suit, black shirt, white tie…and think I can’t believe we are really doing this.

  We are getting married.

  Eloping, really.

  Slowly she walks down the aisle with a bouquet of white flowers to a crescendo of guitars and rock and roll, and when she reaches me, she takes my face in her hands. “Are you sure about this?” she asks.

  More than a little cocky, I nod. “I’ve never been more sure in my life, sweetheart.”

  She laughs, and I do too.

  Hey, when you got it, you got it.

  Maggie and I flew straight from New York City to Las Vegas. We can celebrate with friends later, but I needed to make her my wife now. After this, we’ll spend a few days here in Vegas, and not at the tables, and then fly to Graceland for a short honeymoon.

  I still can’t believe this.

  I love this woman.

  And she’s having my baby!

  Sure, I might have had a moment of complete freak-out, but I came around pretty fucking fast, you have to admit.

  I mean really, how could I not?

  A baby.

  She and I are having a baby.

  Not Cam and Makayla, the perfect couple, but Maggie and I, the most imperfectly perfect couple.

  Turns out the antibiotics Maggie took when she was sick after our New York trip weeks ago counteracted the effects of the pill.

  Hey, who would have thought?

  “Love Me Tender” starts to play and then Elvis is standing in front us, and we’re exchanging vows, and then Elvis is pronouncing us husband and wife.

  And we are married.

  We.

  Are.

  Married.

  “Smile,” Elvis croons.

  And we do. At each other, with each other, even on each other.

  Crazy.

  Insane.

  Intense.

  And real.

  Love—it’s a four-letter word I’m no longer afraid of…because of her.

  “That’s the one,” Maggie says, practically jumping up and down.

  “You sure?” Elvis asks in that husky voice of his.

  Really excited, she takes his camera and shows me the picture. In it I’m licking my tongue up her cheek.

  All I can do is shake my head. Guess that will be the picture to remind us of this day. When I look again, I have to smile at it. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Shifting my gaze to Maggie, I can’t help but think…

  It’s all or nothing.

  All or nothing.

  Epilogue

  FOREVER & ALWAYS

  Maggie

  The lines of their bodies cross in the most artful way.

  I think I could stare at the photos for hours—eyes filled with desire, heads bent as if in search of what can only be pleasure, backs arched and ready, legs intertwined just for the physical connection.

  “What are you doing?”

  Crap!

  I shove the book back on the rack and look up to find Makayla’s mouth all twisted in a knot. “Nothing, just taking a little break from baby books, that’s all.”

  She shoves a different book in my hands. I look down at it: Nine Months Along.

  Great!

  I’m already experiencing it; do I really have to read about it? To pacify Makayla, though, I feign interest and open to a random page to start reading. “You might have a very overactive sexual drive,” are the first words I read and then start laughing in fits and giggles.

  Much to my chagrin, she laughs right along with me.

  Yeah, thanks for that tidbit, Nine Months Along.

  It makes me laugh because although the description fits the stage of my pregnancy at thirty-seven weeks, it also describes me all the time.

  Sex with Keen is always…well, to be blunt, freaking fantastic.

  Then again, from our first time together in that hotel room in New York City, I knew that what we had was different from anything else I’d ever experienced.

  That he had wrecked me for any other man.

  To this day I still don’t know how I knew—I just did. Maybe no one I had been with before had ever made me feel the way he did. Then again, it could have been our intense chemistry. Perhaps our strong connection. Or simply that we were two lost puzzle pieces who had found each other.

  Being in love has even made me poetic. And yes, that makes me roll my eyes at myself.

  It’s just everything about him—every touch, caress, word, and whisper—makes my body come alive in an instant.

  And now, even though my belly is swollen beyond belief, I want him more than ever.

  That is why while Makayla was perusing the pregnancy section of the bookstore for me yet aga
in, I was looking for a book on sexual positions for pregnant women. Sadly, there are none that I could find.

  “Come on,” she says, setting the book down, “we need to finish the list.”

  Yes, the list. The list of things every baby needs. All of which, mind you, I’m pretty certain are already in the nursery.

  Yet, to put my best friend’s mind at ease, I play along with her that yes, I need five pacifiers because four just won’t do, and that seven baby blankets might not be enough in case I don’t get to the laundry during the week.

  Something tells me Makayla will be driving from Laguna to West Hollywood and doing the baby’s laundry if that ever happens.

  Amidst the twinkling white lights of the Christmas tree that I can’t believe is already up when Thanksgiving isn’t even until next week, I manage to sneak back and take another peek at the book titled Sex Masters. Hey, it’s our last name, so why not? It has 365 different positions. Although not specifically for pregnancy, it can’t hurt to have.

  At this point not much can hurt anything.

  Besides, I’m pissy, moody, and hormonal, and right now I want what I want.

  Believe it or not, Keen has dealt with my mood swings quite well. In fact, he’s been happy to indulge my every need, and without smart-ass comments, too.

  Who would have thought?

  Not me.

  In fact, whether it’s a pint of double fudge brownie non-dairy ice cream at midnight I crave, or plain spaghetti with no sauce at 6 a.m., or my constant state of arousal that needs satisfying, he’s there ready, willing, and able. Of course he’s not complaining about all the sex.

  It’s kind of like he’s at my beck and call. But I’m not even going to think that way for long because if he knew I was, well…let’s just say…I’d probably be at his beck and call.

  That alpha in him has an ego—and luckily I’ve learned to stroke it, instead of fighting it. This way, in the end, I usually get my way.

  Some things, though, are out of both of our abilities to conquer. Like sex. Now that my body has changed, certain sexual positions have grown uncomfortable and some aren’t even feasible. This has become a daily challenge, hence why I put the book into the cart while Makayla’s back was turned.

  She’s worried that I shouldn’t be having so much sex. She says she read somewhere that it can cause early labor. I’ve read at least a dozen pregnancy books, and have yet to read that.

  After shopping all morning, I can’t wait to get home and put my feet up. Even in my Converse, they are hurting from all the walking she made me do.

  Since Keen is out at the rock-climbing gym with Cam and Brooklyn, as soon as I step foot in the door, I decide to take a long, soothing bath.

  Unable to bear the warm water, I get out much too soon.

  Graceland, the oversized basset hound we brought home one Saturday when we stopped by the animal shelter and her big brown eyes screamed she belonged to us, starts barking, and I know immediately what that means.

  He’s home.

  Smiling, I walk into our bedroom in nothing but my oversized T-shirt. Watching the doorway, I tug the towel off my head and let my hair dangle down my back. Just then I hear the jingle of the dog collar, and I know Gracie, short for Graceland, is following Keen down the hallway of what used to be my mother’s house, which now belongs to Keen and me.

  As silly as it sounds, knowing I’m going to see him in mere seconds makes my heart skip a beat.

  “Maggie?” he calls.

  “In our bedroom,” I answer.

  With that huge smile that I love to see, Keen strides into the room freshly showered from the gym and looking like a million dollars, and as suspected, Gracie, the hound dog that she is, is right on his heels. Like me, she can’t seem to stay away from him.

  Long and lean in a pair of jeans that should be outlawed for men, he crosses the room, plants a kiss on my lips, and then bends and places another on my stomach. “How was shopping?”

  My nipples tighten at his simple touch, and I hate that I get wet every single time I see him. “Not as bad as I thought it would be. We checked everything off the list, and I got something for us, too.”

  Interest piqued, he stands straight and nuzzles my neck. “Oh yeah, should I try to guess?”

  I throw my head back. “Go for it.”

  “Whipped cream for me to eat off your hot pussy?” He nips at my ear.

  Laughing, I shake my head. “No, but I like that idea.”

  “Chocolate syrup for me to lick off your gorgeous tits?”

  Pushing that lethal tongue of his away before I decide to jump on it, I pat my hair with the towel. “Stop. You’re making me hungry and horny at the same time. I’ll save you the trouble of guessing. It’s on the bed.”

  Okay, so I think I purred that.

  Strutting over to the bed, he picks up the book that I might have sticky-marked already with some suggestions.

  Kicking his shoes off, he flops on the bed and with complete focus starts to look through it. Gracie barks, wanting attention, and Keen pats the bed for her to join him.

  Once I’ve dried my hair, I consider pulling on a pair of elephant-sized leggings, but think twice of it. Instead, I leave my panties off and traipse over to sit beside Keen, and give Gracie a little pat.

  I point to one of the drawings on the page he is studying. “How about that one?”

  He strokes his chin. “You think? I’m not sure about the leg placement.”

  Always so analytical.

  Always going right to the bottom line.

  As if he’s measuring the distance of the angles or something.

  With a shake of my head, I giggle and toss the book aside, throwing myself back on the mattress and bringing him with me. “Let’s make something up.”

  Gracie starts barking again. She doesn’t like it when she’s not getting any attention, and Keen has to usher her out of the room and close the door.

  As soon as he returns, he resumes his place hovering on top of me, and his hands wander up my shirt to find my breasts. “You were saying?”

  “That we should make something up on our own,” I breathe out.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he growls.

  It’s not an exaggeration that we have sex at least twice a day. Weekends sometimes more. Today is Saturday, so that’s good news. We already did it this morning, and it’s only early afternoon now; therefore this day will definitely be at least three times.

  Together, we make fast work of stripping off his clothes and then my T-shirt, and soon we’re both naked.

  His lips trail down my neck, over my breasts, and stop to kiss my belly button, then just below it. He kisses the baby like this all the time. It gives me those damn butterflies that I’ve come to adore.

  When his fingers drift down to circle my clit, and right away he can feel how wet I am for him, he pulls me to the edge of the bed and then gets off the mattress and onto his knees.

  I let out a long, heavy breath, knowing soon my body will be hovering on the brink of bliss, waiting for the crashing pleasure to strike.

  The mattress creaks as he puts a hand on each of my thighs, and he looks up. “You should have told me when I walked in you were wet—I would have taken care of this right away.”

  Taking his gorgeous face in my hands, I stare into his blue eyes. “Keen Masters, if I told you every time you made me wet, your face would be permanently attached to my pussy.”

  He raises the sexiest brow. “Not a bad way to live.”

  Leaning back, I open myself up for him. How the hell did I get so lucky to find a man like him?

  As he’s nuzzling my thighs, then deeper, finding my clit with his lips and tongue, I close my eyes to give myself up to him. Under his control, I submit to the pleasure. Every suck, every lick, every nibble more delicious than the last. Soon he’s adding a finger, then another, and then an impossible third.

  I open my eyes and watch him move. I can’t see his face in my pussy, but I can see
his back, his ass, and his feet, all perched below me to please me.

  Like I’m the queen and he’s here to please only me.

  My heart zips around my rib cage and I inhale sharply as soft, velvety-smooth strokes lap around my clit and an even more intense tingling radiates from my core.

  Oh God, that mouth.

  That tongue.

  Soon orgasm blinds me and I have to slam my eyes shut.

  Pleasure bursts inside me, and all around I see stars. “Keen,” I call out, then, “Oh God, Keen,” even louder, as a second wave of climax rips me up and scatters me, like rose petals blowing in the wind.

  With heavy-lidded eyes, Keen rises to his feet. Then, shifting us both, he lies beside me. He kisses me and he tastes of me, of my desire. When he pulls back, he gazes into my eyes. “I love you, Maggie Masters. You wreck my bed every day, and I will never get enough of it.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. Oh yes, the hormonal part of pregnancy that I can’t control. “I love you too, Keen Masters, and I am so lucky to be your little bedwrecker.”

  With laughter between us, Keen kisses down my body to my stomach and plants another kiss on the baby before looking up at me. “So we agree. We’ll name the baby Elvis?”

  We found out the sex of our baby at my four-month prenatal visit, and ever since then Keen has been relentless about naming him Elvis. I peer down at him. “No, we did not agree. Remind me when we had the conversation where I said yes.”

  “This morning,” he murmurs as his tongue licks a path up the curve of my belly.

  Shivering a little, I raise myself up on my elbows. Still breathing heavily, I watch him as he makes his way up my body. “Do you mean when your mouth was”—I’m having trouble finding my breath, so I point to where his mouth had just been—“on me, and you were whispering things I couldn’t even try to understand in the frenzied state you had me in?”

  Those blue eyes lift and his grin is devilish. “All that matters is the bottom line, baby, and you said yes.”

  “I was screaming yes because you had your tongue on my clit, not because I agreed with whatever it was you were saying.”