My Wedding Knight (A Wedding Season Series)

by Alexis Adaire

  We lie like that for a while, talking as we both come back down from our sex-high. Eventually, pull out and remove the condom. When I climb out of bed to toss it in the trash, my cock is hanging, but still fat with desire.

  “Come with me,” I offer her my hand. “I’ll give you the naked tour, and we’ll grab a bite of dinner.”

  We walk from room to room as I show her around my place. Abby oohs and aahs over every expensively decorated room, while I get a thrill of my own by constantly sneaking looks at her lovely naked body. Those tits are so perfect they should be on display in the National Gallery.

  By the time we reach our destination, the kitchen, I’m hard again. She can’t help but notice, smiling as she wraps her hand around my thick shaft and says, “That’s a good boy. That’s how I want you after we eat. I’m not done with this thing yet.”

  We feast on a couple of Cornish hens the chef had already prepared, talking about anything and everything. I happen to mention having met the Royal Family after the World Cup and Abby proceeded to ask me everything about them. I even told her that I’d partied with Prince Harry years earlier, back in his wilder days.

  When we stand up from the table, my cock has finally returned to its natural size.

  Abby grins wraps her hand around its girth. “We’re going back to your bed, and I’m going to get you really hard. Then you’re just going to lie on your back and watch wilst I ride this lovely cock for a bit.”

  And that’s exactly what she does, with my hands on her tits the entire time.

  It turns out she likes it slow and sensual sometimes, too. And everything in between.

  My kinda girl.

  Abby

  I wake up in Rory’s bed again for the second straight morning. I’m quite sore, but the sex we’ve had the last two nights has been nothing short of miraculous. I’m so comfortable with Rory, and so filled with desire for him, that I’ve been a total madwoman, utterly uninhibited for once in my life.

  As bizarre as it still feels to me, this guy who could have his choice of women really likes me as a sex partner. And he claims to love my curvy body, which is even harder to believe. Rory swears it’s true, though. Last night as we lay in bed, he trailed a finger over my entire figure, stopping to tell me what he liked about each part. Those are the same parts that I’ve looked at in the mirror, wishing they could be different, and now this incredible man is starting to make me think I was wrong all this time. And of course, I definitely love his body. Who wouldn’t? It’s bloody perfect.

  Honestly, it’s been like I’m living in a fantasy dreamland. I’m afraid to pinch myself, lest it all come crumbling down around me.

  I cook us scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. As we’re eating, Rory says, “Hey, Abby, do you have any idea how badly wanted to fuck you in the locker room the other day?”

  “Obviously I knew you wanted to, but it wasn’t right.”

  “Not into sex in forbidden places?”

  I smirk at him. “Don’t underestimate me, Your Royal Sirness. That kind of thing really is hot. I could have thrown you down on the floor of that locker room and fucked your brains out right there.”

  “You could have, but you didn’t,” he says.

  “I’ll be honest with you. I had also been thinking about sleeping with you, but imagined it was just a little fantasy. Then when I realized you wanted to as much as I did, I thought it would probably just happen once and I wanted it to be in a bed where I could relax and totally get into it.”

  Rory smiles mischievously and says, “My big takeaway from this is you saying that sex in forbidden places is hot.”

  We shower together after breakfast, and when his big cock refuses to stay down, I soap up my breasts, then kneel and place his hard-on between them. Moments later, that problem has been solved.

  After we’re dressed, we climb into the Lamborghini, which I’m actually starting to like. Like yesterday, we’ll have to stop by my flat so I can grab a change of clothes. As much as I enjoyed our first night of sex, I never thought I’d end up back in his bed just hours later. But every time Rory glanced my way during one of the five interviews he did, my heart melted a little. I was wet most of the day, and when the final interview ended, I whispered in his ear, “I hate to impose on your busy schedule, but I really need you to fuck me again tonight.”

  Obviously, Rory was more than happy to oblige.

  As the car emerges from his garage, I see a man trying to hide behind a parked car while pointing a big camera lens our way. Then two more jump out. Suddenly there are at least ten of them, most standing in the street and making no effort at all to hide. I instinctually lower my head and shield my face.

  “Motherfuckers!” Rory says. He pushes the accelerator and the photographers jump out of the way as the car screeches away.

  “Why are they here? There weren’t any when we left yesterday.”

  “There was one, but he was hiding. You didn’t see him, but I know where to look.”

  “But ten or twelve today! Is your life always like this?” I ask.

  “Only when there’s something big is going on.”

  “Like what?”

  Rory just shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He turns on the radio and switches stations until he finds the news. After a brief bit about the ongoing Brexit saga, the host says, “Stick around. When we come back, we’ll have more on the Rory Winston story, including a talk with one of the nine women who’ve come forward to say they slept with him.”

  “God damn it!” he slams the steering wheel, then turns the radio off. “It never fails.”

  I’m in shock and don’t know what to say.

  Obviously, I know Rory has had many sex partners. Bloody hell, I’ve slept with more than nine men and I’m not rich, famous, or gorgeous. I would be suspicious if he wasn’t sleeping around quite a bit while he’s still a young man.

  But hearing it on the news just after I’ve been in his bed? That’s a little weird.

  “Do you want to talk about this?” I ask, trying not to judge.

  “Not now, Abby. Let me find out what this is all about first.”

  It occurs to me that my job was to keep him out of the tabloids this week. So much for that, although this is all stuff that happened in his past.

  “I wondered why my mobile was blowing up this morning. I assumed it was just more congratulations.”

  My mobile! I turned the ringer off last night before I got into Rory’s bed, for obvious reasons. I retrieve it from my purse and there’s a text from Malcolm Owensby, who sent me a picture. When I open it, I see the front page of today’s Sun, with a close-up of Rory’s Lamborghini with me in the passenger seat. The angle was through the windshield, the only glass on the car that isn’t tinted. In the background, I see it was taken as we were leaving Rory’s house, so it had to be yesterday morning. I’m looking at Rory with a big smile on my face.

  Above our picture, giant letters say, “Rory’s Harem!” Smaller letters underneath say, “Who’s he scoring with this week?” And then there’s a row of pictures—nine women, all of them quite beautiful.

  He’s looking at me, aware that something on my phone is not right. I hold the image up in front of him and he pushes my arm away.

  “The guy waiting at the garage yesterday must have taken that,” he says in a flat tone.

  “Did he take all these other pictures, too?” I ask. When Rory doesn’t reply, I switch the radio back on. He tries to turn it off again, and I say, “Fuck you! I want to hear this!”

  He relents and we listen for about a minute, long enough for me to hear a woman named Emily giggle through a story about a threesome she had with Rory.

  The part that chills me to the bone: She claims it happened last Sunday night. Five days ago, and just hours before I met him.

  What the fuck have I done?

  I turn the radio back off.

  “Told you,” Rory says. “The only reason this is happening is because of the knighthood.” />
  “Is it true?” I demand.

  “Is what true? The threesome? The nine women? The gay lover I supposedly have in Paris? The son with Down syndrome I refuse to acknowledge? The Satanic orgies? Which of the hundred tabloid stories do you want me to verify, Abby?”

  He’s irritated, but I don’t back down.

  “Did you sleep with two women last Sunday?”

  He looks at me, his eyes filled with regret.

  “Thanks for your honesty,” I say.

  “At the time, I’d never even met you. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t have wasted my time with those two slappers.”

  “So I’m your new slapper, then? Just easy enough for a quick shag or two?”

  “You know it’s not like that, Abby,” he protests.

  “I don’t know what it’s like. I barely know you, and the you I thought I knew turns out not to be the real you at all.”

  Rory sighs heavily. “Listen, I need to get through these interviews today, which just became a lot more difficult. Then we can talk it out tonight and I’ll tell you everything.”

  I don’t respond because I’ve already decided I’m not speaking to him until I have a chance to learn whatever I need to know to protect my heart.

  Damn it, Abby, how could you have been so dense?

  It seems that everyone is staring at me as I walk through the office. This despite me having Rory drop me off one street over so I don’t have to be seen walking in with him at my side.

  I proceed straight to Mr. McKibben’s office and bump into Malcolm Owensby, who’s on his way out. He gives me a look I’ll never forget, one that says I’m total trash, and stupid trash on top of it.

  “Have a seat, Abigail,” Mr. McKibben says in a kindly voice. When I’m seated, he asks, “Are you okay, dear?”

  I grab a tissue from the container on his desk because I know I’ll need it. If not now, then certainly when Rory walks in.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “and under normal circumstances this would be none of my business, but I have to ask…” He pauses. “Is it true?”

  I nod and the tears arrive simultaneously.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  My life was damn near perfect an hour ago. Now everything is falling apart all at once.

  “I’ll give you a minute,” Mr. McKibben says as he stands. When he’s gone, my mobile dings. Luckily, I turned the ringer back on, because it’s a text from Rory.

  on second thought, it’s probably better that we cancel all of today’s interviews. i’m not in the mood to answer the questions I’d surely be asked.

  Just seconds later, another message arrives.

  call me when you’re up for a chat. this is fixable. we’re good.

  “Fixable”? Like a problem that has to be solved? I hurry to respond before Mr. McKibben comes back.

  I’ll cancel them. I’m not sure there’s much for you and I to talk about. I’m disappointed in you, but more so in ME because I should have known it was all bullshit.

  I try to dry my tears as much as possible, and when Mr. McKibben returns, I look better on the outside. My heart is shattered, but I think I can keep that at bay for now.

  “Do you want to wait a while before we talk about how to proceed?” he asks.

  “Sir, I just received a text from Rory. He asked me to cancel all of today’s interviews.”

  I expect him to be livid, or at least irritated. Instead, he merely nods and says, “It’s probably for the best. Hopefully this will die down over the weekend. I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister and he says we have no choice but to proceed with the investiture ceremony. The news story is unseemly, but it would be an even bigger story if we retract the award. Hopefully the public will forget about these women.”

  He sees the look in my eyes and hurries to say, “Not you, dear. The others…” He’s struggling to make it right. “The cheap ones.”

  “It’s okay, Geoffrey.” The first name just slipped out. “I was foolish and starstruck, as I’m sure many women are.”

  My mobile dings with another text.

  fuck it. tell owensby and your boss that i’m declining the award because i don’t want to tarnish the crown with my personal dirt. i don’t need this shit.

  I sit stunned, staring at the message in my palm.

  “What is it, Abigail? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It’s Rory, sir. He says he plans to decline the award. He doesn’t want Her Majesty to look bad because of this story. And his other stories, I suppose.”

  Again I expect him to be furious at Rory, and at the least disappointed with me, seeing as how my only job this week was to prevent rubbish like this from happening. Instead, he thinks for a moment, then looks at me with confidence.

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll just have to convince Mr. Winston otherwise.”

  Today is just one weird thing after another.

  “Mr. McKibben, I—”

  “Geoffrey. Perhaps it’s time we dispense with the formalities.”

  As I was just saying about weird things…

  “Geoffrey, I have already failed you once this week. I don’t think I’m the right person for this particular task. Especially considering…” I don’t want to finish the sentence.

  “Abigail—”

  “Abby, sir.” I try to smile.

  He nods. “Abby, then. Apparently, you know Mr. Winston better than any of us at this point. You have to talk to him and make him see that declining the knighthood will only make matters immensely worse for everyone involved.”

  I look at him, my eyes pleading for him to reconsider.

  “On Monday morning, I told you that I wouldn’t ask you to take on this task if I didn’t believe you were perfect for the job. Nothing has changed my opinion in the slightest. I have the utmost confidence in you, Abby.”

  I swallow hard. Do I even have a choice in the matter?

  “And I feel compelled to point out to you that Her Majesty herself needs you to work this out.”

  Well, that’s it, then. I have no choice at all.

  I have to talk to Rory again for the sake of the Queen and my entire country.

  No pressure, there.

  Maybe it’s better this way. I can leave my heart out of the equation and make this strictly about business.

  Rory

  I’m sitting in my media room, watching a friendly between France and Brazil. I need something to distract me right now, to take my mind off of everything. The ringer on my mobile is off, and I won’t go anywhere near a window so there’s no chance of the paparazzi snapping a picture of me.

  I have completely shut out the world. Now if I can just shut off my brain.

  And my heart.

  This morning started on such a great note. I woke before Abby, then watched her sleep for a bit. She looked so peaceful, so innocent. Her angelic face completely hid the absolute demon she had been in my bed again last night.

  I’ve never had sex like that before. At times hyper-physical, then as soft, slow, and sensuous as possible. It was like being in sex Heaven with an angel/devil combination.

  Holy fuck, my brain is just babbling away.

  I miss her already. How is that even possible after knowing her less than a week? After spending just two nights together?

  And now it’s gone in a puff of smoke, because of those bloody paparazzi.

  I watch the French side attack the Brazilian defense, which always seems to be on their heels, but somehow usually prevents a goal being scored. I admired the Brazilians for that, for a defense that bends but doesn’t break.

  But as I try to lose myself in football, a thought pops into my muddled brain: I’ve just managed to lose a bleeding knighthood and a girlfriend. I may have fucked up the poor girl’s career with all this bad publicity, possibly even her life. They’ll point at her in shops. Things won’t be the same for her for a very long time.

  I also may have angered the bloody Queen, for God’s sak
e.

  And it happened in a matter of minutes.

  Wait… I almost overlooked my brain calling Abby my girlfriend. Is that how I really saw her? Already? Bollocks, that’s too quick. We were barely dating. Just hung out for a few days, had some good times and a some absolutely mind-blowing sex, but that’s it. Five days ago, I’d never heard of Abby Payne and woke up in that same bed with two other girls.

  Two lesser girls. Not even close. And the sex had been utterly disappointing and pedestrian. Abby was markedly better in bed than two women had been.

  Then an even deeper thought pops up, one that I’ve had before and instantly buried so as to not deal with it.

  This didn’t happen in a matter of minutes.

  This happened because of who I am. Because of the man I’ve been all of my adult life.

  I remember the last thing my Dad said to me, as I was leaving his house the other day. His little speech about growing up, finding a good woman, starting a family. About true happiness being there, rather than in pissing my life away chasing women.

  Is that it? Am I fucking things up because I focus on the wrong things to begin with?

  Am I just a bloody immature prat? A thirty-year-old boy? It’s something I’ve heard others say out loud about me, but I never listened. And it wouldn’t be the first time Dad was right about something.

  Emotions come rapidly bubbling to the surface, one after another. I’m not happy and haven’t been in a while, despite the money and the fame. Being chosen for a KBE is an honour guys from my part of town never even dream of. This should be the greatest week of my life, getting a knighthood from the Queen herself, and meeting a beautiful woman I can have phenomenal sex with and who could be my best friend as well?

  Yet I’m fucking miserable now. I’m an idiot. A blooming fool.

  When I feel the tension in my chest and the tears start to come, I get furious. With the paparazzi, with my father, with the entire world.