A Model Fiancé

by Kaye, Nikky

  “Move your hand,” I growled.

  “You don’t like—?”

  “It’s in my fucking way.” Sweat beading on my forehead, I balanced myself enough to reach down and grab her saucy fingers.

  I pinned her wrist down to the pillow by her head, then positioned my cock right at her center and drove forward. It was hot, damp torture, entering her a fraction while butting up against the barrier of her thin pants. It was like a perverse sort of condom getting in the way.

  By now I was breathless and shaking with need and barely noticed her moving her free hand down her belly and underneath.

  She squirmed and gasped, and I felt her fingers inside her pants brushing up against my throbbing erection.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Get your hand out of there. That’s my pussy.”

  Then I drew back on my knees enough to yank her pants down over her ass. It was too dark to see her glistening flesh, but the smell of her nearly undid me. Sweet, salty, and all Audrey.

  The pad of my thumb slid over her clit, making her gasp. I loved that noise. If only I could bottle that noise and open it like a fresh, bubbly soda every damn day.

  Her tight, hot cunt welcomed my first finger, and the second. Audrey groaned as her insides clamped down on the third finger. I twisted my wrist, feeling every millimeter of her soft walls. My thumb still skated over her swollen flesh, going from back-and-forth to side-to-side movements.

  “You like fucking my hand, don’t you?”

  She gulped and jerked her chin up and down. “Yes! Oh god, I’m going to come soon.”

  When I wiggled my wicked pinky finger in the velvety, sacred spot behind her entrance, she stopped breathing.

  Her body quaked, and she swore hoarsely as she rode out her climax. The sounds she made, the feel of her cum slipping over my knuckles… Jesus, it was almost too much to bear. My balls tightened and my eyes nearly crossed as I held my orgasm back.

  I wasn’t nearly done with her, yet.

  She flinched and sighed as I withdrew and licked my fingers. “Dev,” she said lazily, reaching up and touching my hand, which was slippery with her juices. “I need all of you.”

  “You’re all I need,” I muttered. “Love you so much.”

  It only took a few tries to realize that it would be really fucking hard to enter her with her skintight pants barely down. With a frustrated huff, I wriggled back on the bed and pulled her pants down with me.

  With her legs spread, though, there was only so far I could take them. “Just a sec,” she panted. I leaned back a little, and she lifted one leg up and in front of me.

  And kneed me in the face.

  “Agh!” I jerked up in reaction, my head colliding with the underside of the bottom bunk. “Aaagh!”

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” She sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “Are you okay?”

  I dabbed my knuckles against my nostrils. Was I about to gush blood all over the sheets? Experimentally I checked for moisture. “Yeah, I think so.”

  While I was doing triage, she’d stripped off everything below the waist. With a minimum of awkwardness, I lay down and pulled her over me.

  “Sit on me,” I ordered, my fist gliding over my cock as it stood straight up.

  “Oh, yes!” She rocked on her knees, getting into position, then slid down over me.

  Pure fucking heaven, she was. I could tell she was trying to rub against me, and I wanted her to come again. I let go of her fleshy hips and sought the places that made her howl. Her head snapped back, and she grazed her forehead on the goddamn slats.

  “Ouch!”

  “Enough of this.” Carefully, I rolled her off of me. “Get up,” I said, giving her gorgeous backside a little spank.

  We stood beside the bunk bed, the flashlight she’d hung from the upper rails making a spotlight on the floor by our feet. With a snap I stripped off my briefs while she peeled off her shirt.

  “Now,” I said, positioning her beside the bed. The back of her head touched the side of the top bunk as I lifted her arms. “Hang on to those rails.”

  “Ooh.”

  Her elbows jutted forward as she gripped the safety rail of the top bunk.

  I squatted, splitting her open like a ripe peach, and indulged myself in one long, luxurious taste. Then I stood, splaying her thighs over mine and impaling her on my aching cock.

  “Dev!”

  “You okay, baby?”

  “Yes. You’re just…”

  “So fucking deep.”

  “Yes.”

  I wanted to be part of her, wanted to touch her heart and soul and leave my mark on her like a possessive sonofabitch.

  In this position, all she could do was hang on as I drove up into her over and over again. Her breasts bounced in my face with every thrust, her hard nipples scraping against my chest.

  “I’m going to come so hard in you,” I promised. My hands cradled her ass, my biceps burning a little as I held her.

  “Oh my god.”

  I sped up, my hands digging into her curves and my quads straining as I climbed higher, further. Slammed her perfect pussy on me. Bit down on a jiggling nipple. Dodged her elbows as she tried to pull herself up and help me fuck her.

  Even though eroded by fatigue and emotion, I felt invincible. At the same time I felt like an insignificant piece of dust in the universe, next to this woman. Suddenly the wind was knocked out of me by the simplest, purest truth I’d ever known.

  I paused.

  “What is it?” she breathed out, adjusting her grip. “Am I too heavy?”

  “I just love you. Really, I mean it.”

  She tilted her head back and laughed, but when she looked down again I spied wetness on her face. “You sure know how to pick your moments, don’t you?”

  “There’s no perfect time to tell someone you love them.” I tilted my head, considering it. “Is there?”

  Her happy sigh echoed through me. “If there is, it’s probably not while swinging, naked, from a bunk bed.”

  “Audrey, I can’t love you on a clock. If I could, I would have set a fucking alarm a long time ago. I feel like I already lost a million years with you.”

  With her legs wrapped around my waist, she cantilevered herself closer and kissed me softly.

  “Then give me a million years, you cheesy pretty boy.”

  26

  Audrey

  Last Valentine’s Day, I did what any normal, heartbroken girl would—spent it with Netflix and an array of junk food. I was still wounded from my broken engagement, and it would be fair to say I was not in love with love.

  Shannon—who at that time was my brother’s girlfriend, not wife—had tried to cheer me up, promising to put on a movie with no love story. Easier said than done. We must have tried half a dozen movies before settling on a documentary about genocide.

  “The bleached skulls were lined up in a macabre display,” a somber, British accent narrated as Brett walked into the living room.

  “This is so depressing.”

  “Then don’t watch,” Shannon told him as she passed me the ice cream.

  “Audrey,” my brother whined, “can I please take my girlfriend out for Val—”

  “Don’t!” Shannon gave him a dirty look. “Don’t say it.”

  Reflexively, I whimpered.

  My kind, caring, older brother threw up his hands and hissed, “It’s not like I’m saying Voldemort, for god’s sakes!”

  Shannon extricated herself from our shared blanket cocoon and shoved him into the kitchen while I focused on the screen. Could jewelry made of human body parts be considered romantic? I wondered to myself.

  “Later,” as I now told Dev the story, “Brett said it was then he knew he wanted to marry her.”

  He chuckled. “He texted me the next day and said the same thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, he also said there was an epic blowjob involved.”

  “Ewww!” I shoved him in his Business Class seat. W
e’d been downgraded on this second flight to Delhi. “Thanks for ruining that for me!”

  “Hey, at least I didn’t use it in my wedding speech!” Dev laughed, catching my hands in his and pulling my knuckles to his lips. “I hope this Valen—I’m sorry, Voldemort’s Day has been better so far.”

  How could it not be? Other than the half-staged photo op at the airport for the benefit of social media, we’d mostly been able to focus on each other. We were doing much better at considering each other.

  After he ambushed me in Vienna at New Year’s, we’d tried to pre-arrange our time together better. I promised him I would talk to him about my travel plans and if we could coordinate things to go somewhere together, then we did.

  Since then we’d only had one frosty weekend together on a deserted beach north of Cape Cod. The director of Dev’s photo shoot was adamant on big winter waves and rolling gray clouds for his artistic vision, which admittedly looked awesome against the contrast of the tissue-thin white shirt plastered to Dev’s washboard abs.

  My boyfriend—ever the professional—shivered, but didn’t complain for one minute. Even his hair obeyed, succumbing to a tousled look without the use of a wind machine, and he radiated the “brooding wanderlust” that the director wanted.

  Dev winced as his bare feet sunk further into the freezing sand, and I wondered if this was all necessary to advertise Hessa’s line of luxury luggage. After a few hours, his olive skin was turning blue and his expression was one of agony rather than sexy angst.

  When they finally took a break, he politely excused himself and dove into my rental car. I cranked the heat for him and we snuggled in the back seat under a blanket. Body heat was an amazing thing—which we explored further that night at a seaside inn.

  Even without the electric fireplace in our “coastal chic” room, it was easy to burn for Dev. We didn’t even make it to the bed.

  On the bleached hardwood, he pressed decorative starfish into my skin and somehow made it incredibly arousing to keep our socks on while making love. His rough whispers echoed in my ear like listening to a big seashell—dirty memories and promises of the future, until my thighs quivered around him.

  “I love… tasting… you,” he told me, his tongue dragging over my sensitive flesh.

  I arched and moaned, my feet pressing into the braided rug…

  “What are you thinking about?” Dev asked, waving his hand in front of my face.

  I blinked as the back of the flight attendant came into focus and I remembered that we were currently on a plane, not hunkering down for a Nor’easter.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “I do that,” I reminded him as I pressed the backs of my fingers to my hot cheeks. That weekend was only one memory I already shared with him, and the beginning of many more.

  Dev gasped loudly. “You’re thinking about me naked, aren’t you?” The flight attendant stumbled as she passed us again. “You bad girl!”

  Damn right. “So when am I going to get a private bedroom on one of these flights?” I asked slyly, looping my arm through his and leaning in to nibble on his chiseled jawline.

  A low hum rumbled in his throat, near my tongue. “A million air miles isn’t even enough for one of those, I think.”

  He was probably right. As it was, I was blowing through them at jet speed. When Dev asked what my balance was at, I lied to him. How had I gotten to less than two hundred thousand miles so quickly? It was embarrassing.

  I pouted for a moment to mourn the privacy we’d enjoyed in the First Class pod on our first trip, until Dev reminded me of other intimacies that could be managed under the cover of a carefully placed blanket. The flight lasted a lot longer than the pleasure though—a lot longer.

  By the time we landed, The Day That Shall Not Be Named was over and done with, and so was my taste for travel. I’d felt restless for the last couple hours of the flight, overly warm and queasy from the stuffy cabin.

  The jumbled-up smells of Delhi were almost a relief compared to the re-circulated air in the plane. On the way to the hotel, I was close to hanging my head out of the car window like a dog, wanting to feel the breeze in my face.

  “You okay?” Dev asked.

  “Too many flights lately,” I groaned, sitting back and closing my eyes. Despite dozing off in the car, by the time we checked in at the hotel the jet lag was hitting me hard.

  Dev handed me my key card, frowning. “Still separate rooms, I guess.”

  The sad thing was that we were more used to sleeping apart than together. We hadn’t yet spent enough time together to become familiar with each other’s little snores and nocturnal movements.

  At around five in the morning on the coast of Massachusetts, for example, I found myself bare-assed on the floor beside the bed after a sleepy tug-of-war for the old-fashioned quilt.

  Right this second, I didn’t give a good goddamn about Hessa or Mr. Sharma’s traditional views on pre-marital sex—I just wanted a shower and a bed.

  “Fuck this,” Dev said, taking back the key card. “We can put some stuff in the other room for show later, but right now we’re going to my room so you can go to bed.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  First, we had to pose for a picture in the lobby. I bit my tongue and let it happen and tried to smile the best I could. Not for the first time, I wondered how long they would expect us to do this. Dev’s contract was for three years. We’d only been together for less than six months, and it was already grating on me.

  Surely Hessa would expect us to get married at some point?

  The thought made me stop in my tracks.

  “What?” Dev asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. It might be everything.

  * * *

  I felt a lot better the next day, and the day after that. While Dev met with Mr. Sharma and flew to Jaipur for a two-day shoot, I reconnected with Preethi and do some touristy stuff. And shopping. One of the reasons we were there was to attend Mr. Sharma’s daughter’s wedding, and I didn’t have the first clue what to expect. Thankfully, Preethi had been tasked to outfit me properly.

  Buying clothes for an Indian wedding was not like picking out a cocktail dress. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be the bride on display. Just being a guest meant unique outfits and jewelry for at least three different events.

  “There’s not enough time to get anything tailored,” Preethi said, “but I’m sure we can find you some beautiful lenghas that will fit.”

  My gaze caught on the explosion of color in the store—all the fabric, beads, sequins. This was not the place to come for a Little Black Dress that’s for sure. Where to start?

  “What about a sari?” I asked her. The women I’d seen in saris looked so elegant.

  She shook her head. “You don’t know how to wear one.”

  “Oh.” I felt as though I’d just failed a test.

  “Don’t worry,” she called out from behind a rainbow-colored rack. “I’m sure Mr. Sharpe’s mother will teach you, for your wedding.”

  I looked down at my “engagement” ring, which glittered in the store’s LED lights.

  When I’d confronted Dev about it, he looked uncomfortable and told me he wanted me to have something real. He thought I deserved it. The way he explained it made me seem like an ungrateful bitch if I tried to give it back or questioned his motives.

  So I was left with a gorgeous ring on my hand and no real idea of what it meant.

  A few days later, my ring was oohed and aahed over by strange women at the mehndi party. There, they decorated my palms with beautiful henna designs. The whole thing was fascinating, but outweighed by the awkwardness I felt in a group of women I didn’t know, chattering away in a mixture of languages.

  I also suspected I was allergic to the henna since it stung my skin and made my stomach flip. Someone squeezed lemon juice on my hands and thrust them over the heat of burning embers in some kind of brazier. It wasn’t
clear if there was a reason for it, or they were building up to a sacrificial barbecue of the foreign girl.

  Dev just nodded when I got back to the hotel and told him they had instructed me to let the drying henna paste fall off on its own, but neither of us expected to wake up in the morning in a bed full of little brown crumbs. It didn’t make for a great start to the day—for the two of us or the Housekeeping staff.

  “I think I’m reacting to it,” I said. “It’s making me dizzy.”

  “Sorry, baby,” Dev said as he examined the looping designs on my hands. “It will probably stay on for at least a week.”

  He passed me a bottle of cold water and told me to take it easy for the day while he was out. It didn’t take much work to convince me to crawl back into bed—after they had changed the sheets.

  Two nights later was the sangeet, which was a kind of music and dance party. At first I thought it was some kind of rehearsal, but discovered it was more like a thing where the women sang together and the men spent a lot of time slapping each other on the back at the open bar.

  Again, I felt conspicuous and uncomfortable, and lonely without Dev by my side. Someone had put him to work taking pictures with other guests and almost schmoozing the room like King Sharma’s court entertainer. I stared at the mango slurry in the glass in front of me, feeling sorry for myself, when someone squeezed my shoulder.

  “You look wunderschön, Audrey.”

  I swiveled in my seat. “Dierks!”

  Nearly tripping over my skirt, I flew up and launched myself at him. He quickly put his camera down on the table, out of the line of fire.

  “I’m so happy to see you!” My voice was embarrassingly wobbly. “Does Dev know you’re here?”

  He patted me on the back. “He told me to come find you.” I sniffled as he pulled back and looked at me appraisingly. “You’re bored.”

  I let out a half-laugh, half-moan. “Just a little.”

  “Tsk tsk.” He nodded towards his camera on the table. “Why aren’t you taking pictures?”

  “I—” Huh. Why wasn’t I? I smiled—a real smile—at him. “You know what, you’re right.” As I dug in my purse for my phone, I asked him, “Are you working the whole wedding?”