Читать книгу With This Ring, I Thee Bed - Alison Tyler - Страница 15

Avery had asked for a few moments to gather her thoughts in the upstairs bedroom; Kris ushered them all out in a group—Mom, Vanessa, Kerri, Terri, Monette, Jane—and good riddance to them. Kris then mouthed, “Twenty minutes,” and winked and blew her a kiss before leaving herself.

God love Kris Keshanski, thought Avery. Now that’s a maid of honor.

Avery locked the door, took a deep breath. It was all so intoxicating—her being the center of attention, which she hated, and being dolled up and beautiful, which she loved. She had barely even looked at herself in the mirror; she had looked, of course, sure, but not looked. For one thing, she didn’t have her glasses on. Plus she’d been so distracted by all the bridesmaids and Mom and the hangers-on flittering about that she’d not had a chance to stand poised in the full-length, wood-framed standing mirror and get close enough to see, and say, “Damn, girl—you rock this.”

She did. Her dress was white and traditional, maybe too traditional—gathered close at the hips beneath the tight cinch of the corset, which also jacked her breasts up improbably like hot-air balloons, until she looked as if she had a rack to salute to high heaven. She’d never had cleavage before, but she had it today—God’s gift to lady surfboards, this lingerie.

The corset, in fact, was the one thing she had insisted on, but not just for the reason that it accented her moderate endowments. It also felt freaky good, being cinched into this thing, barely able to breathe, desperately wanting to swoon. Traditional or kinky? She’d never tell—let the guests think the white had been earned with long months of horny denial and chaste deprivation. It wasn’t.

Avery gathered the dress up in front. She did not want to wrinkle it, but, she thought to herself, with sufficient care the crinoline could be smoothed down and she’d get a chance to admire herself.

Lord! Was she actually wearing that? This outfit was filth, pure and simple, raw savage depravity in white satin and pretty pink lace. She looked like a whore, which was kind of a turn-on, this being her wedding and all. And when, brightly, her mind filled with thoughts of dear Michael removing the twelve-hundred-dollar dress to find an eight-hundred-dollar see-through white thong with lacy pink flowers and a white, embroidered-rose garter belt, not to mention the seamed white stockings that said “Spread me” in the language of lingerie—when she thought of that, Avery Jacobsen soon-to-be-Vance went wet to the knees, put her hand where she shouldn’t, and sighed.

It was true, then; she was a whore. Shameless, insistent … Good God, that feels good. She steadied herself against the mirror and rubbed faster, wondering if somehow she might get away with a quick one, spread wide on her back with the wedding dress gathered—no, no, fucking no, she’d just wrinkle it. She looked hungrily into her own eyes and rubbed herself gently—just a few more strokes, not a full wank or anything….

Oh my God, being shaved makes you sensitive, Avery thought as she struggled with whether she ought to come.

No, of course not, she decided: Tradition. Wasn’t that the tradition? Get all worked up before the wedding, sure, but wait to come until your new husband fucks you. If it’s not a tradition, it should be, right?

She’d been to plenty of weddings. Brides and grooms in the modern day seemed to change into jeans and T-shirts before hopping on Kawasakis or into rented Porsche convertibles for a honeymoon in Napa. Not so with Michael Vance’s new bride; she’d been told in no uncertain terms she would be spirited away in a Holsman 1907 High-Wheeler reproduction, built from scratch for this occasion—with her very own crackpot inventor at the joystick. She was two-thirds convinced that the thing wasn’t street legal, despite Michael’s assurance that it was. The fact that he’d promised to follow that drive from the Jacobsen home to the Vance Bed-and-Breakfast with a bride’s carry over the threshold if she was good—or a fireman’s lift if she was bad—made her molten inside. Thinking about that cave dweller’s threat-promise would have made her rub faster, if she hadn’t already moved on, in her thoughts, to the growl of his voice at her ear, the warm breath on her neck as he told her with vigor what he’d do to her once he had her inside.

Vance Bed-and-Breakfast: in the family for four generations. Forest luxury. Redwood tubs. Steam showers. Four-poster beds.

Avery bit her lip, panting. Maybe just a quick toss. Just a quick one. Kris could smooth out the wrinkles, right?

Someone fiddled with the door.

Avery gasped. Her heart pounding, she removed her hand quickly from the one place it should really not have been on her wedding day at 11:00 a.m., then adjusted her thong and pulled down her dress.

“Leave me alone, I’m getting ready!”

Whoever it was still fiddled. She could see the knob turning; they hadn’t even knocked. Panicked, Avery checked herself in the mirror. Her dress looked okay. No signs of her recent adventures, other than the almost terrifying pinkness of her face and her cleavage, and the peaks of her nipples showing through the dress.

The door opened.

“Michael!” she cried. She seized a shoe from the nearby rack and threw it at him. He faced it down fearlessly as it struck the door next to him; she hadn’t really been aiming, and in any event, with her glasses off her groom was mostly a blur. Damn that lost contact! She threw another shoe, which clunked at his feet. “Don’t you know—”

“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride—yes, yes, yes,” said Michael, slipping inside. He closed the door and locked it. “But my dear, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“This is bad luck! It’s tradition. Get out! You’re dooming our marriage!”

Avery seized another shoe and threw it, half laughing, as Michael, grinning, closed in on her. He was a hell of an easy target, at six foot four with broad shoulders, but she didn’t really want to hit him—black eye on his wedding day? She’d never hear the end of that one. Nonetheless, Michael got the message—as he’d gotten it before he ever opened the door: This was transgression, raw transgression, the breaking of an ancient taboo to which Michael himself had repeatedly proclaimed his devotion.

It was, therefore, more filthy than anything they’d ever done. And after Avery and Michael’s eighteen months together, there was some serious competition for that slot.

Michael seized Avery Jacobsen and very nearly slammed her against the wall. The feel of his muscles against her made her go loopy. He stooped low to kiss her, and she pursed her lips and turned her head.

“It’s bad luck!”

“Is that right?”

“Yes!” Avery cried. “The worst kind of bad luck!”

“You don’t say,” murmured Michael, and put his hand into her hair, grabbing tight.

Avery gasped, looked up into his eyes, and watched as his full lips turned back in a sneering smile. Her own lips trembled with hunger. He pulled harder; her gasp became a whimper.

“There’ll be lots of this soon, Mrs. Vance,” he growled.

“Not yet, Mr. Vance. I could still change my mind. And some bright bird might object.”

“Let them try.” He grinned, shaking his fist as he looked into her eyes.

Michael kissed her.

She went limp in his grasp as his mouth savaged hers. She no longer resisted, exactly; her squirming struggles against his bulk were familiar and comforting, half weak and half fierce. It was really his hand in her hair that did it. In the weeks before the wedding she’d kept from soliciting his feedback; the comfort of their coupling came from the ease with which she assailed her femaleness, eschewing femininity whenever she thought it unnecessary. With her shorts and T-shirts, her little round glasses, her love of bicycling and her adoration of the works of Geoffrey Chaucer in the original Middle English—which she could recite from memory with a clarity utterly shocking to everyone except her and her professors—Avery was not a high-maintenance girl. She did not intend to be a high-maintenance bride.

Nonetheless, on the matter of her hair, she had craved Michael’s opinion. I think maybe up? she’d mused one day out loud.

No, Avery, down.

Really? Down? she had asked him. He’d answered with his hand in her hair, pulling cruelly as he kissed her with enough ardor to shock Chaucer’s merchant.

So it was that on this, her wedding day, she had surrendered to a sort of a tomboy-chic look, figuring traditionally prim bridal beauty could be forgone at her groom’s request. Now she knew why: the son of a bitch had planned to kiss her like this from the first, to sully their marriage day with the—holy Christ, he was pulling her corset down.

“You can’t do that,” she whimpered. “Everybody’s waiting. My parents … everybody.”

He silenced her with his mouth, hard upon her, his tongue against hers as first one, then the other, teacup tit popped out with nipple already hard, responding to his thumb with goose bumps that went shimmying down her spine and deep into her sex. He thumbed, stroked, kneaded, pinched; she went loose against him, and when his lips left hers there was a string of spit stretched for a moment between them, just as in her favorite-ever movie kissing scene. Fresh, filthy, wet, sloppy—just like their sex life, forever.

“They’ve waited twenty-six years for this day,” Michael said. “Let them wait fifteen minutes while I fuck their girl senseless.”

“You may not,” Avery declared, half convinced, half unconvinced, “fuck me senseless.”

“Of course not,” said Michael, and in moments she was pulled back in his arms and splayed out on the bed, with a yelp. “You’re already senseless.”

“I’m serious,” she panted deliriously. “You can’t. They’re all waiting. I won’t let you do this.”

“Then why are your legs spread?”

“Umm …”

Michael grinned savagely. “So you’re a little whore for your wedding day, are you?” His hands went inside her slim, filmy lace thong, and in moments his fingers slid down her freshly shaved slit, finding her wet as a fountain and her clit throbbing hard. Newly shorn, her sex was exquisitely sensitive; getting dressed, she’d already begun to regret this planned wedding-night surprise, thinking she’d never make it through the day without touching herself. Now she gave it to him hungrily, feeling him explore her newly smooth sex, the smile on his face and the hard cock in his pants telling her everything she needed to know.

She grasped desperately at Michael’s arms, first the one that still held her hair, then the one that was working inside her—holy shit, that felt good!

Avery spread her legs farther and rocked back and forth as Michael began to finger-fuck her. Desperately hungry, she clawed at the front of his tuxedo, cursing buttons and clasps as she fucked herself onto him. He gave her two fingers; when he brought his thumb into the mix, working her clit while her hips worked, her eyes rolled back and she all but tore his tuxedo pants open.

Michael’s hard cock popped free; she went lunging for it, and his hand tightened in her hair.

“Say please.”

“Pretty please,” Avery responded, with not a hint of a smile on her face. This was serious business. “Pretty please, Mr. Vance. Pretty please, may I suck your big cock, sir?”

“My God, you’re a filthy …” His epithet stalled in his mouth, because he’d loosened his grip on her hair and she’d lunged smoothly forward, her red-painted lips gliding down his full shaft before he even knew what was happening. With his left hand now free, Michael reached down to caress Avery’s nipples; she squirmed and rocked on his fingers as she slurped, both hands circling the base and caressing his balls.

There was a loud knock at the door.

Avery’s wet mouth came free. “Go away!” she called. “I’m still getting ready!”

“We can’t find—” It was her father’s voice.

Her mother hissed furiously, almost inaudible, “Don’t tell her that!”

“But we can’t find the groom,” said her father, his stage whisper as inexpert as only a sixty-year-old man having kittens can produce. “Where’s Michael?”

“He’ll be here!” cried Mom. “Let’s leave her alone!”

Long before that last statement, Avery’s mouth had returned to her paramour’s cock, gliding quickly up and down as she looked up at his brightening eyes. He worked a third finger into her, the tightness of her sex making him need to press harder to keep his thumb firm on her clit. She could not suppress the deep, throaty moan that made her lips tremble around Michael’s cock.

“Careful. They’re all waiting. They’re downstairs in the garden. They can hear every moan.”

Avery shivered all over, mounting quickly toward orgasm. She pumped onto his hand, thinking desperately, They can. They can hear when I moan. They can hear it. Oh, God …

Then she came, her hips going crazy as she shook all over, her moans stifled by Michael’s cock deep in her mouth—so deep she would have choked if, expert that she was, she hadn’t taken a breath before climaxing.

As the last of her orgasm pulsed through her body, Avery slipped her wet mouth off Michael’s big shaft and, stroking it with her hand, looked up at him. “Fuck me, Mr. Vance?”

“Spread wider,” he told her, and she did, relinquishing her grip on his cock and reaching down to steady her thighs as she held them wide open for him. Michael positioned himself, guiding his rod to her sex, plucking the slim, white lace thong out of the way, and looked deep into her eyes as he nuzzled his cock head up and down in her slit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” She could not stop saying it; her cunt was so sensitive from the explosive orgasm she’d just had that the gentle touch of his cock head against her opening was enough to make her shudder all over.

Michael grinned. He did not intend to stay gentle for long.

Avery’s back arched; she lunged to embrace him as he penetrated her, but Michael’s hand rested in the center of her chest, holding her at bay while he entered her fully. Her mouth opened wide and she shuddered in soundless moans, unable to find the breath to cry out as he fucked her. He held her, one hand on her chest, the other languidly grasping one knee, helping hold her open, exposing her sex as his hips began to work.

“I’m going to come again,” she said softly, her voice all but ravished by pleasure. Michael withdrew his hand from her chest and put it on her clit, fingers splayed where her pubic hair had been. His thumb worked her clit in small circles, teasing gently at first and then harder, harder, rubbing fiercely as he pumped his cock into her, seizing her eyes with his own, looking deep into her as she trembled all over and came hard—and then Michael let go, fucking deep inside her and coming while she breathed a deep sigh and accepted him.

“Ready for marriage?” he asked as he withdrew.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Still got plans for that four-poster bed?”

Michael grinned and zipped up. He helped Avery to her feet and the two began working furiously to right her corset and her dress. It was not quite perfection, but after a touch-up of her lipstick, she looked rather like a bride who’d been crying.

“Just stick to the story,” said Michael. “You’re crying from happiness—not because you’ve been deep-throating cock.” “You’re a savage,” said Avery.

Michael cinched up her corset, bent her over and smoothed down her dress.

At the door, Daddy pounded desperately, in hysterics. “Av, we can’t find Michael! He’s nowhere to be found! Have you seen him?”

Michael winked, said, “Think eighties teen comedy,” and his lean, six-foot-four frame went smoothly out the window. She heard him climbing the drainpipe and scrambling onto the roof. She thought, Well, that’s it, I’ll be marrying a corpse.

But there was no crash or thump, no great cry of a groom with a broken back—just the thunder of footsteps on the roof, and the climb down the far side; for fuck’s sake, that man sure had feet.

If anyone missed the thumping sound of Michael leaping off the rear deck onto the gazebo, they were clueless—but then, this was her family.

When she opened the door to embrace her hysterical father, Avery really was crying—with a great explanation.

“I don’t have anything borrowed!” she cried.

“Jesus Christ!” cursed her father, and she clutched him tightly, then winked at her mom—who, from the suspicious look on her face, knew exactly what she’d been doing in there.

Outside, she heard cheers and people crying out Michael’s name. “Oh, thank God,” said her father. “He’s shown up.”

“Look at that,” said her mother. “He hadn’t sped away in that goddamned jalopy of his, after all.”

“Yeah, he was busy,” said Avery, taking pleasure in her shamelessness; it still eluded her father, but Mom rolled her eyes—a mother knows.

Outside, Pachelbel’s “Canon” was playing; tradition, right?

Avery kissed her father on the cheek. “Come on, Dad. Walk me down the aisle.”

“With pleasure,” he said, relaxing with a sigh.

She wiggled, straightening her dress. She felt suddenly lucky. She decided she had the best, the very best, kind of good luck.