Chapter 8 Octavia #4
Taking his hand, I shake it weakly. “Please call me Octavia, or Octy. And it’s nice to meet you too,” I say politely, still not entirely sure why there is a freaking judge sitting in Knight’s backyard.
“Well, Octy, I really never thought I’d see the day that Knight Taylor would settle down, so you must be a very special woman.”
My lips part, but I have no idea what to say.
I’m sitting on his dick, so I’m hardly in a position to claim I barely know Knight, even though it’s the truth.
The urge to move, to separate and put distance between me and the force that Knight seems to have over me, drives me to tense and start to push myself out of his lap.
But his arm bands tightly around my waist, keeping me in place, his cock still buried deep inside of me.
“My clerk, Roger, has copies of all the paperwork you sent me, so just let me know how you want to do this, and we’ll make this all official,” Brandon says excitedly.
“I thought under the pergola might be nice,” Knight says, gesturing to the beautiful flower-draped structure.
The moment Brandon turns to look away, Knight lifts me off his hardness, smooths my skirt, and tucks his dick back into his pants in the blink of an eye, so quickly and discreetly that I know neither the judge nor his colleagues saw anything—thank God.
“Today is merely a formality. Octavia has been my wife since the day we met,” Knight says, his words and tone so reasonable that even I believe him.
“Are you expecting any guests, or would you like Shelley and Roger to act as witnesses?” Brandon asks, standing and turning to look at us, his expression excited.
“The only person who is important is my wife,” Knight says succinctly.
A soft chuckle bursts from Brandon’s throat. “Well, let’s get you married then.”
Blinking, I try to speak, to argue, or protest or something, but no words come. I’m mute. Wordless. Silent.
I don’t speak when Knight stands, takes my hand, and leads me across the patio. I don’t talk when he turns to face me. I don’t murmur when Brandon looks at us with fond affection and then starts to speak.
“Do you, Knight Anderson Taylor, take Octavia Ruth Hodkins to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to protect and to worship, to care for and honor in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” Brandon asks.
“I do,” Knight instantly replies, his answer clear, calm, and honest.
Smiling, Brandon nods, then turns his attention to me. “And do you, Octavia Ruth Hodkins, take Knight Anderson Taylor to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and obey, to promise and care for, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
I open my lips to say no. To deny him. To scream that this is all wrong, that Knight and I barely know each other, that he’s insane and I’m vulnerable, and that this is all ridiculous.
But then the weight of the promise Knight just made starts to sink in.
I’ve only been to a handful of weddings before, but I’ve watched them on TV and in movies, and the vows Brandon just asked Knight to make aren’t the same ones he asked of me.
He asked Knight to vow to protect and worship me, to care for and honor me.
Then he asked me to love and obey Knight, to promise to care for him, and even though I know I should, I don’t say no.
I don’t denounce this wedding or those vows, or who I am to Knight and who he is to me.
I don’t end this madness even though I should.
Instead, I do the thing I absolutely shouldn’t do.
I say, “I do.”
Knight reacts the moment the words slip from my lips. I glance down just in time to see him slipping a ring onto my finger before he drops my hand and reaches for my face. Cupping my cheeks in his huge palms, he leans forward and captures my lips with his.
The pounding of my heart and his seems to find synchronicity, beating in time while his tongue slips into my mouth, and his hands curl themselves around both my face and my soul.
Softly laughing, Brandon continues to speak, but I don’t think either of us hears anything else he says until “It’s my great pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife” permeates my mind.
Not releasing me for several more moments, Knight finally pulls away, ending the kiss to rest his forehead against mine. Two long moments pass until the other man—whom I haven’t been introduced to—clears his throat and steps forward, a manila folder in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Thank you, Roger,” Brandon says, taking it from him and opening it.
Knight repositions me so I’m pinned against his chest, his arms keeping me close, even though I’m not trying to get away. I can feel the feral, frenetic energy pulsing from him, and my pussy clenches and tightens, reminding me I’m not wearing any underwear.
Gesturing to the sofa and the small coffee table in front of it, Brandon sits, placing a sheaf of papers down onto the table.
Practically carrying me the few steps to the couch, Knight sits, pulls me onto his lap, then reaches around me and takes the pen Brandon is holding outstretched toward us.
Signing his name on the parts of the paperwork Brandon points to, he passes the pen to me, then shuffles forward in the seat, not releasing me, but allowing me to get close enough to sign the paperwork without me having to move.
In the deep recesses of my mind, I know this is a chance for me to protest. If I don’t sign the paperwork, then none of this is official. We might have said “I do,” but it’s just an act, a play without the legal documentation.
But instead of taking the opportunity to get out of this, my arm moves without my permission.
I’m confident that it’s not really me who signs my name, because it can’t be me who is willingly changing my fate and marrying a stranger.
But as I hand the pen back to Brandon and stare down at the papers, it’s right there. My name. My consent. My choice.
“Congratulations,” Brandon says happily, shuffling the papers together neatly before placing them back in the folder and handing them off to the woman who rushes forward to take them. “I’m so happy for the two of you. Are you having a reception or doing anything to celebrate?”
“Not today,” Knight tells him. “This was just for us. I’ll send you an invite when we decide to celebrate with our friends and family. Right now, though—”
Brandon’s slow smile and twinkling eyes tell me he knows exactly what Knight wants to do right now, and it’s not small talk and party plans.
Holding his hands up, he shakes his head.
“Don’t worry. I can see we’re outstaying our welcome.
We should file all these papers and make this all legal anyway.
But again, congratulations to you both, and I’ll look forward to that invitation.
We’ll see ourselves out,” he says, slapping Knight on the shoulder, before winking at me, standing, then striding over to his colleagues and leading the three of them back out the way they came in.
“Oh, my…” My words and chain of thought dry up as Knight lifts me up, pulls his dick out of his pants, parts my thighs, then spears me with his cock, dragging me down his length until my butt is on his lap and I’m gasping from the shock of being full of his dick.
Curling one arm around my waist, he uses his grip on me to slide me up and down his dick, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing fast and frantic as he fucks me, until just like he promised I would, I orgasm, screaming so loudly that if he had neighbors, they would definitely have heard.
“I can’t believe…” I pant, my forehead slick with sweat, my thighs shaking as he slowly relaxes his hold on my waist, allowing my legs to collapse and my body to slump back into his chest. “What we just did.”
“I’ve made you orgasm seven times during intercourse before now. I don’t understand why that would be unbelievable,” Knight states, barely breathing hard.
“That’s not…I mean…” I stumble over my words, my heart racing, my chest heaving up and down.
“I apologize for not having Brandon perform the entire ceremony while you were sitting on my cock, but it seemed appropriate to stand for such an auspicious occasion. I know I also promised to make you come the moment you were legally mine, but I wasn’t willing to allow Brandon or his associates to see my wife’s needy little pussy. ”
“We just…You just…I just,” I struggle to speak, embarrassed and shocked, and almost too orgasm sloppy to talk.
“Got married and had sexual intercourse. Yes,” he says so matter-of-factly that his voice sounds normal, with not a hint of him being out of breath, even though my own chest is still heaving with exertion.
“Oh my god,” I pant, suddenly dragged back to reality and the reminder that we just got married. What did we do? What did I do? “Was that all legal?” I gasp.
“Legal?” he asks, his brow furrowing slightly. “Our wedding?”
“Yes. Did we really just get married? Or was that just…I don’t know a show, or a scene to make the sex better?” I ask, unsure what I want him to tell me.
“Judge Lodge owed me a favor. Our wedding was perfectly legal. We’re married,” he states, a smile curling the sides of his lips.
“No,” I whisper.
“Mrs. Taylor.”
We got married. We got married!
Why did I say yes?
Have I completely lost my mind? Or did a part of me say yes because it’s actually what I wanted?
Has Knight’s surety convinced me that we’re as destined to be together as he believes we are?
A million questions that I know all the answers to, but refuse to admit, even to myself, swirl around my brain, poking and prodding me with the truth, but I choose to ignore them all and focus on the panic that’s vibrating through my muscles.
I shouldn’t have let myself get so deep into this fantasy.
Two days ago, before he knocked on my door, I was lonely, miserable, and punishing myself for being stupid enough to get sucked back into Abel’s manipulations.
Now I’m married to a man I don’t know, just because he has a great dick and the kind of confidence that makes you believe what he believes, simply because of his sheer force of will.
Maybe I really am as insane and weak-minded as I’ve proven myself to be, because there literally isn’t another single reason to explain away my insanity.
“Or maybe being with him feels so right that you took a chance,” the tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers.
Parting my lips, I start to speak, but he interrupts.
“I promised you days of gratification,” he says, his tone still calm, but with a hint of something else that makes me want to turn and look at his face to see if I can figure out what it is.
Like he’s heard my thoughts, he lifts me off his cock, spins me around, then pushes his hard dick back inside of me with us face-to-face.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he orders, and I do what he says, because even though I feel like I should argue, or leave, or run away from this crazy situation I’ve found myself in, my heart is still beating in time with his, and that has to mean something…right?
I don’t know if he can read my thoughts, or sense my indecision, because he stands up in one fluid motion, supporting my weight with his hands under my butt and walks us across the patio and into the house with his cock still inside of me.
The movement is a delicious agony that’s loud and wonderful enough to drown out the arguing voices in my head.
By the time we step into the bedroom, all I can think about is how good his dick feels inside of me, and how close I am to screaming and coming all over it.