Chapter 17 Annabelle #2
“Let the games begin!” Pastor Dan shouted, scaring the shit out of both of us. “We’re gathered here today, under the shimmering light of this disco ball and my cousin Lizzie to celebrate the spontaneous union of—what are your names again?”
“Chelsea.”
“Um. Grant?”
“The spontaneous union of Chelsea and Grant,” he declared, holding up his laminated cue cards with flourish. “Do you, Grant, promise to try really hard not to be annoying, to always let her have the last french fry, and to pretend to watch Love Island even when the contestants suck?”
Maverick, deadass serious, looked me in the eye and slid a slim ring on my finger as he declared, “I do.”
I have no idea where the rings came from.
None at all.
“And do you, Chelsea, take Grant to be your lawfully wedded husband. Do you promise to love him, keep him, even when he loses his good looks and his muscles aren’t as firm?”
“Yes!” I remember shrieking, the makeshift veil Evy had made out of dessert-table tablecloth yanking at the back of my low bun.
Pastor Dan pumped his fist in the air before declaring, “Then by the powers invested in me, I now pronounce you wed, in the holy state of matrimony, in the great state of Washington.”
He looked so proud of himself, like he’d just officiated Harry and Meghan’s wedding with a napkin and a dream.
Maverick and I had stumbled down the pier back toward the wedding reception—the real one—where the actual bride and groom were slow-dancing under twinkle lights, blissfully unaware that two tipsy strangers had just hijacked their big day.
Someone tossed trail mix.
Someone handed us sparklers.
It was possibly the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life.
“Are we married?” Maverick says at last, after staring at my hand—and his—longer than I would love.
I give my head a shake. “I have no idea. Like—was Pastor Dan even legit?”
“Who is Pastor Dan?”
Dude. Is he being serious? “The guy who married us? The guy who married the actual bride and groom? Evy’s cousin!”
Maverick squints like I’ve recited an algebra equation in ancient Greek and he’s trying to solve it. “Wait. The guy with the karaoke mic, who kept hogging it all night? Shit.” His eyes widen. “He was a real minister? I thought that was part of the entertainment.”
“Oh my God,” I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “You thought the live wedding ceremony—featuring you—was a bit?”
“I mean. People were clapping, but at the risk of sounding arrogant, that happens to me a lot.”
Oh my God.
I hold out my hand. “Where did this ring come from?” That is the million-dollar question.
“Hold up.” He presses his fingers to his temples. “I think . . . yes. Okay. I may be totally wrong here, but—wasn’t there a jeweler at the wedding?”
“A jeweler?” Why would there be a jeweler at the wedding?
“There totally was.” He snaps his fingers. “I remember Evy’s brother Marcus saying the bride was bougie and borrowing diamonds for the ceremony—they had a whole display case of sparkly shit in one of the rooms. Necklaces, earrings, a whole tray of rings . . .”
He trails off, face morphing into appalling realization in real time.
“You think we borrowed them?” I say, dreading the answer.
“Or stole them,” he gripes matter-of-factly.
“Maverick!” I sound as horrified as I feel.
“I’m just sayin’”—he raises both palms defensively—“we were tipsy. And super jazzed about our fake wedding ceremony.”
Great. Just great.
Add thieving to our list of grievances for the prior evening—right behind trespassing, impersonating the ex-boyfriend of a cousin’s buddy’s friend’s frat brother, and drunkenly taking sacred vows in front of a licensed youth pastor.
“We need to give them back.” I clutch my hand like the ring might spontaneously combust and take me to the gates of Hell.
“To who?” Maverick asks, still blinking like a man freshly smacked in the face with a bouquet. “The jeweler? The bride? Pastor Dan?”
“I don’t know! Someone! Anyone!”
“Can’t we just have sex again?” He smiles at me. “This entire conversation is giving me a boner.”
I gape at him. “Are you being serious right now?”
Unbothered, Maverick props himself up on one elbow, grinning at me, fingers making their way to my bare chest. “You’re getting all hot and bothered, you’re naked, and we’re married. So yeah—suddenly I want to fuck again.”
My stomach flips.
His hands slide down my belly, between my legs. Thumb and forefinger begin rubbing the sensitive nub. “We’re married, and it’s giving me a hard-on, babe.” He leans in, kissing my shoulders. “Let’s fuck.”
Married.
Hard-on.
Babe.
“We’re not legally married. It’s just a ring.”
“Shhh. We can pretend.”
We can pretend.
It’s almost as if he isn’t mad or freaked out at all. It’s almost as if he’s enjoying this. Like he . . . likes it?
“Wifey—get on all fours and I’ll make you come. Then we can figure out what to do.”
Wifey. I groan. “Stop.”
“Stop looking like a honeymoon snack and I will.”
God help me, I laugh.
It bubbles in my chest despite the throbbing in my head and the existential crisis brewing in my brain. Not to mention, all this talk about being bent over and screwed from behind has me getting wet.
I roll over to my front, bending my elbows and presenting him with my ass.
He smooths his hands over the globes of my cheeks, humming contently to himself. Runs his palms over them, fingers flirting dangerously with my crack as he props himself up, kneels behind me, and lines the head of his cock with my entrance.
I swear I feel come dripping out of myself from the last time he fucked me, but the damage is already done. We’ve already had unprotected sex several times, and, for whatever reason, it seems to make us both hotter for one another.
The risk.
“All I want to do is fuck this sweet pussy, I swear to God, Annabelle . . .” he vows, pumping his hips.
I think I love you . . .
I think I love you . . .
I bow my head as he rails me, eyes locked on that ring on my finger.