Chapter 15
Sabrina stands in the bathroom, her back to the mirror with a guilty expression on her usually pure face.
“What is it?” I don’t have time for shit today. We have a plane to catch in eleven hours and a mountain of work to finish before then.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I was after a little privacy.”
Interesting move. Privacy? For what? From whom? “Are you doing something you shouldn’t be?”
“No, sir.” Her reply is authoritative. She’s hiding something. Her posture belies her words. My pinky finger scoops the hem of her dress when my palms vice her thighs.
“No?” She blanches, turning her head away. Is she… embarrassed?
“I’m still bleeding. Since the shot, I’ve been irregular. I’m sure you don’t want to—”
“I want you. I don’t care when or where.”
“But the blood. It’s going to be messy and—” The column of her throat vibrates as she talks. My dick, already hard and aching to be inside her, swells further.
“Multiple orifices mean multiple options. Women are complex creatures, yes?”
“Um… yes. Sure, we are.” She nibbles on her bottom lip. Adorable.
I spin her to face the mirror and press my body against the vibrating heat of her back. Trailing a fingertip up the back of her thigh, past the crease at the base of her buttocks, I inhale her. “Tell me, has anyone had you… here?”
“Not yet,” she says so quietly I almost miss it.
“Hmmmm,” I hum into her arched neck. “I get to be the first.” Sliding her underwear down, I admire the way her round ass invites me to make it my own. She’s pert and tight, temptation personified.
“Take this off,” I demand, pulling the zipper of her dress down and watching her step out of it. Standing in a lace demi-cup bra. She is a vision. My hands move to her mouth, prying her lips open with each thumb. “Suck.”
Bri obeys, swirling her sinful tongue around my thumbs and hollowing her cheeks to allow me deeper access to her throat. Holy shit, she is a vixen. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, determined and driven. “Get them nice and wet. I want them dripping.”
Pulling my hands away, I ease her feet apart and bend her over the counter. My fingertips draw a path down her pebbled flesh, and between the crack of those plump rounds. I stroke around her puckered hole before easing a digit inside, stretching and probing.
“Oh, that feels so…”
“Good?”
“I was going to say full. Or foreign.”
“Full, yes. Foreign? No, there is nothing foreign about anal sex, Sabrina. I want all of you. Your mouth and pussy are mine. Your puckered asshole will be owned by my thick dick too.”
The opposite thumb joins the first, probing, stroking, and easing her tight ring of muscle open. Bri lets out a delicious moan that has my balls ready to implode.
“Lube,” I breathe. “Second drawer on the right.”
Bri’s trembling hand reaches for the second drawer. She pulls it open and fumbles around until she locates the silver tube with the black lid. I take it from her hand, continuing to probe her with the other thumb.
“I have a tampon in. Is that okay?”
“It is. When did you insert it?”
“About ten minutes before you walked in here.”
That’s perfect. It’s still dry enough to offer the resistance needed to offset my cock in her ass. It will be a full, almost overpowering feeling, but one I hope she enjoys. I love anal sex, and introducing Sabrina to it makes me proud and impatient. “Just relax, Bri,” I encourage.
I coat my shaft in a generous amount of cool lube, using a hand to glide another squirt around, and inside her hole. Her hands vice the countertop while her head hangs between her shoulders. She is nervous. As she should be. I’m not an average man.
I spread her cheeks apart, meeting her in the mirror when her head lifts. “That’s perfect. Eyes on me while I fuck this virgin ass.” My head nestles at her opening, gentle hip thrusts guiding it inside her and allowing her time to accommodate my girth.
“Oh, fuck!”
“Shhh, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Nice and slow early on, okay?”
She nods, lost to the pleasure and sensation. My finger finds her clit and rubs firm circles, allowing her to open more. “That’s it,” I praise. “You are doing so well taking my huge cock.”
Bri nods, a hint of moisture pooling on her lashes. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. It’s just—”
“Just what?” I bite her earlobe just shy of her pain point.
“It’s… incredible!” she gasps.
Knowing she’s not in any discomfort, I pick up the pace, and Bri pushes that glorious ass back to meet every thrust. Her head wants to drop, her body overcome with new, pleasurable sensations.
Our syncopated moaning and thrusting is the most beautiful sonata.
“Keep those pretty eyes on me while I’m fucking you. ”
Her head snaps up. “Yes, sir.”
Cupping her hip in one hand, I pinch her clit with the other. She moans again, long and low. This new octave is one I could get used to. I pump faster, sending her toward the countertop with each deep, penetrative thrust. She feels so damn good. Too good.
“You’re right there, I can feel you clenching.”
Bri nods, lost for words entirely. Her mouth gapes open, but she continues to hold my gaze per instructions. “Good fucking girl. Are you going to come for me?”
She had fucking better. I’m so close. It’s a razor's edge.
Right as she begins to convulse, I loop a finger into the tampon string and pull hard.
My next thrust has me spilling ropes of hot cum into her virgin ass while her pussy clenches on nothing, the temporary plug now in the sink.
Her walls continue to spasm, drawing more out of me until my heavy balls are empty once more.
Bri collapses onto the counter, her head resting on her folded arms. I crowd her back, the droplets of our combined perspiration intermingling on her flushed skin.
Her ribcage rises and falls quickly, echoing her heartbeat thrumming along a vein in her neck.
I kiss a path under her earlobe before turning her jaw to meet mine.
“That was exceptional, Ms. Broe. Your ass is as delicious as I dreamed it would be.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs, a blush rising along her chest and neck.
Standing tall, I smack her ass cheek playfully to snap her out of her dick-drunk stupor.
“Shower, and then we can get some work done.”
A gentle wind ruffles only the tips of her curled hair and the hem of the ivory dress as she walks barefoot down the sandy aisle toward the turquoise water bordered by the corals and pinks of the diminishing sun.
With her soft hand in my larger, warmer one, she giggles at the footprints left by my bare feet under rolled-up chalky chinos.
We are some of the last guests to take our seats at the Kruger nuptials, also known as the White wedding of the century.
The rhythmic whop whop whop of hovering helicopter blades from the other side of the island has several guests glaring in my direction.
I hate helicopters. My hands fly up in silent protest; they’re not my media.
The last thing I want is pictures of Bri and me nestled among the grainy telephoto shots of the bride and groom.
Pictures that will end up being retouched and perfected anyway, but still.
When Helen divulged the strict dress code, I requested she repeat herself, convinced I was in the first stages of early-onset hearing loss.
White on white? Who the fuck has every guest wearing white?
The whole “bride in white” vibe I understand, but every guest?
Every single one? It’s for aesthetically pleasing photographs, Trystan clarified, while confirming he would be nowhere near the nuptials.
I must say, glancing over the rattan chairs and mass of flowers, the scene is beautiful.
The white and ivory seem to rise from the pale shrimp-colored sands, every one of us a moving extension of the grains.
The water is a deeper shade of Bri’s irises now that the sun is sinking, with fingers of inky navy further offshore in gentle crests.
These pictures will be spectacular, I muse as the couple meet at the shoreline, gazing at each other.
Too bad I’ll never get married and never, ever have children.
“Cal looks so handsome with his bride. Seeing him in the flesh makes me realize how similar his features are to yours! Do you two ever get compared to Cal Vincent?”
“You think people compare me to a singer?”
“Looks wise? Yeah, I do. Same height, almost the same build. Same hair, I think his eyes are close to yours in shade. Only his stubble is shorter than yours. Otherwise…” She squints.
Has anyone noticed similarities between Cal Vincent and me before? Of course, they have. That Bri has only just noticed the similarities between the two of us has me silent. I won’t divulge anything unless she prods a little further. Will she?
“Oh my God, her gown! She is breathtaking,” Bri whispers, hand curled in front of her face should there be any clandestine lip-reading reporters here.
“I can totally see her on Trystan’s arm.
She looks like his type; does he have a type?
Anyway, watching your ex marry someone else would be awkward.
” The way she sings out the last word with a tiny trill at the end makes my lips turn up at both her impromptu chorus and her error.
My hand, resting under my scruff-dusted chin, slides up to cloak my own lips. “Oh, Sabrina, his ex wasn’t the bride. It was the groom.”
“You know what you’re doing, right? Shouldn’t there be a crew or someone to drive? A pilot, where’s the pilot?”
“Boats and yachts have captains or skippers. You’re looking at him.”