I stand, and he bounces up as well, puppy-like. I hold out a hand, and he puts his into mine—his left hand, the ring snug around his finger. “Come on, then.” I pull him with me out of the dining room, up the narrow staircase and into the bedroom.
He slept last night in the adjacent room like I ordered, and that one’s a nicer room than anything I’ve ever slept in, but really he belongs here in the master suite, among the pinnacle of luxury that the room displays. But he doesn’t even notice how beautifully appointed everything is, as though he simplyexpectsbeauty and comfort and opulence.
It’s his birthright, after all.
He doesn’t look around. He only looks at me, pausing in the middle of the room, head tilted down slightly, deferentially, almost mocking but not quite. “Take off your clothes,” I tell him, and he obeys, stripping down with the casual air of someone to whom clothes are a decoration rather than a necessity. I stay at the door, leaning against it, watching as his delights are uncovered.
God. My memory didnotdo him justice. I drink in the sight of him, tan and golden all over, cock pert and pink and inviting, pretty nipples that are already tightening up. He’s more muscular than he was back then, well-defined but tasteful. Nothing about this man would ever—couldever—be vulgar. The bleached hair is afuck you, not afaux pas.
“Go and prepare yourself,” I say lazily, flicking my head towards the master bathroom. He bolts like he’s being chased by a hellhound, and I lean back against the door, close my eyes, and breathe out slowly.
But by the time he comes back, pristine and nude, I’m still hard. He licks his lips as he watches me. “Now you,” he says. “Undress for me. Please?”
It’s the addedpleasethat makes me give in, and I take off my clothes slowly, letting his eyes wander wherever they will, getting wider and wider the more clothes I remove.
“What’s that?” he asks suddenly.
Shit. In all the excitement I completely forgot: I meant to hide my tattoo from him. It will only complicate things.
“It’s nothing. I only got it to hide the scar you left me with.”
He’s turning me around, leaning back to study the damn tattoo on my upper arm.
“Doesn’t look like you’re hiding it. More like you’re celebrating it.” He traces a finger across the scar. “What’s this?” He taps at my skin, delight lighting up his face.
“It’s a bird,” I say flatly.
“Hm. Looks tomelike a—wait, what do they call that kind of bird? Let me see…” He takes his finger off me and taps his bottom lip, a parody of thinking. “Oh,that’sright. It’s afinch, isn’t it?”
It was probably foolish to ever let him see the tattoo: a wispy finch poised on the raised, jagged scar as though it’s a branch. But at least it’s out in the open now. Frank is the only one who’s ever guessed at its meaning, but still said nothing when I got it years ago. Didn’t even waggle those damn eyebrows. I could see in his eyes he knew what it meant, though.
Now the very man I got it in remembrance of is gazing into my face, his own bright and knowing.
“Don’t make too much of it,” I warn him.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re just an avian enthusiast,” he says, but his voice is like velvet, not iron. He’s not going to push it, not going to make me say it.
I cup his face in my hands. “Forget the ink. Are you ready for me?”
He swallows. “I’ve been ready for five fuckin’ years, honey. Let’s do this.”
We tumble onto the bed. I want to be careful, but Finch throws caution to the wind, urging me to hold him down even while he fights back. He likes the fight; it gets him horny. It does the same for me, so I spend some time wrestling with him like he wants.
“Fuck me hard, when you do it,” he begs. “This is our wedding night, after all, since you bailed on me the last two nights.”
I have him pressed down on the bed underneath me, my hands hard around his wrists, and my legs wound around his, frog-like, so the only way he can move is by thrusting his hips up at me. That, of course, is exactly what he’s doing.
“I hope you packed condoms,” I say. “Because I didn’t.” I really didn’t think we’d end up like this, didn’t even have it as a contingency plan.
“No rubbers,” he pleads. “I’m clean. I wantyouin me, nothing between us.Please.”
Heisclean. I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes. With Tino’s connections, I had Finch’s biographical details and medical records provided for my reading pleasure. He has a lot of problems, mostly stemming from seeing his mother shot dead right next to him at an impressionable age, but heisSTD-free.
As for me, I’m meticulous in my testing regime and I’ve never fucked anyone bare. I’m too cautious. But tonight, it seems, I’ve lost my head over Finch, this charming, manipulative, incandescent husband of mine. His body glows bronze even in the low downlights of the bedroom. He’s almost ochre; the sun’s burnished him where it just burns me. How does an Irish kid get this gorgeous tan? Maybe I should take some tanning tips from him.
I take so long just looking him over that he bucks again, his long, slender cock thrusting into my own, and I love how he makes me look like such a brute in comparison. I’m pretty sure he loves it too.
“It’s our honeymoon,” he whimpers. “Can’t we just do whatwewant for now? When we get back…” He trails off, but I hear the unsaid words. When we get back, everything will be different. He’s going to find out just how much his freedoms have been curtailed, andmytime will no longer be my own. My decisions will be informed, shaped, commanded by others.
