Henry reached between her silk-shimmering legs to check the strap one last
time. The new leather was a bit stiff, but Rebecca had begged most
charmingly to wear white.
Yeah, right. And Chastity’s a raving dyke, and sweet Virginia was last seen
dropping reds, greens and blues on Sir Mick’s shit-encrusted shoes.
His fingers danced up her groin to what little remained of her waist. Such
strong bones. Those Victorians sure could corset. He wondered which guests
would notice the bride never sat down.
But she certainly could kneel. Now.
As organs swelled before the processional, he reached into his pocket and
caressed the pair of gold rings he had borrowed from the best man. Another
protocol breach. But his dearly beloved had no need for shiny baubles or
compressed carbon. Not with his name tattooed above her pussy.
Rebecca had read something about Viagra having a similar effect on women.
Like she needed more encouragement. But it would take at least another 30
minutes before they found out for sure. Which should coincide nicely with “I
do,” not coincidentally the only thing she had been allowed to say in his
presence all day.
Good grief, with fists like those, her mother must moonlight as a bodyguard
for Lennox Lewis. Henry hoped the rectory door was stronger than the priests
who hid behind it.
“Coming,” he said sweetly, almost making her choke in a fit of giggles.
###
Copyright (c) 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do not
repost nor repurpose without permission.
AdrianHunter.com
Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard, including
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