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But the mirror doesn’t break. And neither does Deirdre. She bucks against me, driving her hips against mine in frantic jerks. She climaxes quick and fucking hard, milking me with spastic contractions until I can’t think, can’t stop, can’t do anything but fuck her and fuck her and fuck her before I come with a ragged cry.
Deirdre sags back against the mirror, fogging its surface with her body heat and the fine mist of perspiration on her skin. Still buried in that sweet cunt, still spurting, still spilling everything I have inside her, I taste that sweat for myself. I give the side of her neck an open-mouthed kiss, relishing the velvet of her skin, smelling sex and perfume and Deirdre.
I don’t want to pull out. I don’t want to leave her, even if it’s only for the short while left until she walks down the aisle to me.
“Elio,” Deirdre pants, “The time. I’m still not ready. I have to fix my hair. And the veil…”
“I know.”
I slide myself out of her slowly, relishing every inch of that wet channel until I’m all the way out. I tuck myself back inside my clothing as Deirdre fixes her panties. She stops, then looks around with dismay.
“What is it?”
“I need a tissue or something. It’s so wet.”
“Good. I want part of me still on you, still in you, the moment we get married.”
I lift her off the desk and set her on her feet, kneeling for a brief moment to lay her skirt nicely before I stand again.
She smooths her slender fingers over the beaded fabric, almost obsessively, as if she’s worried someone will see a rogue wrinkle and know what we’ve just done.
“I can’t believe the today is actually here,” she remarks into the silence.
“Is it the wedding part you can’t believe?” I ask. “Or the groom?”
She looks up at me questioningly.
“What do you mean? Is there a difference?”
“Sure,” I reply. “Don’t tell me you never imagined getting married before.”
“Well, I suppose, but…”
“But not to someone like me.”
She doesn’t answer, so I go on.
“Probably to some snivelling little prat like Brian. Not that he’d be able to fuck you the way I just did. Considering what I did to him.”
Deirdre goes very still. Her freckles look suddenly darker. But they’re not. The rest of her has just gotten paler.
“What do you mean?” she asks. “What do you mean, what you did to him?” She presses a hand to her belly and bends over slightly, like she thinks she might be sick. “Did… Did you kill him?”
“No,” I tell her, and she relaxes a little, only to tense right back up when I add, “I shot his fucking dick off.”
“What?! When?”
“That’s what I was doing up north when I was gone. Took him to one of our warehouses up there. You don’t have to look at me like that. Alexei took him to a doctor afterwards. I let the little shit live. Just for you.”
“You,” she croaks, grasping at the edge of the table we just fucked on for support, “you abducted my ex-boyfriend. Disfigured him. Because of me. And then you came back on the anniversary of my mom’s death and took my virginity.”
“Yes.”
She leans over and clutches at the table for another moment, breathing heavily, before she stands up, her spine so straight I could use it as a fucking level. Her voice, when she speaks, is flat and grim.
“There’s an old Irish tale, you know. Deirdre of the Sorrows. The story goes that Deirdre was kidnapped and forced to marry a tyrant king instead of the man she loved.”
“Clearly, I’m the kidnapping tyrant in this tale,” I scoff. “But are you telling me there’s actually some other man out there you’d rather have?”
