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So I told Amity and Andrew yes. I said I’d take this terrible daughter off their hands. There was no need for us to meet beforehand because we weren’t going to have a “normal” marriage per se. I was going to give her my name, and a place to live, but not much else. Amy was going to exist on the edges of my awareness, and I probably wouldn’t even think of my so-called wife for weeks at a time. She was a convenience, nothing more, and part of my effort to appear “normal.” I certainly wasn’t going to let her in on my double-dicked secret, and Idefinitelywasn’t going to fuck her with my special anatomy.
So I told Amity and Andrew that I was headed to rehab, but when I got back, I’d marry their daughter. Upon hearing the news, they were overjoyed. They didn’t even care about my so-called substance abuse problem. They gasped with joy before clapping their hands with glee. When I added that their offer of payment was unnecessary, Amity literally fainted from happiness. It was as if she’d just won the lottery.
Things started to move at light-speed then. I headed off to Deux for my alleged rehab, when all I wanted to do was to fuck some sloppy, swollen pussy before getting married. When Strawberry showed up at Deux, I didn’t suspect anything. After all, how likely is it that your future arranged-marriage wife shows up at a secret island that’s kept hidden from the general human populace? But life is bizarre, and the puzzle pieces began coming together. First, it was the fact that Strawberry was a redhead. Redheads are pretty rare in our part of the world, and I knew that my future wife also had red hair.
Then, Strawberry said her name was Amy, and I was suspicious because it sounds like Amity, her mother’s name. What were the chances? I squinted at her features, and although she’s much prettier than her mother, I could see faint outlines of Amity and Andrew there. Not only that, but Straw mentioned that she was from St. George. Holy fucking shit. Immediately, I googled Amity and Andrew Ryan to try and find a picture of their daughter. It was tough. Those two assholes tried their best to scrub the internet clean of their allegedly ugly offspring, but using reverse searches, I was able to locate a childhood photo taken when Amy was ten or eleven. It was definitely Strawberry.
I was stunned because it seems that a one in a million occurrence had actually happened. My future fiancée had stumbled upon our secret island, and not only that, but she’s gorgeous. The Ryans made their daughter sound like a stumpy hobbit, but in fact, Amy’s beautiful. I adore her dimpled thighs; her lush, womanly breasts; and the sass of her mouth. I love the fact that she’s funny even when she’s in danger, and that she wasn’t afraid to stand up to herself when confronted by a community of double-dicked men.
So yes, now I’m about to marry Strawberry, and she has no idea. There’s a veil covering her pretty features as she’s escorted down the aisle, and her steps are slow and stiff, even below the huge pink-colored confection she has on. Where in the world did she find a dress like that? It looks more like a Halloween costume, or somebody’s idea of fairy princess, than an actual dress for adult women.
But it doesn’t matter because I can see how much Straw hates this. Her narrow shoulders are rigid, and I don’t blame the curvy girl. I wouldn’t want to get married to me, either. That is, if I had a choice about what was happening in my life.
Then, Amy’s next to me, and the music comes to an impressive close. Her father hands her off to me with a wink and a smirk and I have to stop myself from clocking that bastard across the face. Andrew has no idea of the treasure he’s giving away, and in fact, he literally tried to sell his only daughter to me. It’s his loss, full stop.
But I manage to twist a grimace into a smile, and take Amy’s small hand in my big one. She’s trembling, and when I inhale, I can smell her distinctive scent of cherry vanilla. Her red-gold hair is tousled beneath the opaque veil, and her big breasts heave with a combination of nerves, anxiety, and disgust, I’m sure. But then, the officiant motions for me to lift her veil, and slowly, I take the lace between my fingers. Then I lift the fabric, revealing Amy’s gorgeous features, including her plush pout, tip-tilted nose, and the delicious freckles on her rounded cheeks. Her eyes are closed, but slowly, they flutter open to stare at me.
“Drake?” she gasps in an astonished voice. “What are you doing here?”
I grin, unable to help myself.
“Hey Straw,” I drawl. “Funny to see you today. Ready to get married?”
CHAPTER 14
Amy
What in the world is going on? How the hell is Drake, of all people, standing by me at the marriage bureau? And why does he look so handsome in a grey suit, with his dark hair slicked back and those blue eyes dancing?
“Surprised?” he murmurs, squeezing my hands in his own.
My mouth snaps shut as I continue to stare.
“What the—?”
But the officiant breaks in.
“Miss Ryan, Mr. Richardson. May I begin?”
Before I can speak, Drake nods.
“You may.”
Then, the marriage ceremony starts. I hardly hear even half of it because what in the world is going on? This man is a double-shafted mutant who lives on a secret island populated by a horde of double-dicked men. He shouldn’t be here! He’s nothing but a simple fisherman, plying his trade in a mysterious lake in the middle of nowhere. Right?Right?
Even crazier, I can’t believe that this is the guy my parents said was just getting back from rehab because I know Drake wasn’t at rehab. He was on said secret island, partying with his friends while taking me DP in front of his buddies. There are no addiction issues that I know of, and in fact, Drake seems totally lucid. Oh my god, do my parents know about his special anatomy? Glancing over at Amity and Andrew, who are currently simpering off to the side, tells me no. They’re congratulating themselves on my impending nuptials, and that’s all they care about. Drake could be a criminal, a felon, a sex offender, or even a mutant. As long as I’m out of their house, that’s all that matters.
But I have to focus. I stare at Drake’s handsome features, and to my annoyance, the alpha male looks smug. Those blue eyes continue to dance as the officiant drones on, and there’s a smirk at the corner of those beautifully molded lips. He’s huge, of course, towering above my five five frame, but it doesn’t stop the rage from simmering in my chest. What the hell? He thinks this is funny? I’ll show him.
At that moment, the officiant turns towards me, his expression expectant.
“And do you, Amy Celestine Ryan, take this man, Drake Scott Richardson, as your lawfully wedded husband?”
I stare at the elderly figure, blinking like an idiot. The moment has come. They’re asking me to seal the deal of my own free will, but what they don’t realize is that I wasn’t born shy and receding. Instead, I’m a woman with a spine, and I’m going to show them what that means.
“No,” I state in a flat voice. “I don’t. I won’t be getting married today.”
Utter silence rings in the small chamber. The officiant looks stunned because this has obviously never happened before. He’s likely officiated hundreds, if not thousands of weddings, and I’m probably the first woman to flatly reject her future spouse. Meanwhile, my mom gasps while my dad starts muttering, “No, no, no” as if he’s caught in a never-ending nightmare.
