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People die in wars. They die in horrible ways.
Do I really want to live knowing that my childish act of rebellion got dozens, maybe hundreds, of men killed?
Of course not.
Remember what Mom said about this being the price we mafia brides must pay in return for our privilege. The men pay a price too—they’re the ones who die in wars, who risk taking a bullet while working the streets and bringing in the cash that pays for the Maseratis and the mansions, the vineyards and the vacations, private tutors and personal trainers. Be grateful, not grumpy.
Besides, maybe Zedd is right, I think as I stare at the ceiling and absentmindedly play with my nipples. Maybe what I’m feeling is that last desperate gasp to live a little before I die a slow death in a loveless arranged marriage. Maybe I just want to live out my fantasy before I’m resigned to a lifetime of starfish sex and producing Ralph Romero’s ugly babies.
“Except I don’t want to produce Ralph’s babies,” I pout while pinching my nipples so hard they hurt. “I want to feel Zedd’s seed growing in my womb.”
The thought sends a surprised tingle through the center-line of my body. All these years I’ve fantasized about Zedd taking me in every hole, in every position, hard and rough, deep and dirty. But it’s always been about the raw sex, not so much about what comes after.
Has something changed?
Why am I suddenly imagining more than just animal sex with Zedd?
Why am I imaginingeverythingmore with Zedd?
Imagining forever with him.
“It’s because he said he loves me,” I whisper. “Said it in a way that felt so real it can’t be a lie. I know it. My . . . my pussy knows it.”
I rub my mouth absentmindedly. The smell of Zedd’s semen rushes into my nostrils, and my pussy clenches and releases a sudden flood of wetness, like it’s agreeing with my answer.
“Does my pussy point true north just like a man’s cock?” I wonder out loud as I raise my dress and slide two fingers down the front of my panties. “Is it telling me it wants Zedd’s seed?”
The thought of my pussy being a living breathing creature with a mind of its own makes me giggle, then sigh as my fingers settle in the familiar position, thumb on my clit, two fingers on either side of my slit, careful not to slide too far inside lest I break that seal of quality, the holy wrapper that certifies a woman isn’t a whore, that your sweetheart isn’t a slut, that your fiancée didn’t just get fisted and fucked by the groomsmen and ushers before walking down the aisle in her virgin-white gown.
I’m giggling and gasping now, my eyes closed as soaring arousal takes the edge off my disappointment. I come quickly, my pump still primed from the violent way Zedd slapped my pussy three times before rubbing me to climax out in the open.
But although my body relaxes after the fresh release, my mind still spins with the chaotic mix of today’s whirlwind of ecstasy and emotion, of something ending before it had really begun, a door closing before I even realized it had been open.
I turn on my side and stare forlornly out the large windows overlooking Manhattan’s towers of steel and glass shimmering in the twilight. I stayed at the tennis center all day, hoping that Zedd would show up again, my eyes feverishly scanning the crowd in search of his stealthy gaze, his shadowy frame, his stalker game.
But it was game over when the sun set and the last match ended and it was time to head back to the hotel. I’m considering staying the rest of the weekend, but I don’t think I can stand the idea of spending another day anxiously hoping Zedd is going to show up again.
He was right, of course. Going any further would be dumb. And he loves me enough to decide for the both of us.
So I make a mature, sensible decision too.
I grab my phone, change my plane ticket to leave first thing in the morning from La Guardia Airport.
The decision settles me somewhat. Takes away any hope of seeing Zedd again. I’ll be married before the thirteenth of next month, which means I’ll be gone before Zedd’s next meeting with Father. No way Zedd will be at the wedding, of course.
And no way Zedd is getting into this hotel room.
Not with my maid playing chaperone in the next room.
And two armed thugs outside in the hallway, watching for a thief sneaking in to steal the princess’s precious cherry.
The ridiculousness of it all makes me snort out a laugh. I wonder if all those fairy tales where pirates search for treasure and knights slay dragons are all just metaphors for man’s eternal quest for virgin pussy.
“Sure, let’s go with that,” I sigh to myself as nightfall settles over Manhattan and I pull my dress down over my treasure, my dragon-fire, my sacred cherry which tempts and torments the dreams of princes and paupers, knights and knaves, kings and assassins.
8
ZEDD
