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Amalie slumps forward, still shuddering with pleasure as I fill her with my cum, the pleasure dizzying. She feels so fucking good, so perfect, and my hand slides out of her hair to grip the back of her neck as I thrust my hips against her once more, groaning as I fuck my cum as deeply into her as I can.
“If you keep complaining,” I whisper in her ear as I slide free, feeling the hot drip of my cum leaking from her overfull pussy as I do, “I’ll make sure that you’re like this before you put your wedding dress on, too. Think about if that’s what you want,cara mia. To walk down the aisle dripping cum. I’ll be happy to oblige.”
Gently, I tug her panties back into place, lightly patting her folds as I do. She lets out a humiliated whimper even as she arches back into my touch, and I chuckle, taking a step back as I tuck myself away.
“Fix yourself up,” I tell her as I reach for the doorknob. “You look like a mess.”
She gives me a tearful glare from over her shoulder, still gripping the edge of the counter. “I hate you,” she whispers, and I laugh.
“Fortunately for you,” I tell her calmly, “feeling otherwise isn’t a requirement for marriage in our world. In fact—it doesn’t matter how you feel. Not even a little, Amalie. You should get used to that sooner, rather than later.”
As I step out and close the door, I think I hear her let out a small sob. It tugs at something deep within my chest, something I’ve tried very hard to keep locked up tightly.
And if I know what’s good for us both, I’ll keep it that way.
15
AMALIE
I’d half-hoped my mother wouldn’t make the trip for my wedding day, but I should have known better. This is her crowning achievement—her success in marrying me off despite everything—and there’s no way she would miss it. She’s in my hotel room bright and early, opening the door with a keycard that I didn’t give her, throwing the curtains open as I press one hand to my face and groan.
“Get up, Amalie! We have a few hours before you need to be at the church, and everything needs to beperfect.”
My only consolation in all of this is that if my mother is here, at least David won’t be able to come in here and make good on his threat to leave me full of his cum for my walk down the aisle. My face burns every time I think about the humiliation of last night, sitting on the couch next to him with that wetness between my thighs, reminding me of his control over me. Not just to leave me like that—but to do it and make meenjoyit. I don’t want it to feel as good as it does, but every time he fucks me, it feels like I come harder than I ever have before. It feels incredible, and a part of me thinks that itishow much I hate him, how much he embarrasses and shames me. I think I get off on it, and that makes me hate him even more.
It’s a never-ending cycle—one that I know I’m partially trapped in of my own volition.
Room service is sent up—pointedly, only a fruit cup and cottage cheese for me, and plain orange juice instead of a mimosa. It was hard to get out of drinks last night at David’s parents’ house—I begged off of the port that they served with dessert, telling them I’d recently had the flu and that my stomach was still sensitive. His mother had sparkling apple juice brought up for me instead, but I saw the sideways look David gave me. I don’t think he suspected, exactly—I would have heard about it from him if he had—but I think that he assumed I was just being purposefully difficult.
I don’t care,I tell myself as I unwrap the lingerie that I bought on the pre-wedding shopping trip—or rather, that my mother insisted I get and I reluctantly chose. It’s pretty enough—a pair of white lace cheeky-cut panties with a small satin bow in the back and satin ribbon bisecting the lace in the front, and a smooth white silk bustier to give me a little extra support under my wedding dress…not that I really need it. I leave it on the bathroom counter as I shower, lingering a little bit too long under the hot water, my hair tied up to keep it out of the way. I was informed last night that there would be a professional hair stylist and makeup artist coming to get me ready—courtesy of David’s mother’s planning—and god forbid I do anything to my hair before then.
I know I’m supposed to be grateful for all of this—for all of the lengths that have been gone to in order to make this a lavish wedding, when my family has fallen so far. But I don’t trust it. I think there’s some ulterior motive as to whySignoreCarravella agreed to my mother’s pitch to have me marry his son. It infuriates me that no one has consulted me or discussed any of it with me. I feel confident that even David knows more than I do—that everyone expects me to just be a pretty porcelain doll, dressed up and marched down the aisle, and then laid down on her back with her legs spread until a baby comes of it.
Which will be sooner than he realizes,I think darkly as I finally get out of the shower and dry off, slipping on the lingerie and throwing a robe over it all.
The stylists are already in the room when I step out. My mother gives me a pointed look that clearly says I took too long in the shower, as I’m maneuvered and plopped down in front of the vanity mirror while two sets of hands pluck and primp and curl and paint until I’m the very picture of the catalog-perfect bride on her wedding day. Soft, airbrushed makeup that covers up my light freckles without really looking as if I’m wearing anything at all, a light rose stain on my lips, my hair artfully curled and pinned up with pearl pins into a chignon that will come tumbling down with just a few quick tugs here and there, a couple of pieces left loose around my face. My mother drifts over to the closet, getting my wedding dress out, and I shrug off the robe as I go to meet her in front of the other, full-length mirror.
It all feels a little like a dream, much like that afternoon when David turned out to be the man my mother wanted me to meet. A dream that, no matter how I try, I can’t wake up from.
I step into the dress, standing there mutely while my mother buttons it up, hooking the strand of pearls around my neck and sliding a vintage comb into my hair to hold the veil as she arranges it around my shoulders, finally draping it over my face. I look every bit like the doll that I feel like. I look exquisite—and I look miserable.
“Try to put a smile on your face,” my mother snaps irritably. “You’re acting as if you’re going to your death, not simply marrying the sort of man that you were always meant to marry. This is yourbirthright, Amalie, and it’s the only one you have left, since your father ruined the rest.”
I feel my eyes well with tears a little, at that. It’s not that I miss my father being here today—we were never very close, and he was never the kind of man that anyone could get closeto. But it’s a reminder of how thoroughly our family has fallen that no one other than my mother is here today. I’ve never particularlylikedmy family—but she’s all I have left.
“Don’t forget how lucky you are,” she chides me once more as the car pulls up in front of the church. “You’re fortunate that David Carravella wants you as his bride. Don’t ruin this.”
“I’ll do my best.” I can’t keep the hint of sarcasm out of my voice as I slide out of the car, the heavy silk skirt pooling around my feet as my mother hands me my bouquet. The wide doors of the church open up, and I hear the strains of music as I walk inside. It should calm me, but it only frays my nerves even more.
When the second set of doors open and I see David standing at the end of the aisle, my stomach twists in a way that makes me wonder if I’m going to make it down the aisle without puking. My pregnancy nausea seems to have lightly abated the last few days—as long as I’ve stuck to a few “safe” foods, I’ve mostly been able to keep them down. But the anxiety that floods me as I start my slow walk down the aisle makes me wonder if I’m going to ruin that streak today.
It feels very lonely. I haven’t spoken to Claire since my mother took my phone, and I have no idea if she’s made any effort to contact me, or simply gave me up as a lost cause. I don’t have any bridesmaids, and there’s no comfort from my mother walking with me down the aisle. Nor is there any comfort from David taking my hand as she turns me over to him, my stomach sinking all over again as I see the expressionless look on his face.
There’s no feeling in his voice as he recites his vows. My voice quivers as I repeat mine, but I make it through, trying to breathe as he slides the matching band onto my finger alongside the grey and white diamond ring that he chose for me. He doesn’t move as I slide his onto his finger—he might as well be a statue, unmoving, unfeeling, repeating only what he has to. And when the priest tells him that he can kiss his bride, he barely touches my waist, his mouth ghosting over mine the way it did the evening that the engagement contract was signed.
There’s no hint of the man I met in Ibiza. No hint of the man who violently fucked me over the counter at his parents’ mansion. I wouldn’t recognize him if I couldn’t see, right in front of me, that it’s the same man.
And now this capricious, mercurial man is my husband.
