TAVIAN

08.20.15

“Are you nervous?” Lyra leans in her chair and asks me in a whisper, her face still glowing from the exhilaration of saying “I do” less than an hour ago.

With a chuckle, I grab her fidgety hands and hold them still in mine. “Not really, and you don’t need to be either,” I assure her. “Bruce said it’ll take less than ten minutes from start to finish for what we want. Even if it hurts a bit, you can grin and bear it for that long.”

“I’m not sure there’s gonna be much grinning.” She eyes me warily and then glances at Bruce, the grizzly, inked-up bald guy who is setting up his station for the tattoos we’re both about to get on our left ring fingers. “But I guess I can handle ten minutes of hundreds of tiny needle jabs in my skin for this. I’ll just try to think happy thoughts, like rainbows and tropical beaches and—”

“And all the naughty things your husband has planned for you later tonight?” I interject with an arrogant smirk, hoping to get her mind off the looming possibility of pain.

Honestly, with as fast as we threw this trip and wedding together, I didn’t have the forethought to plan anything special for our wedding night other than to worship every last inch of her sexy-as-hell body and then fuck her until we both come so hard we pass out, but I can improvise with a bucket of ice, a makeshift blindfold, and other things around the hotel suite.

Luckily, my idea works and the worry creasing her forehead dissipates as her mouth quirks up in an impish grin and her eyes glaze with lust. “Speaking of,” she murmurs softly while opening the small white purse resting on her lap atop the lace of her wedding dress. “I have something for you.”

Confused over what she could be talking about—we already agreed no wedding gifts for each other—I cock my head to the side as my gaze follows the movement of her hands. Her fingers disappear momentarily into the clutch and then reappear fisting a scrap of white silk. After ensuring the other few people in the waiting area are paying us no mind, she reaches out and stuffs the flimsy material into my hands then presses her lips to mine in a chaste kiss. “You’re not the only one with naughty things planned.”

Wicked, wanton thoughts swirl wildly in my head when I look down and see her panties wadded up in my palm. I cough to hide the feral growl rumbling in my chest as my cock swells beneath my black suit pants, eager to speed up tonight’s schedule of events. It appears I may need to step my game up.

“I’m impressed, Mrs. West,” I rasp under my breath so only she can hear me, as I shove the thong into my pocket, even though I want nothing more than to hold it up to my face and inhale her intoxicating scent like a fucking pervert. “And rest assured, if I hadn’t already paid for these tattoos, I’d be hauling your ass out of here and to the closest possible place where I could bend you over, push that dress up around your waist, and bury my cock inside you.”

Her chest expands as she hisses in a sharp breath and clenches her thighs together. I love how my words alone physically affect her. It makes me want to confess all the dirty fantasies I’ve ever had about her, simply to watch pink blotches spread across her creamy skin and her pulse race in her neck.

“Okay, lovebirds, I’m ready for you,” Bruce calls out, his gruff voice slicing through the rapidly intensifying bubble of sexual tension surrounding Lyra and me. “Let’s get this done before you consummate your marriage in my waiting room and the Health Department fines me for unsanitary conditions.”

Snickering at his good-natured dig, I stand up from the uncomfortable plastic chair and pull a hesitant Lyra along with me. Her cheeks are painted cherry red and her eyes are wide, mortification in every language she speaks written across her face. I fucking love how innocent and naïve she is; it does shit to me inside that I can’t even explain. The instinct I feel to protect her is rivaled only by my overwhelming desire to corrupt her.

“C’mon, babe, he’s just teasing.” I laugh and hook my arm around her shoulder, hauling her to my side. “You need to get excited. We’re each about to scratch off another item on our list. After this, we’ll both have two completed in less than a week.”

She relaxes against my body and flashes me a genuine smile. “Always the overachiever.”

“When it comes to you, Buttercup”—I kiss the top of her head—“abso-fucking-lutely.”

Not waiting for her to reply, I move us forward to the waiting Bruce, who is watching us with an amused look on his face that has so many piercings he looks a bit like a voodoo doll. Lyra drags her feet with uncertainty for the first couple of steps, but about halfway across the linoleum floor, I feel her determination kick in and she ends up getting to the chair before I do.

“You going first, young lady? Gonna show your man here how it’s done?” Bruce jokes and offers her a warm smile.

Lyra’s rigid posture visibly relaxes as she nods and giggles nervously. “I guess. I really just want to do it before I chicken out.”

I take my place standing off to the side, far enough to not get in the way but close enough to be there if Lyra needs me. It’s intriguing to watch her talk to people now, the awkwardness and apprehension from when we first met almost completely gone. She has no idea the effect she has on others, especially men, and I plan to keep it that way.

“What do you think, Tavian?” Lyra asks, holding her left hand up to show me a stencil of the tattoo on her ring finger. “Good size or bigger?”

I step closer and intently examine the six-digit number—07.06.15—the day the universe conspired for us to meet, throwing us together in the midst of chaos so, together, we could each find our calm. Numbers more important than any others.

“It’s perfect,” I confirm with an affirmative nod.

She beams with happiness and twists back around to face Bruce, resting her hand on the table in front of her. “Let’s do it.”

I watch intently as he dips the needles into the ink and then meticulously traces the temporary pattern, stopping every few seconds to wipe away the excess black liquid and tiny droplets of blood. The noisy buzz of the machine is daunting at first, but after a minute or two, it begins to fade into the background and almost becomes lulling in its tedium.

Bruce engages in small talk with Lyra while he works, asking questions about the wedding and where we’re from, keeping her mind and mouth busy from focusing on any discomfort he’s inflicting. His friendly personality is a sharp contrast to his menacing, unapproachable outer appearance, and I find myself wishing I could see his numbers, hoping he’s going to be around a long time to pleasantly surprise more people who come in here.

As promised, Bruce finishes Lyra’s tattoo in about five minutes, and after he cleans it up and tells her to check it out, she turns and extends her arm in my direction with a giddy smile stretching across her face.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” she announces proudly, wiggling the slightly red and swollen finger that is now forever marked with a reminder of our love.

Grinning proudly, I cautiously take her hand in mine, not sure if it’s sore or not, and lift her knuckles to my mouth for a tender kiss. “Your love is my anchor. Your trust is my strength. And I will give you all of me from now until the end of eternity,” I finish the vow we chose before we decided to forego the traditional wedding band exchange and get the tattoos instead.

I’m well aware I may sound like a pussy-whipped bitch, but I give exactly zero fucks what anyone thinks except for the woman in front of me. And with the way she’s looking at me right now, like I hung every damn star in her universe, I may start quoting Shakespeare here in a minute to keep that sparkle in her big blue eyes.

“Ditto, Mr. West,” she says as she pushes up out of the chair and closes the gap between us. Lifting up on her tiptoes, she presses her soft lips to the corner of my mouth then taps her hand on the bulge in my pocket caused from her panties. “To Jupiter and back.”

By the time I take her place in the seat, I’m floating on cloud fucking nine as the adrenaline and endorphins flood my bloodstream. Between marrying Lyra, the anticipation of getting the tattoo, and knowing my wife’s pussy is bare underneath that short, slinky white dress, I’m teetering on the edge of control with all my senses heightened and energized.

Again, Bruce instigates conversation as he goes to work on replicating the same simple design on my finger. Always polite and friendly, I chat back for a bit while I watch him repeat the same process he did with Lyra. The pain, if you really want to call it that, is minimal and more of an annoyance than anything else, though I honestly couldn’t imagine sitting still for hours doing this. I have a newfound respect for people with sleeves and other pieces of intricate artwork on their bodies.

Once my “ring” is finished and Lyra snaps a couple of pictures of our hands together with her phone, Bruce wraps up each of our fingers with a gauze pad and plastic wrap, then explains the easy aftercare instructions. He congratulates us and wishes us a marriage as happy as his, and something about the tone of his voice when he mentions his wife sparks something inside of me.

“How many years have you been married?” I ask as we get ready to leave.

“Twenty-five next month,” he boasts proudly. “Three kids and one perfect grandbaby.”

Hastily sweeping my eyes around the small, off-the-strip tattoo shop, I note how clean and organized the place is despite its need for some serious updating. I don’t know much about Bruce, and I know even less about his financials, but I’m willing to bet that it takes everything he brings in to keep this place up and running, and there’s not a lot of extra for him or his family. And something about that strikes a chord inside me.

I reach inside my back pocket and retrieve my wallet to tip him, and Bruce waves his hands in front of him. “No need for anything extra, my man,” he says, taking a step back. “Go spend that money spoiling your new bride. You guys make it a night you’ll never forget.”

His refusal to take my money only makes me want to give him more. And thanks to a triple blackjack I hit on splitting three aces late last night, I’ve got a healthy amount of cash in my wallet. Thumbing through the stack, I count out twenty-five hundred-dollar bills and pull them out, determined to make him accept every last one.

“We have more than we deserve or need,” I say as I force the money into his hand. “And I promise you, neither of us will forget this night for the rest of our lives. You shouldn’t either. Take that money and go on a trip with your wife, even if it’s only for a weekend getaway. Do it before you can’t. Remind her of why you fell in love with her. I’m sure she deserves it.”

When I word it that way—like if he doesn’t take the cash, then his wife isn’t worth doing something nice like that for—I’ve put him in a spot where he only has one option.

“She does, and thank you.” There’s nothing but appreciation in his eyes as he takes the wad of money from my hand and he tips his chin at me. “If either of you are ever out here again, or if you decide before you leave that you want something else, just come see me. Free tattoos for life.”

I smile and nod, though the odds we’ll ever come back are slim. Not even if we wanted to. “I’ll remember that. And don’t forget to take lots of pictures on your trip.” I wink at Lyra, my beautiful and extremely talented photographer. “They last longer than a lifetime.”

We say one last goodbye to Bruce before leaving his shop and grabbing a cab to our hotel. Neither Lyra nor I say anything during the ride back, but the closeness I feel to her is indescribable. She is a part of me as much as I am a part of her—physically and emotionally.

After paying the driver, we stroll leisurely into the lobby of The Cosmopolitan, and although I have every intention of going straight up to our room and beginning the naked festivities, Lyra tugs on my hand when I move toward the elevators. “No, not yet,” she insists with a sly smile. “Let’s go to the fancy bar that looks like a chandelier and have a glass of champagne. We need to celebrate, right?”

I’m dying to get her upstairs and underneath me, but the glimmer of mischief in both her tone and eyes has my interest piqued. She’s already surprised me with the panties stunt—which I fucking loved—so I’m curious to find out what else she’s got planned. The more the anticipation grows, the more intense it will be once I finally take her as my wife for the first time.

“We most certainly do,” I concur. “Lead the way, Mrs. West.”

Thrilled I’ve agreed so effortlessly, she nearly skips through the casino and over to The Chandelier bar, looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. Being a Thursday, it’s not too crowded, so we’re able to snag a table off to the side on the second level, where the entire room is cloaked in the crystals of a giant chandelier.

Once Lyra is seated and settled, I go up to the bar and call out the simple order of two glasses of champagne to the bartender. He tips his head in acknowledgement, and while I wait for him to pour the drinks, I turn to gaze at my gorgeous wife who’s tucked away in a corner, where only someone standing near me could see her. Lyra gives me that sexy little grin again like she did earlier when she gave me her panties, and then she catches me completely off guard as she uncrosses her legs and slowly starts to spread her thighs. The farther her knees part, the more her dress rides up and comes closer to exposing her most intimate area.

Ripping my stare away from her for only a brief second, I confirm there’s no one else around me who may be getting a free show, and then turn my rapt attention back to her. The hem of the dress is now pulled taut across her hips and I have an unobstructed view of her smooth little pussy. Holy fucking shit, I’m gonna blow my load right here in public.

I throw two twenties at the bartender and grab the glass flutes, somehow not smashing them into smithereens when I snatch them from him and stomp to the table. My cock throbs and presses against my zipper, threatening to break through anything that stands in its way to get to her.

Lyra’s dress is pulled back down to a decent but teasing length on her thighs by the time I reach her, but she doesn’t even attempt to hide the fun she’s having in my frustration. “Thank you. I was getting so hot and thirsty over here.” She giggles, fanning herself as she takes the drink from me.

“It looked like it,” I grunt as I sit down across from her and pin her with my best caveman glare. “You’re about to get yourself in a lot of trouble, Buttercup.”

She swallows back nearly half her glass in one gulp, never breaking my stare. “That’s still a terrible nickname, you know. It has absolutely nothing to do with me.”

“It’s what I call you, so it has everything to do with you,” I contend and then take a long sip of my own drink. “Now, Mrs. West, do you care to enlighten me to any other requests or plans you have for tonight before I take my wife upstairs and fuck her so hard she can’t remember her own name?”

“Actually, I do.” Lyra finishes off the champagne and sets the empty glass on the table, standing up abruptly. She asks, “You have your phone and room key, right?”

I nod, both confused and curious.

“Good. I’m going up to the room, and I’ll text you when I’m ready. Don’t come before.”

Bending down, she kisses me softly and tauntingly drags her hand over my shaft before walking away without a backward glance. Her hips sway seductively as she crosses the open space, and my dick stands at attention to watch the show. I’m giving her ten minutes before I head upstairs, text or no text. A man only has so much willpower.

At the eight-minute mark, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I shoot out of my chair without even looking to see if it’s her.

I’ve waited long enough. It’s time.

The elevator seems to take forever to arrive, and then even longer to climb up to the top floor where our suite is. My hands open and close into fists as I inhale deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. I have no idea what is waiting for me, but regardless, I need to get ahold of myself before I reach her. Otherwise, this night might end before it ever begins.

When I finally make it up to our suite, I slip my keycard into the lock on the door and throw it open with such vigor it bangs loudly against the wall once the little green lights flash on. I stalk purposefully into the room with my patience waning thin, but the moment the king-sized bed comes into view, I freeze mid-stride with my jaw hanging wide open, completely captivated by the sight before me.

With her Versace dress in a white pool on the floor, Lyra is kneeling on the bed, not a stitch of clothing covering her gorgeous body, with one hand cupping a perky breast and the other between her legs. My focus bounces back and forth between watching her flick and pinch her hard nipple and her fingers sliding frantically in and out of her tight slit. She’s already so wet I can not only see the juices leaking out of her, but I can smell her arousal hanging heavy in the sticky air.

Her hungry eyes are locked and loaded on me, and the rare confidence she’s displaying is enough to bring me to my knees. My girl is turning into a little minx and I fucking love it. Even though I usually thrive on stability and control, I’m not opposed to her occasionally taking charge in the bedroom. Especially if it means I get more shows like this.

“For the official record, Tavian West from Philadelphia,” she purrs with a kittenish smirk, “I prefer when my husband has far less clothes on.”

Buttons fly across the room as the sound of fabric shredding echoes off the walls. If stripping was an Olympic sport, I would win a gold medal for how quickly I rid myself of all my clothes, from my jacket down to my shoes and socks.

The rhythm of her tantalizing fingers slows from a feverish sprint to a lazy stroll across the most sensitive parts of her body while Lyra watches me go from full groom attire to stark-ass naked in less than a handful of seconds. Her roaming gaze lands on my rock-hard cock jutting straight out toward her, and with a muffled moan, she snakes her tongue across her pouty bottom lip as three fingers disappear inside her.

And that’s when my restraint snaps.

It’s time to show my wife just how naughty I can be.