A Very Dirty Wedding (24 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Caulter

My fiancé.

My soon-to-be-wife.

Katherine Harrison.

The formerly stuck-up, too-nerdy-for-her-own-good girl from Brighton Academy who used to be the only thing about high school I'd look forward to every day.  God, how I loved to get a rise out of her back then – I'd do anything I could to get those cheeks to flush bright red from embarrassment.

And back then, that happened on a daily basis.

Who would have thought that Katherine Harrison would be pregnant with my child?  And that she would be marrying me in a few short weeks?

Who would have thought that Katherine Harrison would be sitting astride my rigid cock, grinding her pussy against me as my hands caress her swollen breasts?

She complains of their soreness, the fact that they've gotten several cup sizes larger in the past few months, and moans when I touch them now.

Whether she's vocalizing pain or pleasure, I'm not quite sure.

She rocks slowly on my cock, the movement subtle.  Her pussy is swollen now, because of the pregnancy – warmer and tighter than before, wetter now for me.

Kate thinks she's become less attractive.  She worries because she's gained weight and gotten stretch marks – but holy hell, I can't even explain how much more attracted to her I am now than I was before.

This woman who's riding me, who's making these little sounds – a cross between whimpering and moaning – has become someone other than the girl I fell in love with.  Everything about her is more womanly than before – the way her curves have become full and round, her face radiant and glowing, her movements somehow softer and more sensual.  I can't look at her without thinking of her in my bed, without wanting to bury my face between her legs and drink in her rich scent.

Everything about her has changed, yet everything is the same.

The pregnancy has changed the sex, too – she's ready, wanting me all the time, and wanting to try new things.  She says it feels better, more intense, more alive.  And that's why when she rides me now, her hair falling back down her shoulders, pushing me more deeply inside her, I come close to letting go.

Her warm wet pussy throbs around me.  It pulls me in deeper, demanding my release, but I steel myself against it.

Not yet.

I wrap her hair around my hand, pulling her head back and sliding my arm across her chest, my fingers playing with her nipple the way I know she likes.  Her pussy tenses immediately in response, and I know I have her.  I breathe against her ear, whispering, knowing that the little hairs on the back of her neck will rise in response, that it will send goose bumps down her arms.

That it will bring her so close.

"Are you enjoying this gift, Kate?"  I ask.  "Because I've been thinking about how much I wanted you on it since I first saw it."

She groans her answer, the word unintelligible as she arches back, pressing her pussy down further on my rigid cock.  I force myself not to come inside her, despite how ready she is for me.  Despite how much I want to fill her up.

I tug her hair again, eliciting a squeal.

"Tell me, Kate," I say.  "Tell me how much you love riding me."

"Oh, God," she groans, the sound guttural.  She rocks faster against me, and the head of my cock presses deep inside the walls of her swollen pussy.  "Not Kate…"

"What do you want me to call you, Kate?" I ask, teasing, knowing full well what she wants me to call her.  It's what she loves for me to call her now, despite the fact that it started as a joke, a demeaning term that somehow turned into a term of endearment.

"You know," she whispers.  Her slick wet pussy clenches tighter around my cock. 

"Then tell me how much you love my cock inside you," I whisper.  "How much you love me bare inside your sweet pussy."

"Oh fuck, Caulter," she says, riding me harder.  Her hand reaches down between her legs, and although I can't see what she's doing, I know she's stroking her clit, bringing herself to the brink as she bounces on my dick.  But I'm not going to let her come, not so easily.  Not until she tells me what I want to hear.

"Tell me you love my cock," I say.  "Stroking you inside, fucking you."

"Oh God, Caulter," she says.  "I'm so close.  I love your cock bare inside me.  I love feeling you when you come inside me."

"Fuck,
Princess
," I say, calling her by the name I know she wants to hear.  It never fails to push her over the edge.  "Come for me,
Princess
."

And she does.

Before I even finish the phrase, she comes, screaming her orgasm with abandon, not the way she used to have to be careful, in her Senator father's house in New Hampshire when we were sneaking around and hiding from everyone.

Now she yells her orgasm, loud enough to shake the fucking walls, and I feel my balls clench tightly before I let go, filling her up with my hot seed.

Afterward, I pull her tightly against me, brushing aside her hair and burying my face in the side of her neck as I breathe in her scent.  She smells like everything that's right with the world, like sunshine and warmth and flowers.

That's probably the lamest thought any guy has ever had, but it's true.  Everything about her is right, and when she's close to me like this, her breath coming in long deep gasps, I know there's nowhere else on earth I'd rather be but here with her.

"Nice chair."  Her words break the stillness between us.

"Do you agree now that it's a classy gift?"

"Something like that," she says.

"Classy as fu –" I start to say, but she interrupts me.

"That's going to wind up being the baby's first word."

"We're in the bedroom," I say.  "It doesn't count."

"Mm-hmm," she murmurs, her breath long and low.

"You know, this chair is good for lots of other positions," I point out helpfully.

"Oh, is it, now?" she asks.

Since she asked, I take the opportunity to show her.

Later, Kate breathes in deeply, her head snug on the pillow next to me, my hand lingering protectively on her belly.  We're supposed to be at a cake taste-testing appointment in twenty minutes, something that's apparently uber-important, but Kate fell asleep after we broke in the new chair twice.  With how exhausted she's been lately, I felt like it was better to be late to the appointment and let her sleep.

The past few weeks, she's been tossing and turning at night, more and more uncomfortable as her belly gets bigger.  She also has nightmares now, although she says she doesn't remember what she dreams.  But I hear her mumbling in her sleep, her forehead scrunched up, and she wakes up in a panic, her hand over her chest.

She says it's nothing.

I mentioned it to Ella a few weeks ago.  Over the last couple of years, things have dramatically improved when it comes to Ella.  When Kate and I got engaged in Bali, Ella made it happen, insisting I use her private plane to fly her there.  And over the past year, Ella has been Ella – irresponsible, dramatic, and flighty – but more involved with Kate and I.

She blows into our lives more now that she's been on set filming a television show in New York, a crazy whirlwind of drama and excitement and "Oh my God, you're getting married, you must let me help with the wedding planning and who's your obstetrician and never let the child call me grandmother, I'm simply not old enough to be a grandmother, for God's sake!"

Kate likes having her around.

A few weeks ago, Ella told me she had nightmares when she was pregnant, too -- something about the hormones.

"Darling," Ella says, waving her hand dismissively the way she does when she considers something self-evident, "Kate is not having pre-wedding jitters.  That girl is head-over-heels for you.  Now, pre-baby jitters, maybe.  Oh!  My trainer has the number of a woman who can come cleanse her chi, get rid of the bad energy."

"Kate is not going to let someone come clean her chi, Ella," I say, shaking my head.

"She doesn't even have to know," Ella protests, digging in her purse for her phone.

"I think Kate will know if someone starts waving sage leaves around her belly, mother," I say.

"That's not even how it works."

I laugh at the memory, and the movement jostles Kate beside me.  When she stirs, she makes a little moaning sound before looking me, groggy, a half-smile on her face.  "Mmm.  You let me sleep.  That was such a nice nap.  What time is it?" she asks.

"Three," I say.

She jumps up.  "Cautler!  You know we have to be at the cake testing!  I
can't believe
you let me sleep!"

"You looked so peaceful," I tell her.  "Besides, it's only cake."

She gives me a horrified look.  "
Only cake
," she says.  "I'm pregnant, and it's a
buffet of cakes
.  I will cut anyone who gets between me and the grand amount of carbs I'm about to inhale."

"Including me," I say, laughing.

"Especially you," she says, walking across the room and pulling on clothes faster than I've seen her do in a long time.  "I have no loyalties when it comes to cake.  It's every man for himself."

"Noted."

An hour later, and Kate is true to her word.  She threatens to stab me with her fork when I reach for a second bite of one of the cakes she declares to be "almost as amazing as sex," although by the expression she makes I'd almost swear that if I weren't in the room she'd tell the chef it was absolutely more amazing than sex.  It's all a blur to me, a parade of confections with ridiculous names, like Quadruple Dark Chocolate Frosted Sugar Dream and Frosted Raspberry Afternoon Delight and Caramel Bavarian Custard Pie and Sweet Pink Champagne.

That's right.  I, Caulter Sterling, am discussing the pros and cons of Pink Champagne cake for my wedding.

I'm spending my entire afternoon debating the merits of which vanilla frosting is more vanilla than the three previous vanillas and eating cake named after alcoholic beverages.  And not the good kind of alcoholic beverages, either – there's a noticeable lack of scotch or Guinness-flavored cakes in this assortment.

When I make my beer-flavored wedding cake suggestion, Kate gives me a death glare.  "No beer-flavored wedding cake," she says.

"No sense of humor," I point out helpfully.

That earns me another glare.

I mollify her by handing her another piece of cake.

CHAPTER THREE

Kate

"The wedding is two weeks away!" Bailey squeals.  "Are you excited?"

I sink into the overstuffed burgundy velvet chair in the bridal shop, kicking my legs out as I lean back, and let out the most un-lady-like groan ever.

"That's an incredibly sexy sound, Kate.  Kind of like a cross between a sea lion and a gorilla in heat," Libby says, snapping a photo of me with her camera.

"Do I need to ask how you know what a gorilla in heat sounds like, Libby?" Bailey asks.

Normally, I'd threaten Libby with bodily harm and attempt to wrench the camera from her grasp, but I have less than zero energy, and my feet are throbbing from walking around approximately one thousand shops in frigid Boston with my two best friends looking for lingerie for my honeymoon that is suitable for my current state.

One thousand was possibly an exaggeration.  It might have been more like two.  But pregnant lingerie shopping?  It might as well have been a thousand stores.

And no, there is no lingerie on earth that is suitable for my current state.  In the last lingerie store, I decided that the only thing that could possibly fit me right now – especially after all that cake the other day -- is a mumu.

So, simple is best, isn't it?  Caulter has seen me naked, and he seems to like it.  Naked it is. 

Besides, we're driving to a little bed and breakfast in Vermont for our honeymoon, and it's Vermont in winter anyway.  Super snuggly footie pajamas are totally sexy honeymoon apparel, right?

Libby snorts.  "Gorilla in heat?  I'm pretty sure that's the sound Bailey makes when she snores."

"What?" Bailey squeals, slapping Libby playfully on the arm.  "I do
not
snore!"

"No, sweetie, you don't snore," Libby says, turning to me and mouthing exaggeratedly, "Yes, she totally does."  She drops to her knee, adjusts the lens on her camera, and snaps another photo of me.  Picking up one of the decorative throw pillows, I toss it at her, but she ducks and it just winds up bouncing off her shoulder.

"Libby, I will kill you," I threaten her half-heartedly.

Libby snaps a photo again and I decide I might have to hit her with something harder than a pillow for taking photos of me slouched down in this chair in my tent of a maternity dress.

"Oh, you love me," she says, clicking the camera again for effect.

I make a face at her, even though it's true.  Despite her incessant camera-clicking, I adore her and Bailey.  They've become close friends over the past year since Caulter and I moved to Boston.  Libby is a fantastic photographer with an art gallery in New Hampshire and another in Boston.  I knew her at Brighton Academy, although not very well.  When Caulter and I moved to Boston two years ago, Libby and I connected right away, beyond our shared history at Brighton.  She's smart and funny, and her girlfriend Bailey is kind and easy-going.

"Oh, leave her alone," Bailey says.  "Can't you see the poor thing is exhausted?"

"Yeah, wench," I agree, leaning back and closing my eyes.  "Have some sympathy for me."

"Buck up," Libby jokes.  "There's no excuse for a meltdown, even in your condition."

"She's such a drill sergeant," Bailey says.  "Just wait until
you're
pregnant and I force you to shop for hours in the dead of winter."

"Who says I'm ever having a baby?" Libby asks, her tone one of horror.  I hear her camera click, and I don't even open my eyes to see if she's taking more humiliating photos of me.

"If you keep taking photos of me looking like a beached whale, I swear to all that is holy you will never live to carry a baby, Libby," I threaten.

"She's serious, Libbs," Bailey warns.

"Don't worry," Libby says, her camera directed at Bailey.  "I was taking photos of the
other
sexy future-mama."

"Oh, no," Bailey says.  "Don't even get any ideas.  Kate, tell her I'm not cut out to be pregnant.  All of the morning sickness, ugh."

"Don't forget the heartburn," I say, opening my eyes.  Libby sits down beside Bailey on one of the sofas, her leg crossing lazily over Bailey's legs, her camera in hand, giggling as she snaps a selfie of the two of them.

"And the heartburn," Bailey says, pushing the camera away as she laughs.  "Stop photographing this, Libbs.  And don't think I haven't realized that you're already mentally marking this in your head as the day you convinced me to have a baby."

"No, this is the day we see Kate's gorgeous wedding dress on her," Libby says.  "Speaking of that, where's the wedding dress girl?  And our champagne?"

"Don't rub it in," I say.

"Sparkling juice for you," Bailey says, then groans.  "God, that sounds just awful.  We should abstain from our champagne in solidarity."

"Both of you can have all the champagne you wa – " A sharp kick to my belly nearly takes my breath away and I let out a loud
oof
, straightening up in the chair.

"Did it kick?" Libby squeals.  "Can we feel it?  I hate calling it 'it', you know.  Like it's some kind of alien – although, I guess it really kind of
is
an alien life-form growing inside, feasting off of you."  The two of them cover my belly with their hands, oohing and ahhing as the baby kicks again.

"You know we wanted the gender to be a surprise," I say.

"Who waits to find out the gender anymore?" Bailey asks.  "What are you going to do for the room?"

"It'll be neutral," I say.  "Besides, it's not like the baby will know what color the room is anyway."

"Well, the little lime seems extra active today," Libby says.  Back in the first trimester of my pregnancy, Libby came across an article online that showed the size of the baby's growth in utero compared to different fruits – lime, lemon, orange, grapefruit, watermelon, and so forth – so they took to calling the baby by whatever the fruit-of-the-week was.

"The baby is definitely not a lime anymore," I say, running my hands over my belly.  I don't know what size the baby is right now, but my guess would be watermelon.  Maybe even pumpkin – but one of those super giant pumpkins, the kind grown to win a prize at a state fair.  That’s what is currently pressed up against my bladder right now, shoving its little pumpkin toes right into me.

The saleswoman comes out with a pile of wedding gown in her hands.  "Sorry that took so long," she says, her voice breathless.  "We got it in the other day, and I got an order of dresses in this morning that got hung up with it and, anyway – let's get this on you.  Are you excited?"

Bailey claps her hands.  "I can't wait to see it."

"Is it too late to change my mind?" I ask.  "Maybe I should wear a white tracksuit instead?"

I'm only half-joking.

The saleswoman laughs nervously.  "You'll look lovely," she says.

And a few minutes later, surrounded by multiple full-length mirrors that give me the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the dress, I think she's right.  The top of the dress is made of delicate white lace, long-sleeved and dropping to a deep v between my breasts before turning to chiffon that skims over my belly and flows in layer after layer down to the ground.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever worn.  And I can't help but think about what my mother would say if she saw me right now.

I'm suddenly overcome by sadness, a sense of longing for her to meet Caulter and our child, and I can't help myself.  Tears well up in my eyes, spilling out before I can even try to stop them.

"Kate, it's gorgeous," Libby says.

"Oh, what's wrong?" Bailey asks, her hand on my shoulder immediately.  "Is it the dress?"

"You look fantastic, sweetie," Libby tries to reassure me.

I sniffle.  "It's beautiful," I say, my words coming out between sobs.  "Pregnancy…hormones."

Libby slides her arm around my shoulder.  "You're gorgeous, doll," she says.  "And your mom is probably looking down, thinking the same thing."

Of course, that makes me cry even harder.