Hitched (24 page)

"Thank you."

I will not cry. I will not cry.

Despite using waterproof makeup, I'm not convinced I won't look like a raccoon by the end of the ceremony. The only hope for me is not to cry.

I will not cry.

As we walk down the stairs, slowly, deliberately, in pace with the music, I search through the crowd until I see Sebastian standing in the center under the arch of flowers next to the pastor and his groomsmen.

Sebastian made Tate his best man. I would have made him my best man and broken all tradition—as was our plan since we were children—but he loves Sebastian so much, and my husband-to-be needed some padding on his side, so we broke with our plans after all.

As my eyes lock with Sebastian's and I see the love on his face and the joy he feels in seeing me, my heart swells.

And I know, no matter what else may happen in our lives, I'm looking at my forever.

And this time, I won't forget a moment of it.

Our bed is disheveled in a way that only all-night fucking can accomplish. Empty bottles of Don Pérignon litter the high-end hotel room I've woken up in.

"Seems we had a bit too much to drink last night," Sebastian says with a smirk.

I'm holding one red shoe as I stare at this naked man in front of me. Tall. Dark. Sexy as sin.

"I can't find my other shoe," I tell him.

He strides toward me, water still glistening on his body from his recent shower. "I'm sure I can help you look. Later."

He touches me so gently, sending shivers up my spine, and my body instinctively arches into him. Even after an evening marathon of sex, I can't get enough of this man.

"Aren't we going to be late for our flight?"

"We have time," he assures me, pulling me back toward the bed.

I drop the red shoe, no longer caring where its partner is.

Heat throbs in my belly as he slides my panties off with ease. "You look good enough to eat," he says.

My legs spread as I lean back against the pillows. His head dips between my legs, his tongue teasing my labia.

"I need more than that," I tell him, grabbing his hair and pushing him harder against my clit.

He slides a finger, then two, into my wet pussy and uses his tongue to torture me.

The pressure builds inside me and then crashes through me in waves. I ride them, holding on to his shoulders, digging my fingers into his skin as he makes me come harder. Faster. Deeper.

Without warning, he flips me over until my ass is in the air, and he shoves his cock into me deeply as my body convulses with another orgasm.

I grip the headboard, rocking my hips against his, taking him all the way into me. He slaps my ass hard, and the shock of it intensifies my pleasure.

"Oh God, Sebastian. More. Fuck me harder."

He does.

So hard.

So deep.

So fast.

I soar with him inside of me, and then we collapse onto the bed, bodies intertwined together, satiated and happy.

***

I'm in the bathroom. Sebastian thinks I'm getting ready to leave on our honeymoon.

My hand shakes as I stare at the white stick, willing it to hurry up.

I don't know what I want it to say, whether I want one line or two. Whether I'm ready for the life-changing shock two lines would be.

I look down at my wedding ring and think about the man in the other room. My husband. And I realize that if it's two lines, I won't be alone. I'll have him every step of the way.

When the time is up, I look at the stick, and my heart tumbles around inside my chest.

I walk out of the bathroom, my hand still shaking as I hold the stick out to the man I married the night before. "Sebastian?"

He looks down at my hand, his face unreadable. He takes the stick from me and looks closely at it, then looks back up at me. "You're pregnant?"

I'm nervous. I don't know how he'll respond. Or if he's recovered from the loss of Hope. Or if he even wants children anymore.

But he smiles, tears filling his eyes, and all my fear is washed away. "We're having a baby?" he asks.

I nod. "Is… that okay?"

He wraps his arms around me and lifts me up, then kisses me. "Okay? It's better than okay. It's perfect. I love you so much, Kacie. Thank you. Thank you for filling my life with everything I've ever wanted, and so much more I didn't even know I could have."

He stole the words from my heart, and tears of joy roll down my cheeks as I press my face against his chest. "You've changed me, Sebastian," I tell him. "I used to be scared of that, but now I realize that it's a good thing, to be changed by love. I haven't lost anything at all, like I feared. Instead, I've gained everything."

He puts me down, wiping his eyes. "Remember the note I sent you?" he asks.

I remember. The note so sweet and tender I couldn't even share it with Tate. "Yes. It said, 'I remember our wedding, Kacie. I remember all of it, because it was the best day of my life.' That's it, right?"

He nods, grinning. "Well, I changed my mind.
This
is the best day of my life."

I laugh, shaking my head as I pull his lips to mine. "No, my love. The best days are yet to come."

The holidays are just around the corner! Get exclusive season's greetings from Kacie and Sebastian (and their growing family!) when you
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Continue the story and find out what happens next to Kacie, Sebastian, Vi, and Tate, in
Whipped
—a
Red Shoe Memoir
focused on Vi, the Dominatrix, and Lachlan MacKenzie, the sexy Scotsman who changes everything. Get it now on
Amazon.

What happens in Vegas…might destroy you.
 Or remake you all together.

I make a living giving men and women their ultimate fantasies…as submissives of the mysterious Mistress Hawthorne. I’ve never surrendered to anyone. That’s not the way it works. Or rather, not the way I operate. But when the gorgeous Lachlan MacKenzie shows up in my life, he throws everything out of balance.

Now I’m not even sure who I am anymore, and I’m questioning everything: my career as a Dominatrix, my next step, my role in the bedroom... What woman can turn away from a gorgeous Scotsman, especially when he sets her body on fire and her heart ablaze?

But I have to stop it…us. I can’t keep going like this. Who am I if I surrender to him? Worse yet, who am I if I don’t?

**Whipped is a sexy, full-length, stand-alone romance in The Red Shoe Memoirs. These books can be read in any order.**

CONTENT WARNING: This book contains sex, swearing... and did we mention sex? Lots of sex. And abs. And Scottish accents.

THE RED SHOE MEMOIRS

* Hitched

* Whipped

GET WHIPPED NOW!

Read on for a special chapter one excerpt of Whipped

This isn't my usual client.

Normally, they come to me. It's discreet and makes everyone's life easier. But for certain people, you make exceptions.

My 1984 black Fiat convertible rumbles across the bridge, heading for the famous Las Vegas Strip. Cerulean clouds flee as the molten sunset dominates the sky, and I lay on the gas a little harder. I'm in no hurry—I never allow myself to be late. But with the wind dancing through my hair, the thrill of speed digs a bit deeper into my soul.

I review my gear, ensuring nothing is left to chance. Leather crop, purchased several years ago from a tack shop. Restraints in the form of scarlet cotton rope
—
silk ties are for movies and books. Entirely too slippery and time consuming. The usual detritus: blindfolds, clamps, rubber whips that range from noisy to pain-inducing. Sultry music, though I also brought a selection of classical entries on my iPad.

A quick check in my rearview mirror assures me that the Mac Russian Red lipstick I've fallen in love with provides just enough contrast so as not to clash with my long red curls. I even donned my glasses for the occasion, as opposed to my contacts. You'd be surprised how many men love a girl in specs.

My suit—pinstripe, skirted—fits my curves like a glove. Beneath, a dark leather and crimson corset meets a matching G-string, finished off with garters and stockings. My best friend's red stilettos complete the ensemble—my normal wardrobe would never include such a mundane shoe. The things I do for clients...

As I near the turn, I take a calming breath. There's always a bit of nerves, right before an introductory scene. This client is new, as are his interests. I have a website with a photo gallery and specialties listed, so he should know what he's getting himself into. But still...

Topping—or playing the Dom—requires you to know your bottom, or submissive. You can't push too hard or too far, as you risk injuring not only your client, but also the relationship that is tenuous at the beginning. But at the same time, if you go too light, or God forbid, too slowly, you lose future profits and referrals.

A balancing act. That's the best way to describe it. Sometimes, I wish I could be a submissive. A friend who enjoys playing the slave once told me that she loves turning inward, focusing on her own interests and pleasures, while the Dom does all the work. God, I wish I could let someone else run the show. But that's not the way it works. Or rather, not the way
I
operate.

Traffic on the strip is always brutal this time of day, but I get a few lucky breaks. I pull into the Wynn's parking garage with plenty of time to spare. I go over my notes, replay his application video on my phone, and try to gauge his personality and true desires.

Creating—or recreating—someone's fantasies requires imagination and research, but it also relies on innate skills. For this client, I have a pretty good idea of what he wants.

Who am I kidding? I know
exactly
what he wants. Because in reality, all of my clients want the same thing.

To let go. To be in the moment. To escape life.

Sounds amazing, doesn't it? I envy them in so many ways.

I head towards the hotel, following the maze of sidewalks into the main lobby. The Wynn is my favorite hotel on the Strip. The lobby is a fantasy of flowers and design, with twinkling lights, huge not-quite-real foliage, and an understated yet still garish beauty that sets it apart from any of the other lavish venues.

I nod to the concierge on duty and grab an envelope from him. We're old acquaintances, and I still owe him a drink for a favor he called in for me last year.

The elevator doors snick shut behind me, and I slip between the crowded space, falling against the back wall and closing my eyes. For once, my outfit doesn't draw hushed comments, as besides the skirt that barely covers my ass, I'm pretty low-key in a city of gorgeous dancers and exotic delights of the flesh. Okay, maybe the shoes stick out a bit, too.

The elevator is empty by the time I reach the top public floor. Penthouse access requires a special pass card, and I extract mine from the envelope and slide it into the card reader. Then I wait while the elevator's silken glide ferries me to the top.