Page 59 of The Destined SEAL
I pop my head out of our bedroom door to find Martina sitting cross-legged on the area rug with what looks like a million white flowers spread out around her. “Twenty more minutes,” I say, teeth gritted.
She rolls her eyes. “Take thirty. Her mom left during round two. Keep it down.”
I don’t think about what that means and lock the door, grab the bottle of cherry lube from a nightstand, and find Harper in the same spot as when I left her.
The profile of her body, ass popped out, back arched, causes the Neanderthal that lives inside me to come barreling out, pounding his fists on his chest. “Where were we?” I ask, sauntering slowly, appreciating the absolute vision Harper is. “We have twenty minutes.”
“You were going to put it in me one more time,” Harper says, pressing her lips together in a mischievous smirk. “Wherever you want,” she says, spreading a bit wider than she was before.
I drop to my knees and lick her pussy and ass. It’s a dick-throbbing mixture of Harper and my cum. She pushes back into my face as I wrap my hands around her thighs and pull her onto my face further. “You have to keep it down,” I say, pulling away, licking my lips. “Or else no more fun.”
I see her nod in her reflection, eyes closed. If you told me last year I had the ability to come back-to-back the way I do with Harper, I would have called you a fucking liar. Not only is every single brain cell attracted to her, but my balls work overtime to mass produce loads meant specifically for her.
Sliding two fingers into her pussy slowly, she fucks them by rocking back. I rub her G-spot while I dribble some lube on her ass. It puckers from the coolness, and my cock flexes at the visual. “Relax,” I coax, laying a hand on her lower back. “Arch and relax.”
Harper obeys.
I pull my fingers out of her pussy and line up my dick and slide into her ass in tiny juts that eventually seat my dick all the way in. I close my eyes when Harper moans.
“Fuck me hard,” she says, meeting my gaze in the mirror. It reminds me of a time I fucked her so long ago. Even then, I didn’t feel like she was mine.
This time when I fuck her ass and watch her come, I know without a shadow of a doubt she’s mine. When my balls feel like they might explode, I grimace, fuck her to the hilt, and come in her. Again.
And it’s never enough. Will never be enough to make up for all the time I didn’t have this connection. This power.
This love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Harper
I’ve never been happierin my entire life. That’s a bold statement. One I’d repeat a million times if it means I get to feel like this every day for the rest of my life. My dad is walking me down the aisle, just sand marked by white flowers on either side, to the man of my dreams.
Ben is standing barefoot by the water wearing a white shirt, untucked, and a pair of khaki pants. We’re getting married in the exact spot he proposed. There are about ten chairs on either side of the aisle, all filled with our closest friends and family who could make it on such short notice. We didn’t send out invites or make a registry or do anything stereotypical brides and grooms do. That’s for everyone else. They can keep the customs and pomp. We just want each other. My dress, a white, lacy, curve-hugging number, flares at the bottom in a mermaid cut. Ben came with me when I tried on dresses and said if we’re doing it on the beach, I should get my Ariel fantasy.
“I love you both so much, baby. You don’t know how happy this is making your mother and me,” Dad says, squeezing my arm. “After all this time. You’re finally doing it.” It’s a statement as much as it is a question.
I squeeze his hand resting on my arm. “Thanks, Dad. Took a little longer than it should have,” I whisper, laying my head against his shoulder. The pride that oozes from his body is enough for a million daughters instead of just one. He’s always been proud of my scholarly and work accomplishments, but somehow validating my lifelong love for Ben is enough to wash all of those away. It’s because I’m finally being honest with myself, finally taking the chance I never took. “I love you,” I tell him.
He sniffles next to me, and I have to focus on Ben to keep from tearing up and ruining my makeup prematurely.
My hair is down because I know that’s how Ben likes it. I took a photo of Lyla Garrity, a.k.a. Minka Kelly, with me to the makeup artist. She did an amazing job replicating the look, and it’s a small tilt to a weird way this was all brought to a close. The sun is setting just enough so that the heat isn’t severe and the clouds are that beautiful color they become just before night hides them away.
Ben’s smile is this huge, beautiful work of art. It reminds me of when we were kids and we had the inability to stop laughing at some stupid joke. We’d look at each other and start cracking up all over again. This is a smile he won’t be able to wipe away. My dad hands my hand to Ben, and they share a quick man hug before he takes his seat next to my weeping mother. She has a tissue in each hand and a smile that matches Ben’s.
Ben hugs me straight away, ignoring all normal wedding rules. “Harper, you are stunning. The most beautiful girl in all the world.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “You look pretty handsome yourself.” I squeeze his biceps, and he laughs.
His eyes are so happy, so jubilant, that I’m truly transported back to when we were innocent, happy children. Smiles for miles and not a care in the world. And isn’t that how you want amarriage to start? I lean up on my tiptoes, and Ben’s on the same wavelength. He kisses me on the lips once, very chastely, and then on the bridge of my nose.
“Get a room,” Tahoe calls out, causing everyone to giggle.
Ben glares at Tahoe and turns the megawatt smile out to everyone else. “I’ve waited too long for this! I’ll kiss her when I want!”
More laughter is followed by clapping, and my mom sniffles some more.
The pastor starts in on the simple ceremony. We listen, but we don’t take our eyes off each other, like maybe the words he’s saying will telepathically melt into our systems. Ben touches my face, my neck, and my shoulders instead of merely holding my hand. He’s checking to make sure it’s real. I’m real.
