“Oh my heavens, look at you! You are absolutely stunning, my dear!” Marie exclaims as she engulfs me in a giant bear hug, careful not to mess up the hair I spent two hours this afternoon having cut, highlighted, and styled in an up-do in the chic hotel salon.
Tavian’s only request for the wedding was that I wear my hair up so he can see my face, and I happily obliged. Now that I don’t have to hide from the numbers, I no longer need my shield of long locks. It’s taking me a while to adjust to the change, and I still have so many questions surrounding all of it, but I refuse to squander away any of the precious time I have left worrying over something I have no control over. Maybe… hopefully… I’ll eventually learn the hows and whys of the mystery behind the numbers—both their existence and disappearance—but today’s not that day.
Today is my wedding day.
Less than seventy-two hours after I said yes to Tavian’s proposal, we were on a plane flying first class from Philadelphia to Las Vegas, the best place in the world for a stress-free wedding, and also a destination to check off my bucket list. Another twofer we worked out.
And just like Tavian promised, we’ve spent the last few days exploring the city pretty much budget-free—staying at a fancy hotel, eating at restaurants without prices on the menus, sitting VIP at exclusive shows, and gambling in rooms roped off to the general public. Well, only Tavian has been gambling really, but I’ve been watching and learning, and before we leave, I’m going to try my luck at some blackjack. Maybe.
His mom and Sammy arrived earlier this morning, and they’re planning on staying through the weekend, though at a different hotel in order to give us both a little privacy. Tavian seemed quite surprised when Marie announced she was bringing her man-friend along, and when I asked him about it, he told me Marie hasn’t dated since her husband died so many years ago, and up until his birthday dinner, he didn’t realize she’d met someone. And with everything that’s happened since that night with us, he hasn’t had a chance to give it a lot of thought.
At first, I was afraid he’d have trouble accepting their relationship, but in typical Tavian fashion, he’s been nothing but supportive of her finding happiness again. His ability to see the big picture and look past his singular viewpoint is rare and extraordinary.
“Thank you! You look beautiful too.” I squeeze her back just as hard, thrilled she’s here to experience this moment with us. I know part of the reason getting married means so much to Tavian is because of his mom, and I want to give her all these happy memories to look back on.
No matter what the future holds.
The guys exchange handshakes, and then Marie kisses her son’s face multiple times, telling him how proud she is, while Sammy and I share a friendly embrace. I don’t remember what his date was from the night we met. I was so overwhelmed with meeting so many new people and trying to act normal that everything just kind of whizzed by. For the first time since I haven’t been able to see the numbers, I find myself wanting to know his. I want them to be after Marie’s in case things work out between them. I want her to never be alone.
Judith taps her clipboard and we turn to look at her. “Is everyone ready to go? We’re up next in the Crystal Chapel,” she announces with a smile so trained I wonder if she sleeps like that. “Lyra, you need a last-minute restroom break to check your makeup or dress or anything?”
I glance down and scan the white lace of the fitted, cocktail-length white Versace dress Tavian picked out for me when we went shopping for wedding clothes yesterday. When I couldn’t find anything I loved in the first six stores we went in, we made a deal that he could choose my outfit and I could pick his. Less than an hour later, we were both ready to go, shoes and accessories included. And I couldn’t be more pleased with the final product.
“You look beyond gorgeous, babe. Out of this fucking universe,” Tavian reassures me, softly feathering his lips against my temple.
His mom slaps his arm and grumbles, “Language,” when he drops the F-bomb, which causes the rest of us to snicker and chuckle at her scolding her grown son for cussing, on his wedding day no less.
“I’m good to go,” I confirm to Judith, and she nods her approval then steps off to the side to talk in the microphone of the headset she’s wearing.
A tizzy of excitement and anticipation swirls deep in my belly. I can’t believe this is really my life right now. From hermit to hitched in two months. We’re writing a new kind of fairytale.
“You ready?” I gaze up at Tavian and give him my best smile. The one I feel radiating from my head to my toes.
Tavian grabs my hands and intertwines our fingers then lifts them both to kiss my knuckles. “I’ve never been more ready for anything, buttercup.”
Don’t cry yet, Lyra. Get through the vows.
“Okay, you guys are up,” Judith announces as she rejoins our group. “Right this way.”
We follow her through the over-the-top ornate, flashy space and I’m forced to hold back my amusement. Vegas weddings are so cliché, especially in this famous little chapel, and if you would’ve asked me eight weeks ago, I would’ve bet everything I owned that I would not only never get married, but most definitely never do it like this.
And now… now any wedding with Tavian is the perfect wedding. Because it’s not really about the venue or the dress or the food or the cake. The only thing that matters is the couple standing in front of God and whoever else happens to be there, swearing their undying love for one another.
We pass through an archway into a room with similar flamboyant décor to the rest of the place—more gold and white than you can imagine—where an older gray-headed man in a suit and a photographer wait for us at the end of the center aisle. Judith leads us down to them, then gives us a tip of the chin and says, “Congratulations and good luck.”
I don’t have time to question why in the world someone would say “good luck” right before you get married, because with the flash of a camera and a “Dearly beloved,” the ceremony begins, and before I know it, it’s time to say my vows.
With my focus locked solely on the incredible, handsome man in front of me—a man who has given me a second chance at a full life, regardless of length—my voice never falters or cracks once. I speak with conviction and love.
“I, Lyra, take you, Tavian, to be my husband,
to have and to hold
from this day forward,
for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish,
until the end of time.”
Tavian’s whole face lights up as I say the modified version of the last line we insisted on. “Until death do us part” isn’t long enough for what we’re promising each other.
When it’s his turn to recite the vows, my entire world tilts on its axis and I have to remind myself to breathe. This tops anything I put on my list.
“I, Tavian, take you, Lyra, to be my wife,
to have and to hold
from this day forward,
for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish,
until the end of time.”
My cheeks hurt from grinning so big, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop. I’ve never felt more alive.
The man begins talking again, but I’m not paying much attention. We opted to skip the ring ceremony—for now—so all I need to hear is “You may kiss the bride” to seal the deal and make it official. Thankfully, it only takes him another minute or so to get there, and before he can even finish the sentence, Tavian’s possessive lips are on mine in an all-consuming kiss. His tongue slides effortlessly into my mouth as his hands cup my jaw, and neither of us lets go until the officiant clears his throat and the photographer tells us to pose for a picture.
A couple flashes and congratulations later, Judith returns to usher us out to the lobby area, where she gives us
our signed marriage license and a website to view and order the photos from. After a final goodbye, she immediately moves to greet another couple who has just walked in. And just like that… we’re officially husband and wife.
But we’re not quite done crossing things off our list today.
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 betw
een 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.