Page 114 of A Vow So Soulless

She looks like something from a fucking fairy tale. Like something from another world, another age. I don’t know shit about dresses, and wouldn’t know how to describe this one properly if I tried, but even I can see what a masterful garment it is. The top part hugs her breasts and waist, the skirt flaring outward in a dramatic sweep of silk. There are long sleeves, oddly prim and pure, going almost all the way down her arms, but the illusion of modesty is ruined by the gorgeous expanse of skin exposed at her shoulders and collarbones. My throat goes dry when my gaze roves over the luscious curves of the tops of her breasts. The whole dress sparkles, like it got left outside on a cool night and somebody hasn’t shaken the dew off of it quite yet.

But it’s not just about the dress. Because this dress would just be a dress if it weren’t for the bride wearing it. My bride.

Deirdre’s hair is swept away from her face, the front bits pinned back, the rest of it falling in a glorious, curling tumble of flame down her back. I don’t know what kind of makeup she might be wearing, but it looks fairly simple, enhancing the shape and glow of her features instead of shadowing them.

My angel of perfect ruin. My Songbird, my phoenix, my fire.

My wife.

“Say something,” she whispers.

“I love you.”

She gapes at me, her painted lips parting with shock. She almost looks stricken.

“What?” I ask, finally finding the will to move, crossing to her in an instant. “You’re shocked by that? I’m fucking marrying you today.”

“But you… You’ve never said it before,” she breathes.

I’m actually fairly certain that’s not true. It’s just that I’m pretty sure it slipped out when I was delirious with desire, buried deep inside her pussy. And I think it came out in Italian instead of English.

“Well. I’m saying it now.” My hand rises to stroke her throat, because I can’t stand not to touch her, damn whatever Valentina said about it. “I love you,” I tell her again, feeling her pulse jump beneath my glove in response. “If I thought I had a soul I’d say you owned it.”

Her next inhale sounds wrecked, all shuddery and shattered.

“You don’t need a soul to love someone,” she murmurs. “Just a heart.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m pretty sure you own that too.”

“Oh, Elio…”

“It’s alright,” I say, but the words feel jagged, like maybe it isn’t alright at all. “You don’t have to say it back. You already told me that you’re mine. And it’s enough.”

A teary, disbelieving laugh flutters up out of her throat. I feel it under my hand as well as hear it.

“Elio-”

“I said it’s alright.”

“No!” she nearly shouts. She presses the tips of her index fingers against the inner corners of her eyes, as if she can keep any wayward tears inside. Then she flings her hands back down in a violent slicing motion. She looks like she doesn’t know what to do with them now, so she gathers up some of her skirt in her fists and stares me down with such ferocity I feel like I should be on my fucking knees.

“It’s not alright,” she says fiercely. Her voice shakes, but there’s no hesitation in her words. “I love you. And it’s not alright. Nothing’s been alright since the day you forced your way into my world.”

Her eyes are blue fire, and I’ll never escape from that blaze.

I don’t even want to.

“It’s not alright, Elio!” she cries. “But maybe I’m self-destructive, or broken, or just as crazy as you. Because I love you. It’s not alright. None of this is alright. But I fucking love you anyway.”

Need batters its way through my body so hard it leaves me breathless. My fingers tighten on her throat, and I back her up against the table where all the hair and makeup shit has been left behind. Brushes and bottles rattle when her ass collides with the edge, and with one wide sweep of my arm I send all of it crashing to the floor.

The next instant I’ve got my hands on her waist, lifting her to sit on the table, my fingers diving beneath her skirt. For fucking once she doesn’t fight me. Doesn’t hide from me. Doesn’t deny me anything. She moans, wrapping her arms around my neck and spreading her thighs wide beneath the layers of her dress. I yank her panties roughly to the side, my lungs burning, heart slamming, cock straining. I fumble with the fasteners of my tux, desperately tugging fabric until my hardness is freed.

Fuck, it’s so good to have use of both my hands again. I grip her hips, dragging her forward, making her skirt bunch as I line myself up to her entrance. There’s no foreplay, no languor, no slowness or stillness. There’s only a hard, rough claiming as I jam myself inside her, moaning when I find her already wet.

Deirdre moans, too, her head lolling until it hits the mirror behind her back. She clings to me as I plant my hands on either side of her hips, rutting into her as hard as I fucking can. The whole table slides and shakes from the brutality of my motion, the mirror slamming against the wall over and over again until I half wonder if it might break.

Seeing the bride before the wedding. Broken mirror. Two for fucking two today.

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