Page 128 of A Secret and a Lie
Ford spins me into his arms as the opening keys of the song he chose for our first dance plays, the skirt of my dress fluttering around my ankles. He presses a kiss to my temple, and I lean into him, breathing in his scent that will never be far away again.
“You look nice in your uniform.” I finger the medals adorninghis chest before squeezing his upper arm. In truth, he looks better thannicelike this;he looksdevastating.
His dimple emerges as he grins. This was the way it was always supposed to be.
He fingers the platinum choker that he gave me for our third anniversary. It sits low, just above the base of my neck, and to anyone else, it’s just a piece of jewelry, but to the two of us, it’s a symbol of our deeper connection. A sign of my submission and one that I wear with pride.
“You look absolutely exquisite tonight, Mrs. Crawford.” No matter how many times he calls me that, it’ll never grow old. I feel the same way when he calls medoll.
As 3 Doors Down sings the opening lyrics of “Here Without You,” I giggle, the sound as weightless as I feel. “I still hate this song.”
He chuckles. “Me, too.”
This time, I’m positive that neither of us mean that the way we used to.
I smile, dropping my head to his shoulder as he tucks me into his body. Warmth radiates from his hand that presses against my lower back, my heart fluttering wildly.
Lifting my head, I stare into blue eyes the color of the vast, undulating ocean of my own absolution, the hue of solace and harmony, the shade of endless love. “I’m glad you came back for me.”
He simply tucks a strand of curled hair behind my ear in response. “Come with me,” he instructs me, tugging me in the direction of the cake.
“Take love shots with us,” Drake shouts from across the rooftop, trying to get our attention. “We can’t drink all of these alone.”
Ford waves him off and murmurs in my ear, “He looks like he doesn’t need any help in the love or alcohol department.”
He’s right; it doesn’t. The two women hanging off his arm, staring adoringly into his eyes seem to have the tequila rose more than covered themselves.
Ford tugs me to the back corner of the rooftop, behind the tablewith the tiered, white-frosted cake that I’mdesperateto cut into. On the low-topped table sits a large piece of paper stamped with the wordsCertificate of Marriagestamped across the top in black ink.
I glance up at him with curiosity, and he explains, “I thought you might like to sign your own marriage certificate. You know, with yourrealsignature, of your own volition.”
This isn’t something I’d given any thought to whatsoever, perfectly content to live as we have been, even if it wasn’t technically legal. I wouldn’t change a single thing about our story.
Without a second thought, I reach for the pen and scrawl my name at the bottom, using my maiden name for legal purposes.
“How are you going to file this?” The forgery was good enough to grant me a new Social Security card and driver’s license—not that I use that for driving anywhere myself these days. James does most of that for me.
He smirks, taking the pen from me to sign his own name. “I know a guy.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh, sure that I probably know the guy, too. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I tell him honestly, “Thank you.”
“I’d do anything for my wife, you know that.”
I grin up at him. “A romantic jailbreak proved that.”
The ambient sounds and lights from the rest of the bar fade into obscurity as he captures my lips, sealing us together, without any secrets or lies that could tear us apart.
Ford
FIVE YEARS LATER
The elevator doors part, and I find Genvieve just as I knew I would: naked, kneeling on the floor in the middle of her playroom, head bowed, the backs of her hands resting atop her muscular thighs. Nipple clamps hang from her breasts, a delicate chain connecting them. The thick black collar with a silver ring she wears when we play encircles her neck. I know if I were to look at the small side table between the two chairs in the seating area, I’d find the collar she wears for the rest of the world.
When she told me this morning that Elliott requested a Sunday session with her, I knew I’d be making a stop at her office on my way home from the shooting range with Drake. I texted her twenty minutes ago, telling her how I’d want her, the plan for a scene mapped out in my mind.
Striding up to her, I brush my fingers over the top of her head, and I swear I catch her lips twitching as she stares at my combat boots. Her hair is straight today, the ends curling toward the column of her neck and she leans into my caress.
“Such a beautiful doll,” I admire. “But you look empty. What do you think? Should we fill your holes?”
