Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

I doubt this is the type of wedding my father had in mind when he'd given me thirty days to marry Laurel. I'm sure he assumed I would be scrambling to make this work. I bet he's scowling up at me from Hell, pissed I didn't struggle nearly as hard as he thought I would at convincing Laurel to marry me. I don't doubt he entrusted me to make this marriage happen or else he wouldn't have put the risk of the company falling out of our family's hands under such a ridiculous condition. But I also know he expected me to work for it, spending the entire thirty days panic stricken.

My father was sick and twisted like that. He liked to watch others squirm under his power. Me included.

Fucking asshole.

Our house along the Cape is almost unrecognizable. Gold-painted pots of white and cream-colored roses are planted down the stretch of lawn, jutting out the coast behind me. This end of our land stretches out, creating a cliff overlooking the expansive ocean. Each flowerpot creates a makeshift aisle leading straight to the altar our wedding planner scrambled to put together at the last minute. A tall, white-painted, wooden arch stands above me, with the same white and cream flowers wrapped around it like a strand of garland. Pops of green leaves poke through the flowers, breaking up the overwhelming blanket of white covering the yard.

Laurel was detailed in her vision for her dream wedding, including only inviting ten of our closest friends. I agreed, knowing we didn't need to make a spectacle of our big day. Word is bound to get out to the press regardless of whether we invited a thousand half-strangers or ten of our closest friends.

Now, five white chairs are situated on either side of the aisle.

Sitting on my side are Jude and his wife Victoria. Straddled across Jude's lap is their daughter Abbey. She smiles at me, her dimple pressing into her still-fresh baby cheeks. Shy of a year old, she's still unsteady and erratic with her movements, especially when she gets excited. On a giggle, she rocks back, her head landing hard against my brother's chest. She winces but doesn't cry. He gently runs his hand over the top of her head followed by a kiss. He gives me a smile, letting me know he's supporting me even though he doesn't agree with my decision to follow through with our father's condition. Despite our disagreement, I'm glad he's here.

Beside Jude, Perry crosses one leg over the other and clears his throat, distracting himself with whatever he's reading on his phone. He hasn't moved from his chair since he first arrived. In his lap, he cracks open the familiar leather-bound folder I've seen him toting around every time I see him. I'm sure there's some bullshit in there along with my father's will about how Perry is tasked with gathering as much evidence as possible to prove my marriage with Laurel today is official and legal.

Sitting on the opposite side of the aisle is Laurel's sister, Monroe. I recognize her from the night I met Laurel outside the club. At the time, she was dating a frat brother of mine. I'd barely spoken to her that night, drunk out of my mind before deciding to leave, which eventually led me to meeting her sister.

I turn my attention back to the house.

Our photographer stands off in the distance, snapping pictures of me waiting at the altar before Laurel walks out.

Standing beside me is our justice of the peace, a man Olivia found when researching ones who were able to officiate on such short notice.

If I didn't know the details behind our wedding, I'd think it was planned months, even years, in advance. Not a single detail has gone undone.

"A wedding and a funeral in less than a month," Micah says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "Must be a new record."

"Shut the fuck up," I tell him, hiding my irritation behind a grin.

Micah is only teasing, but I don't like thinking of this place as the venue for my father's funeral. I thought it was twisted he'd requested to have his funeral here considering the weight of memories this place holds.

Up until his funeral, I hadn't been here in years. I refused. Not since the last time I saw her. This house was no longer the bright happy home it once was. A dark cloud rolled in and refused to move, covering this place in darkness. My father's presence didn't help matters, even in his death. But when Laurel said she wanted to be married in a spot surrounded by flowers and the ocean, it was the first and only place that came to mind.

Micah joins the rest of our family and sits beside Victoria. I look over at Monroe sitting by herself and wonder if Laurel invited anyone else besides her. I don't have to wonder for too long before her Uncle Frederick waddles in. The chair creaks when he sits down before he bounces back up, quickly standing long enough to shake my hand.

I return his gesture and then he falls back into his seat.

My attention is pulled away from our limited number of guests when I catch a glimpse of pure white in the corner of my eye.

Laurel takes her time walking down the three paved steps off the elevated deck attached to the back of the house. Music plays from the speakers scattered throughout the courtyard. She weaves her way through the maze of bushes and flowers. She's entirely too far away. My stomach drops, and my heart hammers in my chest like never before. I go weak in the knees, drowning in the urge to bend and give in to the temptation of falling at her feet when she reaches me. Somehow, I force myself to stay standing. No one here knows how much power Laurel holds over me. Not even Laurel.

When she finally reaches the end of the aisle, she pauses, her shoulders visibly rising as she takes in a deep, steadying breath. She has no one standing beside her. Her father isn't here to walk her down the aisle, and I see the hesitation and realization meet her eyes.

The breath is knocked from my chest when she walks toward me. Her long chestnut hair is curled and pinned back, with a few wistful strands hanging loose, framing her gorgeous face. She lifts her arm and nervously adjusts her veil, straightening it on the crown of her head. The sheer fabric cascades down the length of her exposed back. Her dress is simple, with no intricate detailing, lace, or sequins. A long slit drives up the length of her leg, exposing her bare thigh with every step. The smooth, white fabric clings to her body, accentuating and hugging every curve. A deep ‘V' cuts down the center of her breastbone. This dress was fucking made for her.

When she takes her last step and stands in front of me, she turns to hand her sister her bouquet. I take her shaking hand in mine and hold it, leading her to face me. She bends, adjusting the train of her dress behind her.

She smiles when she sees me, taking in my all-black suit.

"Hi," she whispers, cracking a nervous smile.

I don't answer her. I can't. I let her go and keep my hands held together in front of me, flexing my fingers together to keep me from reaching out and touching her.

"Is something wrong?" she whispers, leaning forward and giving our officiant a nervous side glance.

"No." I clear my throat. "It's just..."

"What?"

"You're beautiful." I dig my fingers into the back of my hand. I don't have the strength to hold back from telling her truth.

"Oh." She blushes and lifts one shoulder as if she isn't convinced, which is a fucking shame. "Thank you."

"Welcome, family and friends," our justice of the peace announces. I keep my eyes on Laurel.

The music has stopped, replaced by the continuous clicking of the photographer's camera. The sun reflects off her shimmering skin, the setting golden glow shining in her indigo eyes as she stares up at me.

"We are gathered here to witness the marriage between Laurel Eleanor Branford and Lennon James Harding. Two souls who have found one another."

I take her hand in mine again as our officiant continues his speech about the weight of true love and the importance of marriage. I don't think Olivia made him aware of the details surrounding our relationship. A few words stand out here and there, but all I can focus on is Laurel standing in front of me and all the things I could do to her in this dress.

"Now, the rings," the officiant says, holding his hand out, gesturing for us to present them.

Laurel's eyebrows raise. "I don't have yours."

"I told you," I whisper back, tugging my ring free from my pocket. "I had them covered."

I drop the platinum ring in her hand, and she curls her fingers around it.

"Slide the ring onto Lennon's finger and repeat after me," the officiant recites. "I, Laurel Eleanor, take you Lennon James, to be my lawfully wedded husband."

"I, Laurel Eleanor," she begins, turning my hand over and holding it between her small, delicate fingers. She slides the ring on my finger and finishes her vows.

When she's done, the officiant turns his attention to me.

"Same for you," he says. "Repeat after me."

I pull the ring from my pocket and cradle Laurel's left hand in mine. Placing my thumb over her fourth finger, I pinch the diamond ring between my fingers and slide it onto hers. An audible gasp escapes her red-painted lips. The emerald cut diamond is large, practically taking over Laurel's finger. The ring is a statement piece for sure, but I know that's why it was bought in the first place. It was meant to shine. Meant to let the woman who wore it know they belonged to a Harding.

"I, Lennon James, take you Laurel Eleanor to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love you, take care of you, and protect you. In sickness and in health. For richer or poorer. As long as we both shall live."

It doesn't matter in this moment that this is an arranged marriage. The words fall from my mouth without effort.

After placing the ring on Laurel's finger, I hold her hands in mine once again.

Our officiant grins, holding his arms out.

"For the first time, I proudly present Mr. and Mrs. Lennon Harding. I now pronounce you man and wife." He looks at me. "You may kiss your bride."

Laurel's neck bobs as she nervously swallows. Staring at me with widened eyes, the indigo color in them deepens. We haven't kissed since the night we were together on her nineteenth birthday. I wonder if our mouths will react, immediately falling into muscle memory.

Whether she's conscious of it or not, she quickly sweeps her tongue across her lips and squeezes my hand, giving me the signal to go ahead and get through this part of the ceremony. I release one of her hands and wrap it around the back of her head, pulling her body flush against mine. She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. My fingers thread through her soft brown curls when my lips meet hers. She tastes sweet, like a sugar cookie mixed with her strawberry lip gloss. I breathe her in, and she moans against my lips when I don't pull away as fast as she expects me to. I can tell by the way her body relaxes against mine.

It's been years since I've kissed her, but my reaction remains the same. It feels as if my body is going to explode from the sheer liquid heat pumping through my veins. With my other hand, I cradle her face, running my thumb along her jaw. Her arms tighten around me as she fists my suit between her small fingers. She opens her mouth enough for me to massage my tongue with hers. She must think the kiss has gone on too long for the first kiss, or because the entirety of our guests knows this marriage hasn't been born out of love. It's born out of contract.

Unraveling her arms from me, she grabs onto my hand, pulling it away from her face. I immediately feel her absence.

I want to say fuck it, I don't care if everyone is watching. The fire in my chest is no longer a flickering spark. It's a full-on raging bonfire at this point.

With heat blooming in her cheeks, Laurel looks at me with a similar fire in her eyes. She didn't want our kiss to end either, and the fear in her expression tells me she wasn't expecting to feel this way. She only ended it before giving others a reason to ask questions.

She trails her tongue across her lips again, tasting the taste of me on them.

I clear my throat, silently telling myself to remain calm and pull myself back down to earth. But it's difficult when Laurel hooks her arm in mine and my eyes fall to my ring wrapped around her finger.

Reality sinks in. Laurel is officially mine. My wife .

We walk down the aisle with her arm still hooked around mine. This wasn't part of the plan. We were supposed to stay outside, chatting with our family and friends until our brief reception, but I can tell by the way Laurel's arm stiffens around mine that she needs to take a breath.

I lead her through the garden until we've reached the greenhouse standing in the farthest corner of the property. We don't speak a word until we're inside and I've spun her around so her back lands against the glass wall.

We're surrounded by plants and mounds of dirt. The air is thick with the scent of wet earth and fresh, unplanted flowers.

My hand is quick to go to her bare thigh peeking through the slit in her dress.

"I don't think we're supposed to be in here," Laurel whispers over the hiccup in her breathing. My finger has managed to inch its way higher up her leg.

"I own this place. We can be anywhere we want to be."

"Well, for a marriage that's only meant to be on paper, I don't think we should be in here. Like this…" Her eyes fall to my mouth.

I'm still thinking about our kiss and how I'm left unsatisfied. I want more. I crave more.

"Are you okay?" I ask her. I feel like it's an unusual question to ask your bride, but this entire marriage is unusual.

"I'm fine." Her gaze is still bouncing back and forth across my face.

I move my hand from her thigh and grab a flower from the wooden workbench beside us; a short green stem full of lavender colored petals. One of the gardeners must have left it behind without giving it a home.

Laurel watches as I bring the flower between us and drag it down the center of her chest.

"Lavender," she whispers.

"Is that what this is?" I ask, the corner of my mouth curling into a smirk.

She rests her head back onto the moisture-covered glass. I'd forgotten the watering system my mother installed in here years ago. Every few hours, sprinklers bolt into the ceiling to spray water on all the plants along the back wall.

"My back is wet," she says. "Among other things."

My cock swells in my black pants. She slides her other leg between mine, pressing it against me. I groan, lowering the flower to her leg.

"The thoughts that ran through my mind when I saw you walking toward me in this dress." My confession swirls in the damp air between us.

Her skin prickles with goosebumps as I lightly drag the flower up her leg. "This dress wasn't cheap," she adds, her eyes half closed. "It cost over twenty thousand from what Olivia told me."

"Twenty thousand is cheap," I tell her, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"You sound like a rich, arrogant snob when you say things like that." Her hands wrap around my arms. The pressure of her fingers gripping me deepens.

"Well, this rich, arrogant snob is now your husband, and you belong to me." I drag the flower over her pussy.

She shivers with the motion, pulling in a short gasp of air between her glossy lips. I drag my thumb across her bottom lip.

"I want you to taste yourself," I command.

She starts to lower her hand between her legs, but I stop her, clicking my tongue in disapproval. "No, no, no. Not with your own hand. I want you to taste yourself on my fingers."

She flicks her gaze up to mine, looking up at me through her mascara-coated eyelashes. She's wearing more makeup than usual, but it isn't enough to hide her natural beauty.

I'm still playing the flower along her pussy, knowing it's only making her wetter for me. She rocks her hips, pushing herself deeper into the motions of the flower. I move my hand along the flower, holding it closer to the petals. My fingertips graze her bare skin, and I grin with delight.

"Is this because it's our wedding day or are you always this bare, Mrs. Harding?" I ask, fighting the urge to rip my suit off and fuck her hard against the glass wall until she screams my name.

"Only when I'm around you."

"Why is that?" I tease my finger between her slick folds. She's drenched as she lifts her hips off the glass. My finger slides deeper, landing against her swollen clit.

"Because," she breathes. "I was tired of having to change my panties after every time I was near you. You make me so fucking wet, Lennon."

Her confession makes her cheeks turn red.

"Fuck," I tell her, stroking her clit. "I think that's the hottest thing I've ever fucking heard." I slide my fingers from her clit, burying two of them inside her. The flower is still held in my hand but off to the side. I cup her pussy and pump both fingers in and out of her, pressing my thumb against her clit.

She moans, fisting the sleeves of my suit tighter. Her long, pink fingernails dig into my muscles.

"Rock your hips with me," I order. "Is this what you imagine every time your pussy is wet after you see me?"

"No," she whimpers, her eyes closed now.

"Open your eyes," I instruct, wanting her to clarify her answer. She does as I say. "What do you mean, no?"

"I didn't imagine this." She moans, rolling her hips. "I imagine you fucking me."

I'm wanting to free my cock and slide into her. My body remembers what it's like to be buried inside her. It's begging to relive that night. But I can't stop watching her writhe against me. My single touch has Laurel forgetting how, at the very core, our marriage is business. She's replaced it for pleasure. At least temporarily. Thrill courses through my veins with her confession. I love knowing I'm able to bring this side out of her.

Her body hums and vibrates as my strokes move faster and harder. I hook my fingers inside her, finding the spot that makes her thighs clench around me.

"I want you to fuck me, Lennon."

"Not now. We have guests waiting on us."

Her mouth falls open. I'm unsure whether it's because she's close to her orgasm or it's from my answer, denying her what she desperately wants. It might be both.

"Besides," I add. "When you come on my hand, I want to ensure your pussy spends the rest of the night wishing it had more than just my fingers inside it."

"Lennon…" she gasps, her head slamming against the glass. Her shoulders tense, and she inhales a sharp breath.

"That's right, Mrs. Harding." I growl. "Come for me."

She lifts her chin and squeezes her eyes shut, riding my hand a few more times before she quivers against it. Her thighs clench, and she screams my name.

I wait until her body has relaxed, and she's opened her eyes before I slide my fingers out of her.

She's catching her breath when I pull my hand out from between her legs. As promised, I lift my hand and hold it between us. I'm still holding onto the flower with my glistening fingers.

Without a word, she takes the flower from my hand and tucks it into the front pocket of my suit. She keeps her hand pressed against my chest. I smirk, swinging my eyes back to hers.

"Like I said," I tell her. "I want you to taste yourself. Open your mouth."

She breathes heavily and swallows before allowing her lips to part. Her mouth pops open as she waits for me.

I place both fingers against her tongue. She closes her mouth and sucks on them, her red-stained lips tightening around my fingers.

"Fuck, Laurel."

She moans, closing her eyes again. I pull my fingers out and slowly back away. My erratic heart hasn't slowed. I only want her more. But seeing her here, knowing what we just did, it's like reality is settling into my bones. I just finger fucked my wife in my mother's greenhouse.

My eyes fall to the flower in my pocket, the scent a mixture of Laurel and lavender.

Laurel hasn't even been my wife for less than thirty minutes, and I've already given in. We acted like two teenagers sneaking off together, hoping not to get caught. I didn't want to rush things with her. In honesty, I didn't expect to be with her this way. I knew Laurel only agreed to marry me for reasons she still hasn't shared, but the fact that I've just received confirmation she's feeling the same as me scares me.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. I've been na?ve believing it was going to be simple when my feelings for Laurel have been anything but simple since the moment we met.

When I take another step back from Laurel, she pushes herself off the glass wall. Her skin is still flushed as she straightens her wedding gown, adjusting and twisting the fabric around her hips. The slit along her thigh closes.

"We should get back out there for the reception," I tell her. "We still need to get back to the city tonight."

"Oh." She snaps her head up. "We aren't staying here tonight?"

I rub my fingers along my mouth and swipe my tongue across my lip, tasting whatever is left of Laurel on my skin. What feels like an anchor dropping to the bottom of the sea floor is my stomach lurching, and I bite down on my molars. "No, I told you before. We'll be staying at my apartment in Boston from now on."

Laurel's gorgeous face relaxes as she studies me. I can see the thoughts working in her mind. She knows there's a reason I don't want to stay here. She still looks at me like I'm a puzzle needing to be solved.

"Okay," she says quietly.

"Let's go, Mrs. Harding." I wrap her hand in mine and lift my other to trail my finger down the side of her warm cheek, resisting the urge to kiss her. "We don't want to keep our guests waiting."