A Lust to Remember

Each time History repeats itself the price goes up.

Anonymous

I stand at the altar across from the man who will become my third husband. The butterflies that had taken residence in my stomach have been replaced with large bats, the churning threatening to dislodge the meager contents I’d consumed this morning. I’m shaking with such intensity, I’m sure the minister thinks I’m ill. Judging by my soon to be husbands glances, he’s worried I’ll ruin his tux. He looks as if he wants to take a step back, but his hand holds fast to mine.

My last two husbands had been good men considering where they came from, but not good enough, according to my father. They needed to carry the family name and be worth the carrying. While he had chosen each of them to be my husband, he had also decided that each would no longer be. There was never any evidence of foul play, but I knew their demise was untimely. The same way I knew that if I had of had a brother, my demise would have been untimely too. Something my mother is probably thankful for, as much as she is reminded of her failings each day.

I detest being the only heir, the one to carry the name of our southern blue blood. Practically royalty, my mother has told me numerous times. An heiress. I scoff as I think about that title. An Heiress, what day and age is it? And what good is the title if I have no say? What was the point of it all? Why couldn’t I marry for love? Choose a man myself or a woman for that matter? I just want the type of love I read about. I long to be desired, just as I am. Not for my name, my family money, or the dynasty that follows me like a dark cloud.

My thoughts drift back to that night. The single night where I allowed myself to be a woman, a sexual being, instead of an heiress to the family name. That single night where I forgot about duty and concentrated solely on that longing, on what I wanted and needed. I recall how fingers touched me with such reverence, but also dominance. How they embraced me but also invaded. A chill that doesn’t cool but instead brings warmth to my center, tingles down my spine.

A sigh escapes me as I think of our encounter, of how our eyes met across the lobby like we had been waiting for the other. How I usually eat alone, in my room, but decided to take my meal at the bar that night, and how when he walked in, the air inside the room vanished as mine and all the other patron’s eyes landed on him. How he sat beside me like he knew it was his place, and I had been saving it for him. Maybe I was, I just didn’t know it yet.

We made small talk as we sipped overpriced drinks and resisted the urge to touch the other. Once our plates were cleared and our heads were full of visions of all things indecent, only then did he ask if I could be his for the night. The way he asked, like he was staking a claim, sent goosebumps across my arms, and evoked fire inside my belly.

He held my hand as we rode the elevator, staring ahead, yet at each other’s reflection. On my face was a look of wonder, on his, hunger. Instead of fear that a normal person would have felt when being eyed up by a wolf, I only felt arousal. He didn’t know who I was, and therefore didn’t treat me like an heiress, but like a possession, something to be owned and cared for.

As my mind settles fully on that night, on the desire that laced my tongue and coated my thighs, I stop myself from squirming in place. My fingers flex as I recall his flesh beneath them, the soft silk layering his hard rod. I stifle a moan as I remember where else that piece of luxury was, and the delicious way it made me feel. The ridges it held as they rasped against my tongue, the tang of his essence as it painted my throat. I had never known lust like I had that night, and standing across from this stuffy man, whose name I only know through my parents, I know I never will again.

Blocking out the minister’s words, I let my mind wander. I’ve done this enough; I can probably recite my vows in my sleep. I go back to him, to the pleasantness of his five o’clock shadow chaffing my thighs. His tongue diving in, only to lap at me purposely, confidently. I resist the urge to touch my thighs where his fingers left bruises as I came apart, hips bucking wildly. No matter how loud my cries, he just pushed me higher.

Closing my eyes, I recall his soft lips as they pressed against my own, lapped at my neck and collar bone. How his teeth nipped my cherry red nipples before he soothed the ache with his tongue. My nipples harden beneath the bodice of my dress and I wish the thought away, but know I will never forget. I never want to.

I never want to forget how his body covered mine and made me feel whole, or how his warm breath tickled my cheek as he slept, satiated. Forever, I want to recall the depth of his irises as he said goodbye the next morning and the longing they held when our fingers separated as we stepped off the elevator into a new day. I will always remember how his eyes seared my soul as he watched me walk away, head held high so I wouldn’t show how much I wanted to stay.

The minister clears his throat, and I realise that I’ve tuned out. While I should be concentrating on my vows and my future, I’ve been thinking about my one and only lover. My father’s preferred suitor stares at me, red peeking out of the collar of his white pressed shirt, creeping slowly up to his ears. He’s angry. I know the signs, having seen them on my father’s face each day for the last twenty-six years. Twenty-six and widowed twice. I didn’t want there to be a third time.

Smiling at the minister, I look at the man across from me and know deep down, I will not do this. I will not repeat history, I will not marry out of duty. Not again.

“I’m sorry, I can’t marry you. It’s probably for the best.” I don’t give him a chance to say anything as I shrug his hand from my shoulder when he reaches out to stop me. He knows what he is losing, but only I know that this is the only way to truly save him.

The church is aflutter with people, whispers filling the spaces between pews. I don’t need to look at my father to know I will receive his wrath when we’re alone. I can hear my mother behind me, her heels clicking on the stone floor as she chases after me. The petal lined aisle reminds me of a woodland trail, littered with leaves as I make my way to the double wooden doors. My hand reaches out but just before it wraps around the ornate steel handle, my door to freedom, to a new life, is blocked by my father’s guards.

“Let me pass”, I say under my breath, not wanting to cause more of a scene. They don’t budge, not that I expected them to. I hear my mother behind me and when I turn, I find my father behind her. I’m just about to restate my order to my parents when I hear a deep voice, one that I recognise say,

“The lady said to let her pass.”

When I look around to find the disembodied voice, he’s standing only an arm’s length away. I take him in as my mouth gapes open. What is he doing here? He walks to me and tugs me close, slanting his lips securely on mine.

When I come up for much-needed air, his smile takes me back to the first night and I know he’s thought of me too.

“What? How? What are you doing here?”

“I came to claim what’s mine.” He replies loudly.

 I try to ask him another question, but nothing comes out. Instead, I stand there gasping like a fish out of water.

From beside me, I hear my mother say, “Close your mouth, dear.”

To see who else is writing about History Repeating for #wickedwednesday, hit the bullseye.

For more short stories like this, see Fiction.

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