EPILOGUE
The cherry blossom represents the ephemeral nature of life. It marks the end of winter and celebrates the renewal of spring.
Cherry blossom trees only bloom once a year.
They can’t be grown in a greenhouse or genetically modified to bloom at other times. Their beauty is both stubborn and rare, which makes Asher Cook determined to get them for me. We marry on a cool spring day in early April, a breeze ruffling the pink-white petals in my bouquet.
Branches form an arch over the aisle. The double doors are flung open, carrying in the pungent scent of fresh earth. There’s an ethereal feeling as I walk down the plush white carpet, between hand-carved walnut pews, toward the man I’m going to marry.
At first I tried to convince Asher I didn’t need such an extravagant ceremony, especially since I knew it would be him paying for the event—not my father. Papa walked me down the aisle; that’s the extent of his involvement in my life since that fateful night.
Gradually I came to realize that although I didn’t need a large ceremony, Asher did. He wanted the most beautiful wedding and he wanted everyone to see it, as if he had something to prove to them.
As if he wants no one to doubt who I belong to now.
So I did not complain when the guest list grew to five hundred in the largest cathedral in Tanglewood, with another few hundred to join us at the reception tonight.
After such a long day neither of us want to board a plane. We make our own honeymoon suite on the balcony of his bedroom, a plate of strawberries and brie and sesame crackers to eat, a bottle of Lambrusco to drink. Asher makes a project of painting me with the deep red liquid and then licking me clean—starting with my shoulder, the underside of my breast, my hip. He makes me twitch and sigh before he finally moves between my legs. He licks and licks, until I’m lost.
It’s too much, so he uses the bowtie from his tux to affix my wrists to the iron rail.
“Such a good little wife,” he murmurs, stroking my sides while I writhe in helpless surrender. There’s nothing I can do with my hands tied above my head, my thighs pushed wide by his muscled body. Even lean and hard as he is, he’s still impossibly large. It’s like being pinned down by a jaguar, all massive paws and ferocious eyes. “It’s your duty to take me now, isn’t it? To lie still and let me have you, whenever I want, for as long as I want—and you always fulfill your duties.”
His thumb swipes my clit, and I flinch, my hips rocking forward to seek more pressure. More or less, anything would be better than this. This glancing, quicksilver touch he forces on me.
“Please,” I whisper.
“You might have to suffer,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “That was part of the vows, I think. Implied by the honoring and the obeying. That you’d have to wait until I’m good and ready to give you my cock. No matter how wet you get or how loud you moan.”
A blunt finger slides through my core, dragging moisture up to my clit, where he taps me, as if pointing something out for my instruction.
“No matter how plump your little clit gets.”
“Asher,” I gasp, pressing my hips towards his hands. “I can’t—”
“Of course you can.” His tone is genuinely sympathetic. “You were built for this. Doing what your husband wants. Being a living doll for me to fuck and fuck and fuck.”
He’s going to drive me insane, and I think he might want that. It’s one of his kinky games—a new one, where I’m the dutiful wife and he’s the implacable husband. The role sinks into me, as soft as the blanket he laid down beneath me. Cool breeze wafts over my body, making my nipples tighten.
“If that’s what pleases you, husband,” I say, because it’s part of the game—but it’s more than a game. He’s right. This is what I was born to do. Bred to do. To be a good little wife, and the dark approval on Asher’s face, the desire in his eyes, is the only reward I need.
He lines up his cock to my sex, the hitch of his breath a secret sign that he isn’t as composed as he acts. Then he thrusts inside me with an uncontained violence, his hardness pushing through my swollen flesh, stretching me almost beyond endurance.
My mouth opens on a silent scream, fists tightening in the hold of his tie.
“Oh God,” he says, the words thick as honey. “You’re so fucking tight. I’m supposed to be gentle with you. I shouldn’t—”
His voice breaks as he thrusts again, reaching somehow farther, making me suck in a breath. I’m spread wide on the balcony floor, my hands stretching high, my thighs pressed almost flat to accommodate him. In every way, I’m the one who must surrender to him. He’s the one in control—and yet his lids are heavy, his lips parted. His hips move in an almost uncontrollable rhythm.
