Page 7 of Her Wedding Night

I flip to the passenger cabins to be sure I didn’t miss anyone there, and I’ve nearly completed that pass through the cameras when I see Ethan and Lucy on the screen.

My body snaps to attention, tension coiling inside me.

There’s no audio, this is a video only feed. She says something to him, then he leaves, and she turns toward the bed.

With a visible sigh, she picks up a scrap of blue from a box and turns it over in her hands.

Then she sets it down, crosses her arms over her body, and pulls her dress up in a single, fluid motion.

I stop breathing.

Look away, Gabe.

I should. I will.

The first time I saw Lucy Martin, it was in a photograph on my son’s bedroom wall. She was studying, her dark reddish shoulder-length waves spilling forward over her face. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she hunched over a textbook, figuring something out for him.

It was the most innocent photo of a tutor, illicitly captured by her tutee.

My heart had crawled out of my body and pressed itself against that photo, wanting her neat little row of teeth to be pressed into my flesh instead.

Fuck. Me.

Watching her strip down to nothing, baring every inch of her small, curvy body, is that moment all over again, times a thousand.

Her ass is more of a handful than I expected, jiggling as she fits that scrap of blue—a bikini bottom, apparently—over her most intimate parts.

And not much else gets covered.

Her back is to the camera, so I only catch a bit of her breast from the side as she puts on the top.

She twists around, her face cringing. The suit is clearly too much for her. Too much and not enough. Not enough by a long shot.

My cock tightens, lengthening down my pant leg, as she loops her fingers under the fabric again, adjusting the small triangles over her small breasts.

I would give anything and everything to do that for her, carefully ensuring that she was covered up.

As much as I appreciate how stunning she is in the too-small suit, it’s not what I would put her in. Lucy deserves something more comfortable, a modest one-piece that she could swim comfortably in.

A mental image of her racing down a dock and leaping into the water, cannon balling with joy, slashes through my mind.

She’s so sweet, so small and fragile and perfect and innocent. And completely wrong for this night, this place, these people.

What the fuck is my son doing with her?

On the screen, she wraps herself in something white and see-through, the fabric so light it floats around her as she ties a ribbon around her waist.

She looks like a bride about to be stretched out on her marital bed for the first time, and I have to shove a fist in my mouth to keep myself from groaning out loud at how indecently perfect that image is.

Hot seed slicks the tip of my cock, not caring that she’s not mine to claim.

She’s young enough to be my daughter and terrified of me.

She will never be mine. Not in all the ways I crave.

But she will always be mine in the most important ways, the only ways that matter at the end of the day.

Mine to protect.