“No, Poppy, it wasn’t like that. I was there too, remember? I was choosing the same things you were; that mantle of guilt wasn’t yours to bear alone, if at all.”
She shook her head, tears still falling. “But if you’d never met me, you wouldn’t have ever thought about leaving.”
“If I’d never met you, I would never have really lived.”
“Oh God, Tyler.” She buried her face in her hands. “Knowing what you must have thought about me all these months. I hated it. I hated myself. The moment Sterling’s lips touched mine, I wanted to die, because I saw you coming through the park, I knew you were there, and I knew you were hurting, but I had to. I wanted you to forget all about me and keep living your life the way God wanted you to.”
“It hurt,” I admitted. “It hurt a lot.”
“I hated Sterling so much,” she said into her hands. “I hated him as much as I loved you. I never wanted him, Tyler, I wanted you, but how could I have you without you losing everything? I told myself it was better to push you away than watch you wither.”
I peeled her fingers away from her face. “Am I withered now? Because I did leave, Poppy, and not because of you and not because of the pictures Sterling released, but because I realized that God wanted me elsewhere, living a different life.”
“You left?” she whispered. “I thought they made you leave when the pictures came out.”
“I did. I thought…I guess I thought that you would know that.”
“But the rumors…everyone said…” She took a deep breath, her eyes on me. “I just figured the pictures had ruined you. And it killed me knowing that it was partially my fault, because if it hadn’t been for me, Sterling would have never have targeted you. Knowing that split my heart in two, and I couldn’t take it. I had no heart left to split. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you.” I pulled out the rosary and poured the beads into a clinking pile in her palm. “I brought this back for you,” I said, curling her fingers around the rosary. “I want you to have it. Because I forgive you.”
That’s not the whole truth, Tyler.
I took a deep breath. “And there’s more. I was so hurt—gutted—by what you did. And I’m angry with you now, for doing something that only brought both of us pain. You should have talked to me, Poppy, you should have told me how you felt.”
“I tried,” she said. “I tried so many times, but it was like you didn’t hear me, like you didn’t understand. I needed you to forget about me so that I didn’t ruin your life.”
I sighed. She was right. She had tried to tell me. And I had been so caught up in our love, so caught up in my own struggles and my own choices, that I hadn’t really listened to her. “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning those two words more than any person ever has before. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened. I should have told you that it didn’t matter what happened with my job, with us, because in the end, I believe God is looking out for you and me. I believe God has a plan for us. And wherever I go—wherever we go—and no matter what awful things happen, we’ll be comforted by his love.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. And something happened then, an infusion or an awakening, because I realized something.
I still want her.
I still love her.
I still need to be with her for the rest of my life.
And even though it made no sense, even though it was only a few minutes ago that I’d found out she and Sterling weren’t together, had never been together, I still did it. I still lowered myself to one knee on the floor.
“That day, I was on my way to propose to you. And if you’ll have me, I still want to marry you, Poppy. I don’t have a ring. I don’t have money. I don’t even have a real job right now. But all I know is that you are the single most amazing person God has ever put in my path, and the thought of a life without you breaks my heart.”
“Tyler…” she breathed.
“Marry me, lamb. Say yes.”
She glanced down at the rosary and then looked back up to me. And her clear, tearful yes reached my ears about the same time her lips reached mine, her mouth greedy and jubilant and desperate, and I didn’t care where we were or who might see us, I unzipped my jeans, yanked her pants down to her knees, and brought her wet heat against my cock, grinding against her, half wrestling and half tumbling to the narrow space of floor between the pews until I could knee her legs apart and push my way inside.
It was short and rough and loud, but it was perfect, just me and Poppy and God in his tabernacle standing watch over us both. I wanted this woman for all eternity, and I wanted eternity to start as soon as fucking possible.
Poppy
Your hand is clapped over my mouth as your other hand digs under layers of lace and tulle to find my pussy—bare at your request. Bare precisely for this moment.
Outside, the guests are beginning to filter into the church, a Catholic church despite my parents’ playful protests, and in exchange for having a Catholic wedding, they extracted from us a grudging acceptance to let them throw the lavish affair they wanted to throw for their princess—fireworks and gallons of champagne and strings of lights under a starry Rhode Island sky.
But I’m nobody’s princess right now. I’m a panting lamb, squirming as your fingers find my clit—already ripe and swollen—and pinch it, gently. There are thousands of dollars of designer lace and silk pooled around my waist and I want you to rip it all off, expose my garter and stockings and naked cunt to the air. But you don’t.
Instead, you murmur in my ear, “You did as you were told. Good lamb.” You drop your hand from my mouth to cup my breast.
I lean back against you. “Isn’t there something about not seeing the bride before the wedding?”
“It’s bad luck, they say, but I think starting married life with a fuck is nothing but lucky, don’t you?”
We’re in a small chapel off the main room, with a screened window that opens onto the sanctuary. It’s difficult to see inside and we’ve locked the thin wooden door, but it does nothing to muffle the sounds, and as quiet as I am, there’s no mistaking the rustle of my dress and my frantic breathing as your fingers move past my clit to the wet folds of my cunt.
Then you spin me around, drinking me in with hungry green eyes. You shaved this morning, your square jaw smooth and stubble-free, and even though I know your mother fussed over your hair earlier, a few stray locks have fallen over your forehead. I reach to tug on them but you catch my wrist in your hand before I do. Not necessarily to stop me, but so you can yank me closer to you, making the delicate skin of my pussy rub against your tuxedo pants. I feel your erection there—a hot, rigid length—and I moan.
The hand comes over my mouth again, and your normally smiling face is serious. “One more noise, Mrs. Bell,” you hiss in my ear, “and it will be your ass I’m fucking instead.”
Is that supposed to be a punishment? “I’m not Mrs. Bell yet,” I tease.
“But you still belong to me.”
There’s no arguing that. I’ve belonged to you since the first time I sat down in your confession booth.