My Groom Fled the Wedding, So His Father and His Guides Kept Me novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Forty Buttons

In the big room under the stuffed salmon, Hank undoes her dress one button at a time, kneels, and takes her on the long table while looking at her for the first time in four years.

The kitchen door swung shut behind Beck, Rolf and Jesse, and I heard the lock turn.

Hank counted the buttons out loud.

"Thirty-one," he said.

His voice was low and rough, and his knuckles were warm against my spine.

"You're slow," I said.

"I'm not in a hurry," he said.

"Devon would have ripped them."

"I'm not Devon."

He undid thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, and the dress loosened around my ribs.

Cool air touched my back, and I held my braid up in my fist and kept very still.

"Thirty-nine," he said, and his voice cracked on it.

"Forty."

The dress slid off my shoulders and fell around my feet.

I stood in the big room in white lace, with the stuffed salmon over my head.

The dirty plates sat behind me on the long table.

I had never been less ashamed in my life.

"Turn around," Hank said.

I turned.

He stood close, with his huge hands hanging at his sides, and his eyes went down me and back up, slowly.

"I'm going to look at you," he said. "I haven't, and I should have. You look back. Don't close your eyes."

"Yes."

"Say it again."

"Yes, Hank," I said.

"Tell me what you want."

My mouth was dry.

"I don't want to decide anything else today," I said.

My voice was steady.

"I decided enough this morning. Tell me where to be, and tell me what to do."

His jaw moved, and I watched the order come up in him, heavy and slow.

"Come here," he said.

I stepped over the dress.

His hand came up and cupped my face, and it covered my cheek, my ear and half my jaw.

The calluses on his thumb dragged across my lip.

Then he kissed me.

It was not careful.

It was a long, deep, hungry kiss, and he groaned into my mouth, and his beard scraped my chin.

He tasted of coffee and woodsmoke and cold air off the lake.

It tasted like the dock.

I had one kiss in my life that tasted like that, four Julys ago, in the dark, the night the power went out.

I had thought it was Devon's, and he never kissed me that way again, not once in three years.

I told myself that every good kiss tastes like that one if you want it badly enough.

I put both hands in Hank's shirt and pulled.

"Up on the table," he said against my mouth.

He lifted me by the waist and set me on the edge of the long table.

He swept three plates and a pie tin off the end with one arm, and the clatter echoed through the empty room.

"Hands behind you, flat on the wood," he said. "Don't take them off."

I put my palms down, and the oak was cold under them.

He knelt.

It took him a moment, because he was a big man and his knees were fifty-three years old.

He knelt on the floor of his own dining room in front of his son's bride.

He put his hands on my thighs and spread them wide.

"Look at me, Kristin."

I looked.

He hooked two fingers in my white panties and pulled them down my legs, and he dropped them on the boards.

"Fifteen years," he said, low. "I'll tell you now, so you know. Fifteen years since I touched anyone."

"Then you have a lot to catch up on."

Something moved in his face that was almost a smile.

He put his mouth on me.

I gasped.

His beard was rough on my inner thighs, and his tongue was broad and hot and slow.

He licked me from the bottom to the top in one long drag, and my hips came off the table.

"Stay down," he said, against my skin.

I stayed.

He did it again, and he took his time, learning me with his tongue one stroke at a time.

He watched my face the whole while, and when my eyes began to close he said, "Eyes," and they opened.

"Hank," I said. "Oh, God."

"Say what you want."

"Your mouth. Right there. Don't stop."

He didn't stop.

He closed his lips around my clit and sucked, steady and firm, and slid one thick finger into me, and then a second.

They filled me, and they curled up, searching, and found the place that made me shout.

The sound rang off the rafters.

"Good girl," he said.

My thighs began to shake.

I gripped the edge of the table until my fingers hurt, because I had been told to, and because I needed something to hold.

"Come for me," Hank said.

I came with my head thrown back and my braid hanging off the end of the table.

I came on his tongue and his fingers, loudly, with a ragged cry I could not stop.

He held my hips down against the oak and did not let me move until I was finished.

When I could see again, he was still looking at me.

He wiped his beard with the back of his wrist and stood, and his knees cracked.

He started on his belt, and his hands were shaking.

"Let me," I said.

"No."

"Hank."

"Hands on the table," he said. "I've waited. Let me do this."

He got his belt open and his trousers down.

His cock was thick and flushed and heavy, longer than I had expected, and it curved up toward his stomach.

A bead already shone on the head.

I stared at it, and my mouth went dry again.

"You're going to put that in me," I said, hoarse.

"Good. You're so wet I can feel it on my knuckles."

He gripped the base and rubbed the head up through my wet folds, once, twice, until I whimpered.

"Lie back."

I lay back on the long table, among the crumbs and the napkins.

He put my legs around his waist, and my heels dug into his hard ass.

"Tell me when," he said.

"Now. Now, Hank, please."

He pushed in.

I felt every inch of him.

He went slowly, because he was big, and because his whole body was shaking with the effort of it.

I stretched around him, full and tight and hot, and when he bottomed out we both groaned.

He held still, and I could feel him pulse inside me.

"Fifteen years," he whispered. "Kristin. Give me a minute."

"Take two."

He laughed, one hard breath, and bent over me.

I ran my hands up his back under his white dress shirt, and his skin was damp and hot.

Then he began to move.

He fucked me slowly at first, with deep, long strokes that drew his cock almost all the way out and drove it back in.

The table creaked.

My tits shook in the white bra, and he pushed the cups down with his thumbs and took one nipple into his mouth.

"Oh," I said. "Oh, yes."

He sucked, and the pleasure ran straight down to where we were joined.

He lifted his head.

"Eyes on me," he said.

I opened them.

His face was above mine, flushed under the gray beard, and his eyes were wet.

He did not look away.

For four years he had not looked, and now he looked at everything.

"Harder," I said.

"Say it again."

"Fuck me harder, Hank."

He drove into me.

The table walked an inch across the floor.

His hands gripped my hips, huge and unyielding, and he pounded into me hard enough to rattle the plates.

I wrapped my legs around him, found the edge of the table over my head, and held on.

"That's it," he said. "Take it. Take all of it. You're so wet."

"Yes."

"You feel better than I remembered anything could," he said.

"Don't stop. Don't stop."

He reached between us and found my clit with his thumb.

He rubbed it in small, hard circles, and my body began to tighten.

"Come on my cock," he said.

I came again, screaming, with my back arched off the oak.

The pleasure rolled through me in long waves, and I clenched around him, and I heard him groan, a deep, broken sound.

"Kristin," he said.

He pulled out of me, and I made a sound of loss.

He slid his hands under my thighs and lifted me off the table.

I locked my arms around his neck, and my legs went around his waist, and he carried me three steps across the boards.

He set my back against the stone of the hearth.

The heat of the banked fire came through the rock and warmed my shoulder blades.

"Hold on," he said.

"I've got you."

He found me with one hand and sank in again, standing, and I felt his thighs shake under mine.

"You're not heavy," he said, before I could ask. "God help me, you're nothing."

"Then use me."

He took me against the hearth.

He drove up into me with his forearms under my knees.

My head tipped back against the stone, and the stuffed salmon swung in and out of my sight.

Each thrust lifted me an inch off the rock and set me down on him again.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

"That's the face," he said, low and astonished. "That's the one I've been keeping out of my head."

I kissed him, with my teeth, hard enough to make him growl.

He bit my lip back and went deeper, and the old floor groaned under his boots.

I came on him there, against the fire-warm stone, with my heels digging into the back of his thighs.

He held me through every pulse of it and did not set me down.

"Again," he said. "I want it twice before I let you off this wall."

"Hank, I can't."

"You can," he said, and moved.

He was right, and I hated how right he was, and I came a second time with my face in his beard.

Then he set me on my feet, and my legs held for about a breath.

"Turn around," he said. "Bend over the table."

My legs barely held me.

I crossed the boards to the oak and turned my back to him.

I laid my chest down on the cool wood, with my cheek against the grain and my arms stretched out in front of me.

He stepped up behind me and pressed my back down with one broad hand between my shoulder blades.

"Stay," he said.

"I'm staying."

"Spread your feet."

I spread them, and he gripped my ass with both hands and held me open.

I felt the head of his cock slide through my wet folds, once.

He pushed in again, and the new angle drove deep, and I shouted at the wood.

"There," he said. "That's where I wanted you. Right there, with my name in your mouth."

"Hank. Oh, Hank," I said.

"Again."

"Hank!" I cried.

He fucked me from behind with slow, heavy strokes, and the plates at the far end of the table rattled in time.

His hand slid under my hip and found my clit.

I came a third time, and it left me limp across the table with my fingers curled over the edge.

"Come in me," I said. "Please."

He drove deep and held there, shuddering.

I felt him pulse and spill, hot and thick, inside me.

His forehead came down against mine, and his breath came ragged.

For a long while we stayed that way, joined, with the stuffed salmon watching us from the wall.

"Fifteen years," he said into my neck.

"It was worth waiting for."

He laughed again, softly, and the laugh shook through both of us.

He helped me down and held my elbow until my knees worked.

Then he wrapped his suit coat around my shoulders, and it came to my knees and smelled of him.

"Stay here," he said.

He walked into the kitchen with his trousers still open.

I heard the swinging door, and then I heard nothing else.

Three men were standing in there, I realized, and they had been washing the same dishes for an hour.

I came to the door.

Hank stood at the whiteboard where Jesse wrote the daily menu, and he uncapped the marker with his teeth.

On the board, in big square capitals, he wrote: SUN 9 PM. SAUNA. BECK.

Beck stood by the sink with a dish towel in his hands and did not blink.

Rolf was holding a wet plate so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Jesse had flour on his face and a very big smile.

"Monday's Rolf," Hank said, writing. "Tuesday, Jesse. She'll want to know where to be."

He turned and looked at me, and he did not look away.

"That's where you'll be, Kristin," he said.

"Yes, Hank," I said.

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