“The sooner we get married, the sooner I can keep my word.”
“Let’s go! Is this what you want to wear to our wedding?” he asked, slipping a hand up her thigh and into the skirt that was mostly around her waist. “It’s really sexy. Especially now that I’ve seen your O-face while you were wearing it.”
“Eric!”
“You have to wear the top too, though, because I don’t want anyone to see this fantastic rack but me. Kings be damned.”
She considered the costume in the mirror and decided she didn’t like it much after all.
“Now that I’ve been fucked by Mark Antony, I think I need something a little different to get married in. Something a little less revealing, perhaps.”
He chuckled and kissed the back of her shoulder. “Any ideas?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s go browse some more.”
“King Arthur and Guinevere? I can slide Excalibur into your stone. Pull it out. Slide it back in again. Repeat and repeat until the magic happens.”
Rebekah stifled a giggle. “I’m not familiar with my stone, King Arthur. Where’s that exactly?”
“I think it’s between your boobs.” He cupped them in both hands and pressed them together.
“Damn,” she said. “I was hoping my stone was a bit lower.”
She winked at him in the mirror and climbed to her feet, tugging out of his grip as she rose.
Rebekah found a packet of tissues and wet wipes in her purse—a necessity when dating Eric Sticks—and used them to clean herself up before they redressed and went back to the racks of costumes as if they hadn’t just been fucking in the dressing room.
Not that anyone but the two of them would have noticed. Malachi was still fast asleep.
Rebekah looked at Bride of Frankenstein costumes and one of an astronaut. She considered a Southern belle gown that would have made Scarlett O’Hara green with envy, but for some reason she kept returning to the white dress she’d first spotted. It was probably meant for the ghost of a heartbroken specter, but technically it was a wedding dress. Rebekah lifted it from the rack and held it against her body.
“Did you find something?” Eric asked, thumbing through a rack of mobster attire.
“Bride costume,” Rebekah said, showing him the mass of lace and frills she couldn’t help but gravitate toward again and again.
“I guess that’s fitting,” he said. “But not terribly creative.”
She hung the dress back on the rack and tried to find something more creative. If he thought she was going to get married in one of her usual, naughty costumes with her tits and ass more bare than covered, he had another think coming. Her mother would be at the ceremony as Rebekah’s witness. And for once Rebekah didn’t want to stir things up with the woman.
Rebekah slid hangers down the rack one at a time as she looked at flapper dresses and regency gowns, ballerina tutus and army fatigues. She started when a large hand splayed over her lower back. The tattoo she’d recently had inked there was still a bit sensitive to the touch. Eric thrust the frilly white wedding dress into her arms.
“I think you should wear this.”
“But it’s not terribly creative,” she reminded him.
“I don’t mind. As long as you promise to wear it to bed tonight,” he said. “The thought of you in a wedding gown has me in a state that would make those Robin Hood or Romeo tights several inches too short, if you catch my drift.”
She laughed and gave him a hearty squeeze. The man was gifted at making her feel good about herself, and he could get his dick hard more times in a day than three average men combined.
“Then maybe you should wear the wedding dress to hide your perpetual hard-on,” she said, “and I should be the one to wear the tights because I’m super short.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Would it turn you on if I said yes to the dress?”
“Uh, no. Not at all.”
“Then forget it.”
She laughed at the thought of him dressed in a wedding gown. If she lied and told him that cross-dressers made her horny, she had no doubt that her eager groom would say his eternal vows to her in a frilly white wedding gown. She wouldn’t do that to him though. Even if it would be hilarious.
“So I’ll wear the bridal gown and you wear this,” she said, hurrying to a nearby rack and jerking out a tuxedo—007 version, very smooth and cool—that looked like it might fit him.
“Honey, do you want to wait? Maybe you’d like to get married in a cathedral with the dress and the twelve bridesmaids and the cake and the—”
She kissed him to shut him up. She knew he wanted to give her the world, and he had. He was her world, so as long as he stayed by her side, she had everything she could possibly want.
“I don’t want the bridesmaids or the cake or the cathedral,” she said. “I do want the vows and the kiss and even though I didn’t expect to, I apparently want the stupid dress.”
“Personally, I’m most looking forward to the kiss,” he said. “I think I need to practice it a couple dozen times to gauge the appropriate amount of tongue to give you. What do you say?”
She swatted his shoulder. “No more kissing until you say I do, or we’re going to end up screwing in the dressing room again and miss our own wedding.”
“Fine,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I’ll just fantasize about kissing you while you go try on that dress. And then we’ll head to the courthouse.”