Ms. Manwhore: A Manwhore Series Novella (The Manwhore Series Book 3)
Ms. Manwhore: Chapter 17

There’s only one chapel on the island, and it’s barely a year old. When the original one suffered a fire, one of the billionaires who frequently vacations here had a new one made. The architecture is exquisite, with thick columns and high arches, old mosaics gracing the windows, brought here from antiques shops and auction blocks from across the world. The altar is all white marble, with sculptures hiding in strategically positioned nooks, as well as frescoes on the painted ceiling, reminiscent of Michelangelo.

Today the chapel feels like a garden.

I know this because I came to look at it yesterday, and I know that a waterfall of white orchids hangs over the altar. I know that the aisle rows are dripping with more orchids that trail down to the long red carpet. I know that there are thousands of warmly lit candles awaiting behind the massive antique doors, and that the chorus is accompanied by one of Chicago’s finest orchestras, all flown down here for the wedding.

I can’t breathe in this dress. I CAN’T BREATHE knowing that he’s waiting for me. Behind these doors. Down that freshly cleaned, red-carpeted aisle. Up on the luminous white marble altar and under the hanging orchids. My groom.

Every part of me shakes. Quakes. Aches.

Sandy and Valentine waited outside, and they’re helping Gina and Mom spread out my veil to make sure I look perfect.

Perfect.

Please, please, god, let me look perfect.

We will only marry once. He will only watch me once. And I’m burning for him to burn for me like I do him.

There are days meant to be perfect in your life. So ethereal and mystical. I hadn’t dared imagine this one, though. First, because I didn’t want it . . . never knew I wanted it. Next, because I wanted it so very much.

And now the day is upon me and upon him.

My hair falls behind me, a plain veil covering my face, my wedding dress fitting like it had been made for me. Outside the wind is warm and perfect. The cathedral is bathed in white. The doors swing open. I hear the chorus start.

The air rushes through me, electric, excited, as alive as I feel.

I watch my friends walk before me. They look like exotic birds from overseas. I’m in white, my favorite color. It didn’t used to be my favorite, until I met him. He is so dark, and makes me feel so bright and light in return. The air between us solidifies. I see him. He sees me.

His eyes laser through the thin veil, and I feel charged by green fire. Green fire flowing in my veins. Green fire fiery in my stomach.

And then, he smiles.

Kaboom goes my heart.

I have no fears.

No regrets.

Only a rush of happiness so pure, it hurts in my chest. Tears of emotion start filling my eyes; my mother’s arm is trembling in mine. And I realize she has a trail of tears, happy tears to match the smile on her face.

Through my tears I keep looking ahead to the black, tall, regal shape of my groom. Watching me, intent, his hands clasped before him, his shoulders straight, his legs braced apart, as I walk up.

The future father of all my little Saints, though I’m prepared for devils, the whole lot of them.

And walking up to him feels like the rightest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I don’t want him to see me cry again.

I want to wipe my tears, but I’m afraid to snag the veil. I will tell him, later, that I’m crying because I’m happy. He makes me so happy. My chest swells as we approach; he becomes larger, darker, clearer to my eyes, and oh so very and extremely perfect.

I’m hazy with anticipation when Mom hands me over to Saint.

He takes my hand in his warm, strong grip, and his smile never leaves his face, not for a second.

In a rush, heat eats up my body.

He’s staring at me through my veil, his face blurry through the material. Slowly he lifts the lace, and a look like summer lightning brightens his eyes when he sees me. He sees my tears then, and his gaze fills with an endless tenderness that blooms in my heart. He dries me slowly with his thumbs, and I take one of his big hands in mine and kiss the center of his palm, my kiss saying that he is the center of my world now.

His answer is exquisite.

One sole ghost kiss. Right on the corner of my mouth, where my smile goes, then he draws me up to his side, and I follow him up the two steps, breathing as he breathes, moving as he moves, onto the altar.

Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. My first everything. The man who woke me up. The man who made my world spin faster, the wind feel colder, grapes taste sweeter than ever. Amplified all my senses and left me alive, breathing—so when I messed up, I felt it more than ever.

And now here we are.

I am marrying this beautiful, ambitious, intelligent, generous, caring man, who holds me close, has always kept me close, even when he was so angry at me.

There is no closeness that surpasses where we’re going. Nothing more intimate. More precious than he can give me, and I him.

I pass my bouquet to Gina and Wynn fidgets with the long veil behind me.

The ceremony begins—dreamlike and musical. I absorb the chorus, the priest’s words, the man beside me. Tahoe hands us the rings.

Malcolm slips the ring onto my finger. “I give you this ring as a token of my love.” His smile is all tender and male. He watches me intently as I slip the thicker band onto his left hand, our fingers lacing together.

The priest proceeds to where I will finally vow to take this man.

My mouth dries up. I look up at Malcolm and try to speak as clearly as I can, my stomach warmed by the loving way he looks at me.

“I, Rachel, take you, Malcolm, to be my lawfully wedded husband, my friend, my partner, and my love from this day forward. In the presence of god, our family, and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and in joy as well as in sorrow. I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals, to honor and respect you, and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I’m breathless as I finish, and I smile a little. There’s a gleam of intensity and hunger in his eyes as he listens to me.

When the priest begins to say, “You may now kiss—”

Saint kisses me. He puts one arm around my waist and squeezes me affectionately, and then he lifts me by the waist, up to his mouth, to kiss me longer and harder.

The music soars, “Ode to Joy” as we walk out of the church as man and wife.