Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(46)

“Oh, Jonathan.”

“Nope. That’s my name.”

“Mrs. Drazen.”

He slammed into me. “I don’t think you believe it.”

“My name is—“

He f**ked me for real then, putting a hand on either side of my head and taking my cunt repeatedly. He pressed his face to mine, rocking. I was close, so close he could sense it, and as was his way, he slowed down, dangling me over an ocean.

And I let him, because he owned me.

“Look at me.”

I did. His hips stroked me, stretching me, the friction between us a white heat. I was so close. I could feel the undertow of my orgasm on my legs. I wanted to get pulled under, I wanted to drown in it, but he was holding me back, a life vest I didn’t want.

“What’s your name?”

I gasped a few times, lost in the sensation between my legs. “I forget.”

“Perfect.”

He moved once, twice, three times, and I exploded, sucked down by the undertow, pulled out to the neverending sea, clenching against him like my body wanted to break him and fit the whole of him inside me.

“Ah, Monica.” He came right after, growling my name, then grunting as he never had before the surgery, before he came back stronger and better. I loved seeing him in those moments, overcome with is own pleasure, his connection to me complete and unbreakable.

“I love you,” I said.

“And I, you.”

“Can you untie me?”

He reached around me and loosened the knot. “First you decide to work on our wedding night, and now you nag me to untie you.”

“You’re a horrible brute,” I said, feigning offense. “I’m staying at my mother’s.”

He leaned up, and I stood. My new name was smudged on the bottom. Jonathan helped me back into my dress. My hair was a wreck and my makeup was worn off.

“Shit,” I grumbled.

“You look beautiful.”

“You have lipstick all over your shirt.”

He looked down at himself. “I look like I’ve been shot.”

“By the cheerleading squad.”

He laughed. “It’s dark on the plane, and I’m going to me naked and f**king most of the way to Paris anyway.”

“Really? What if I have a headache?”

“I’ll f**k it right out of you.” He buttoned his jacket, covering the lipstick stain.

There was a knock at the door. It was my assistant, Ned, a huge guy there more for my protection than assistance. “Ms. Faulkner?”

I pressed my lips between my teeth.

“Who?” asked Jonathan. “No one by that name any more, Ned.”

“Monica?” Ned called. “Listen, you’re on, whoever you are. Three minutes.”

“Coming!”

I straightened myself, rubbed mascara from under my eyes and fingerbrushed the bird’s nest on my head as Jonathan watched. It was hopeless. I looked like someone just f**ked the shit out of me.

“I brought this for you,” he said.

He pulled a long chain from his jacket pocket. My lariat. I hadn’t worn it because it didn’t make sense for a wedding, but as it stretched across his hands, drooping between them, the encrusted berries on either side swinging and sparkling in blue and green, I wanted it around my neck.

“Thank you.” I looked at the ceiling, exposing my throat, and he reached up, looping it around me not once, but twice, and when I looked to him, he pulled the jewels, snapping it tight around my neck.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. I kissed him, as if for the first time, his lips the symbol of vulnerability in safety, pain and pleasure, passion and contentment, until Ned banged on the door again and called me by my first name.

Jonathan and I smiled to each other as he opened the door. We walked through the cinderblock-lined hallways of the back stages, Ned in the lead, another security guy in back. Strangers who didn’t expect me, techies and runners, roadies and Darren’s klatch of fans, all stopped and stared for a second. I smiled at them, because they’d made me who I was, and held my husband’s hand behind me.

Darren stood out there with his band, sweating in the spotlights, his sticks twirling in his fingers. It was hot, and I felt the lipstick inside the bodice of my gown, reminding me of my name. I went out when called to sing with them, each breath, each note, each word, no matter the song, about one thing only.

Jonathan.

Jonathan.

Jonathan.

THE END