Ms. Manwhore

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.

SIN AND SINNER

Buzzfeed.com

#SAINT VS. SINNER

Malcolm Saint’s legendary and controversial girlfriend is causing quite a stir as we get wind of a snippet of the prenup to her now-husband, who put the rush on their upcoming nuptials by tying the knot on a secluded island last Saturday. Apparently the prenup enforces a strict loyalty clause if our favorite manwhore strays—and he’s betting his money on the fact that he won’t. The clause is equally demanding of Mrs. Saint. The exact sums and punishments are not known, as Saint is known to guard his private matters with his wife zealously. Which makes us more determined to find out . . .

Updates from @VictoryVictoria on Twitter:

Respecting the couples wish for privacy so no o pics from the Saint wedding, Twitterville, sorry!!!

But I can confirm the wedding took place earlier today!

The bride wore a vintage dress with decadent cleavage

The groom made angels siiiiiiiiigh

I will say . . . congratulations to the pair!

Who to stalk while the honeys are mooning around the world?

@VictoryVictoria Imagine @malcolmsaint on his honeymoon, OH MY WOW

@VictoryVictoria Definitely a hornymoon if Saint’s involved. Or WHORNYMOON

Wonder how long it’ll last.

SOMEWHERE

We fly all day across the Pacific, toward a little island near Bali he rented for us alone. At first, when we board the Gulfstream, the adrenaline is running through my veins. I’m reliving the teary farewells from my friends, the hard slaps on the back Saint got from his friends, and my mother’s hug.

I can’t stop reliving any of the things that happened at the wedding.

We partied across the botanical gardens, decorated in hanging tree lights and more white orchids, tables draped in crisp white linens, Tiffany chairs, and Christofle silverware. We dined on a five-course meal worthy of the finest restaurant—and catered by one—and then Malcolm pulled me to the dance floor and into his arms, guests floating around us as we laughed, and drank, and kissed, and stayed close.

He embraced me from behind as we conversed with our guests. “Twenty-four hours,” he whispered in my ear.

“What’s that?”

He brushed a strand of hair back and pulled my back closer against him. “Wedding party, plus the flight to Somewhere. Twenty-four hours left for me to make you mine.”

Now I’m in his arms, on the big bed in the bedroom at the back of the plane. Sunlight streams through the windows as Saint kisses me.

His hands are under my lace top, slipping to touch my skin. I’m seared where he touches. Where his mouth lands. On my mouth, the corners of my mouth, my jaw, my ears, my neck.

“Can it be night already?” I whisper.

“Rachel . . .” and the word is a husky murmur as he eases back to look at me. So hungry, like me. So very frustrated I can feel his need for me like I feel mine. He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m not taking my wife for the first time on an airplane. That’s for later.” He flashes out a grin that liquefies me. But I know he knows that the moment we walk through the doors of our Somewhere, I will be all his.

“Come here.” Malcolm spoons me and buries his head in the back of my neck, his arm a vise around my hip. A bottomless peace and satisfaction fill me as our bodies fit together so right, my body covered by his bigger one. It feels perfect, like a clean room. A finished job. An orgasm. God, a cataclysmic orgasm, like the kind this man gives me. My . . . husband.

He’s wearing the wedding ring I gave him, on his long, tanned, strong finger, glinting in perfect platinum as he holds his hand on my hip.

I doze to sleep with a throbbing, relentless ache in my body but a smile in my heart and on my face, and we sleep, and sleep, and then shift positions—him on his back, me on my side, spooning his side, and we sleep again.