White Wedding

Snowbound: White Wedding Cat Marsters All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2008 Cat Marsters

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ISBN: 978-1-59596-925-5

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Changeling Press LLC

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Editor: Sheri Ross Fogarty

Cover Artist: Reneé George

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Snowbound: White Wedding Cat Marsters Weddings are supposed to be happy. Summer Fae are supposed to be warm. So what the hell am I doing in a snowbound cabin in the Alps?

Snowbound: White Wedding I’d been married for about thirty minutes and already I felt like killing my husband. “Get married in the snow,” he said. “I’ll teach you to ski,” he said. “I’ve found us a beautiful, remote cabin.” I was seduced by thoughts of log fires and hot tubs steaming into the snowy night. Stupid of me, because I’m a Summer Fae. Snow and me are unmixy things. But he doesn’t know that. He thinks I’m human. The cabin was so damn remote we had to use a Ski-doo to get there, which didn’t precisely go well with my wedding dress. It was freezing out there. It was below freezing. My eyelashes were stuck together. My heartbeat was slowing down. I don’t do cold. Then, just as the practical, sensible, human love of my life was building up the log fire -- because the heating was damn well broken, and we were six thousand feet up in the French Alps -- a huge chunk of snow just decided to descend on the cabin, burying the Ski-doo, breaking off the phone line, and effectively cutting us off. All right, so I have wings. But he doesn’t know I have wings. Dammit. “Well, at least we’re private,” he said, and I snarled at him, because apparently my suitcase, with all my clothes, toiletries, and my beautiful wedding night lingerie, hadn’t been sent up from the hotel. My perfect day was going down the crapper. “I could warm you up,” he offered, eyes dark and hot. “Touch me and die,” I said, and stomped off to see if the hot tub on the roof deck -- the only bit not buried by snow -- worked. It did. Lord-a-mercy, it did. Clearly it wasn’t heated by the same system as the radiators. I left the dress and the horrible padded ski jacket on the bed, tripped out there in my furry boots, and stepped out of them into the steaming water.

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Well, this was better. The hot jets of water pummeled my frozen skin, defrosting me. Thawing me. One in particular was doing some nice work in the region of my inner thigh, and I shifted a little so it hit me dead center. Oh yeah. That was much better. I moved my legs apart, letting the force of the water hit me where I needed it. They say wedding days are tense, but how many people get avalanched? My white wedding was very nearly a white-out. Look at me, Summer Fae, sitting here in the snow. Damn, it must be love. The jet of water caressed my clit, and I bit my lip, breathing harder. Yep, I was definitely getting warmer now. Definitely getting a little more relaxed. Maybe I might let him touch me. The avalanche wasn’t his fault, after all. The hot jet pulsing against my pussy was good, but it wasn’t filling me, wasn’t taking me over, wasn’t making me lose my mind. I moved my hips in a little circle, and the water hit something so good I let out a little moan. “You okay out there?” he called. “Sure! Great!” I gasped. My hands moved to my breasts, rolling my nipples between thumb and finger, my hips bucking as the pressure built stronger inside me. Then it burst, a small orgasm that sent little waves of pleasure lapping through me. Not huge waves. Just little ones. Just enough to leave me wanting more. Shakily, I stood up. Apparently people in Scandinavia roll in the snow after a sauna. Wouldn’t catch me doing that. I stepped back into my boots, shivering in the terrible chill, and stole back inside. The bedroom was cold, but there was a glow coming from the doorway. The cabin actually was beautiful, warm wood and soft textiles, a huge stone fireplace and a big rug in front of it.

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He knelt there by the fire, feeding the flames with twigs and bits of paper. A log burned merrily. It radiated heat, light, a rosy glow that caught the frown of concentration on his handsome face. “Hey, husband,” I said, and he looked up.

He swallowed.

“I’ve been re-thinking my stance on you touching me,” I said.

He nodded.

“Like, now,” I prompted, and he pulled his sweater over his head as he came to

me. I love an obedient man. He drew me into his arms, kissing me, and I tell you, that’s something else he can do really well. His mouth brushed mine, soft and warm, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips, and I felt that familiar thrill of excitement flutter low in my belly. Moving closer, I let my arms rest around him, and he settled one hand on the small of my back, a subtle pressure that brought my hips against his. He was wearing those stupid ski pants, and I couldn’t feel anything through them. “Off,” I said, digging my thumbs under the waistband. “These are no good.” “Hey,” he said, “if I’d been wearing normal clothes, the cold would have made this impossible.” I stuck my hand down his pants and felt how possible it was. “I’m impressed with your foresight,” I said. “Now get them off.” He did, kicking off his boots, tugging off his socks, and then he got rid of his shirt, too. I can’t tell you how relieved I was that he wasn’t wearing thermal underwear. It might be practical, but it’s not hella sexy, is it? I removed his boxers for him, and then we were both naked. Well, once I’d got rid of my furry boots we were. “Hey, wife,” he said, and drew me against him again, hip to hip, his body hard against mine. The light hair on his chest tickled me, a sweet friction against my

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sensitized nipples that made me gasp. His hands caressed my back, not usually an erogenous zone, but the way he touched me, my entire body was one giant G-spot. When he stroked his hand down my thigh, lifting my knee to prop my leg over his hip, his cock settled between my thighs and the heat of it made me moan a little. He was so hard, and so big. “I’m glad you weren’t wearing normal clothes,” I said, as he rubbed himself against me, and he grinned. I was still pretty wet, and getting wetter by the second. He moved his cock against my clit, back and forth, round and round, until I was panting. His mouth found the hot spot under my jaw, biting gently and stealing all my breath. His hand moved to my breast, cupping and weighing it, his thumb brushing the nipple. And like that, his mouth on my neck, my breast in his hand and his cock rubbing but not entering me, I came again. He eased me down to the ground, to the cold flags and soft rug, and rolled me closer to the fire. “Warmer yet?” he asked, and I nodded, speechless. I was on fire. “Good.” He dipped his head and kissed the underside of my breast. He licked up one side. He nibbled down the other. And just when I was desperate for him to touch my nipple he sucked it into his mouth without any warning at all, and I lost my breath again. He swirled his tongue around my nipple, scraped it with his teeth, and everything he did made me mindless. My back was arching, pushing my breast toward him, begging him for more. My hips moved restlessly on the rug, trying to ease some of the ache between my thighs. What I wanted was for him to be inside me, but he was torturing me so sweetly I didn’t want that to end, either. He lifted my leg over his hip again, slid one hand over my thigh, stroked my buttock. Played with that soft bit of skin at the very top of my thigh. Then, so slowly I nearly screamed, he moved his hand upwards, over my ass, toward the wet, swollen folds of my pussy.

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I whimpered in anticipation, and when he finally brushed one finger over my labia, I let out a long shuddering breath and felt him smile against my breast. “Don’t get cocky,” I said shakily, and he used his free hand to guide my fingers down to the rampant length pressing against my thigh. “Too late,” he said, his hot breath on my wet breast making me shiver. “Besides, I’ve already made you come once. I figure I’m allowed to be cocky.” “I came before that too,” I whispered. “In the hot tub.” He closed his eyes. “When I’m done here, we’re going out there.” “When you’re done?” I said. “What about when I’m done?” “When I’m done,” he said, “you won’t be capable of walking.” So saying, he stroked my labia, gently but deliberately, and I figured walking was overrated. He continued to lap at my breast, flicking his tongue over my tight, sensitive nipple, while his fingers slid around in my slippery folds. Taking my labia between finger and thumb, he rubbed in opposite directions, and my fingers clenched in his hair so hard he lifted his head and said, “Ow.” “Sorry,” I gasped, not really sorry at all. “Do that again.” He did, and I actually moaned. Then he moved his thumb to my clit, and started kissing a trail down my stomach. I tensed in anticipation, moving my legs wider apart, draping them over his shoulders as he dipped lower, and waited for him to strike. But he didn’t, the bastard. He kissed the inside of my thigh, licked the sticky moisture from my skin, and bit gently into the tender flesh there. He licked up one side of my groin and down the other, prolonging the agony. His fingers, slippery with my own come, slid up my body, stroked my breast, massaged the moisture in. When he finally licked me there, my hips came several inches off the rug, my neck arching right back. He gently licked my labia and my head tossed, side-to-side. Tiny moans escaped me. His hand touched mine, led my fingers to my sticky breast, and together we stroked, rolled, pinched and played. He licked deep inside me, then right up to my clit, where he swirled his tongue around and I nearly choked.

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Feet flat on the rug, I lifted my hips up, pushing myself into his mouth, and he wrapped his lips around my clit and sucked. My third orgasm crashed over me, big hard waves of deadly pleasure that had me crying out, a keening noise like a bird. It also had my wings unfolding from my back, jolting me up from the ground, and the warm orgasmic glow receded pretty quickly as I realized my cover was blown. He knelt there, watching me. “Fae?” he said, apparently entirely unconcerned. I nodded mutely, and he grinned, dropped a kiss on my clit that sent a shiver running through me. “Elf,” he said. I stared. “Elf,” he said. “Grew up in Lapland.” “Hence the snow?” “Pretty much.” He stroked my hip. “I thought you’d say no to this. You must really love me.” “I do,” I said, surprised he’d doubted it, and he smiled, almost shy, and gave my pussy another lick. He stayed there between my thighs, his head on my stomach, watching me as I folded my wings away. And when I looked up at him, he said, “Still think a remote cabin was a bad idea?” “I never said it was a bad idea,” I said. “Hell, I could fly us out of here if I wanted. I just figured somewhere with, you know, heating, would be nice.” He gestured to the fire. “Heating.” I looked at the flickering flames, totally blissed out, then back at him. My husband. An Elf. It must have been all that sex, messing up my senses. I’m usually sharper than this. But then, I’m not usually faced with such a large amount of orgasmic bliss. “It’s probably a good job this place is remote,” he said. “You screamed so loud you must have woken half the mountain.”

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I didn’t blush. He’s used to me screaming. He’s really good at getting me to scream. “So,” he said, fingers tracing patterns on my stomach, “that hot tub…” “It has great water jets,” I said dreamily, and then I looked up, surprised, as he got up, lifted me into his arms, and carried me out through the bedroom, past my damp and crumpled wedding dress to the deck with the hot tub. And he didn’t even complain about the snow on his feet. Elves. Gotta love them. I know I do. He pulled me onto his lap as the water sent great clouds of steam around us into the dark night. The sky was impossibly clear, full of stars, and the air was so crisp and clean you could almost eat it. He kissed me, sliding his hands around my waist, pulling me against his cock. As his teeth bit gently into my lower lip, he pulsed against my belly, hot and hard, and I wriggled a little to make him moan. “Hey,” I said against his mouth. “Hey,” he said, a little breathless. “Can you believe we’re married?” He looked up at me, those dark eyes of his hot and serious, and said, “I’d believe it a lot better if I was inside you. Strictly speaking, we’re not fully married until we consummate it.” “Then consummate me,” I breathed huskily against his neck. “Consummate me like you’ve never consummated before.” Probably that was the wrong thing to say, because he was laughing so hard he couldn’t get inside me. But then he did, and the laughter faded as I sank down onto him, taking his whole length inside me. “Now we’re married,” I whispered, and he nodded. His beautiful eyes were wide, his hands hard on my hips, and as I started to move he kissed me. His cock thrust into me, stretching and filling me, hot and thick and everything I wanted. “I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier,” I gasped as he pushed so deep into me his balls brushed my ass.

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“I’m sorry I got us a cabin with no heating or phone,” he gasped back. “But at least -- Christ! -- it means we won’t be disturbed,” I panted, and then right on cue something flashed down the mountain, and the heavy rumble of a snowplow sounded. “Hell,” he said, and slowed, but I bore down on him, keeping him inside me, moving my hips in little circles. “Don’t stop.” “They’ve come to dig us out.” “They’ll have to wait,” I said. “I’m fucking my husband.” He grinned at that, picked up the pace again. The snowplow got closer, its floodlights glaring over the pristine snow, and I arched my back, thrusting my nipples out to be sucked. And he sucked them. He licked them. He nibbled on them. And all the while he pounded into me, waves of water sloshing all over the place, melting the snow on the deck. I reached out, grabbed a handful before it disappeared, and smeared it over my Elf’s chest, painting cold circles around his nipples, making him gasp and arch and change the angle he was penetrating me. His cock rubbed my clit and I gasped, too. “Keep doing that!” I yelped, and grabbed for more snow. Through the steam and the dark, the snowplow advanced like a prehistoric beast, flattening all before it. Hell, it probably flattened that bloody Ski-doo. Good riddance. Snow touched my nipples, making me shriek. It was good -- really, really good. A sharp shock, cold against the heat he was pounding into me. Maybe those Scandinavians were onto something. I flexed my back muscles, shook out my wings, and grabbed onto my Elf to fly us up in the air, and back myself onto the wooden decking around the pool. And all without losing his cock from inside me. It was good to show my true colors.

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The air was freezing, thick with steam. The bright, angry light of the snowplow’s headlamps flared across the deck, lighting the swirls of steam, probably making us clearly visible to whoever was below. And none of it mattered, because he was shoving into me, harder and harder, and I grabbed another handful of snow and let it fall down his belly to melt between us. The cold made him shudder and gasp, and he leaned over for more snow. “Attention!” called a French voice over the throb of the snowplow, but my concentration was on the man between my thighs and the handful of snow he was sliding over me, anointing my breasts with an icy kiss, moving lower, lower -“Madame! Monsieur!” “Yes,” I moaned, and met the eyes of my husband as he pressed that snow against my burning clit. “Yes!” “Anglais?” the voice called, closer now. “Are you all right?” I was convulsing. My whole body jerked, my pussy spasming, clenching so tight I made his eyes cross as he slammed into me, swearing, gasping, and shooting his hot spunk into me. “I’m coming!” I yelled, because I was, and then a face in a balaclava appeared over the edge of the deck. I kept right on shuddering, whimpering, clutching at my husband and coming so hard I nearly blacked out. The French guy gave a Gallic shrug, smiled, and disappeared. We slid back into the water, sloshing most of it onto the deck and making it steam even more. I didn’t care. I snuggled into his warm arms, snow-bound and happy, and he kissed the top of my head. “I guess --,” I said, then broke off, giggling as I heard the French guys ask if we needed any help. “None whatsoever!” yelled the love of my life. “I guess it was a great day for a white wedding.”

Cat Marsters Cat lives in a village in southeast England, which, while not quite a fairytale setting, is nonetheless very pretty and was mentioned in the Domesday Book of AD 1087. She shares a house with only slightly batty parents who hardly ever tell her to get a real job, and a musician brother who knows there’s no chance she’ll ever get one if he doesn’t. Cat doesn’t have children but she does have cats, who are her babies in every sense except the biological one. Cat has been writing all her life, but in order to keep herself rich in shoes and chocolate, she’s also worked as an airline check-in agent, video rental clerk, stationery shop assistant, and laboratory technician. She’s aiming for a fairytale cottage, and asks all potential Prince Charmings to apply in writing with pictures of themselves and their Aston Martins. Visit Cat’s web site at http://www.catmarsters.com.