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The Jealous Bride: Vegas Brides Trilogy, Book 3

By: Marie Pinkerton
Published By: Blushing Press
Copyright: �2014 by Blushing Books� and Marie Pinkerton
4 Chapters / 15,000 Words
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Jackie's bridesmaids are getting married -- on her bachelorette party weekend in Las Vegas, no less! Not content with waiting until her own upcoming nuptials, Jackie presses her fiance Trevor to up their wedding date, and sneakily get married themselves while in Sin Town.

Jackie's jealousy continues to rear its ugly head, and her behavior ends up with an one-way ticket -- over her new husband's knee.

Chapter One

I'd kill my best friends, but then I'd be short two bridesmaids, and my wedding is in a week.

The fact that I was thinking through co-workers to see who wore the same dress sizes should have worried my friends, or at least worried myself, but it didn't.

I mean, come on. I'd been abandoned by not one, but two bridesmaids at my bachelorette party.� That may not sound bad, but they both scooped my wedding by getting married themselves, and even worse, Glennys took the van we all came here in.

When I say my bridal party got stranded in Vegas, I mean that literally.

Not that I'm caring all that much about being stranded.� No car, no real way home.� Granted, we could rent a one-way car (forgetting, of course, about the ungodly expense of such a rental.� Have you ever priced such a thing?� Here's a hint: don't).� Ooh, here's an idea.� We could charge it to Glennys' card.� I think I still have her credit card number in my wallet somewhere from getting her bridesmaid dress.

Again, it was surprising me that I was thinking of vehicles at a time like this.� I mean, who thought of transportation when there was a luscious hunk of man-candy grinding on my lap?

Yes, I was getting a lap dance and thinking of anything but.� This was what my life had come to.

I focused my gaze at the rather well endowed groin in front of me, and wondered if his banana hammock was stuffed.� Like, with a banana.� I mean, there was no way his 'resting state' was the size of my forearm.� My fianc� had a ... not insignificant ... manhood.� Enough where, when I saw him in the MMA fighting equivalent of a Speedo one day in practice with the ladies’ self-defense class going on not 20 feet away, I made him change immediately, and that evening threw out all of them and bought him shorts instead.�

I was rather impressed with the amount of grinding my dancer could do without actually touching me with his hands.� I guess that was a rule?� No touching customers?� I figured another rule was also no... getting off, I guess I'd put it.� If that was the case, and Mr. Well Hung was well hung and not Mr. Turned On, I was practically insulted.� How could someone be all up and over me without getting turned on?� His long legs easily straddled mine, and thankfully didn't make me feel self-conscious by touching the sides of my larger than average thighs.�

His thighs were hair free, and muscular.� Trevor, my fianc�, had more defined muscles on his legs (all over his body, really), and thankfully kept the hair on his legs.� Comparing the two men, the only two to have been this close to me, was easy.� Kinda sad, too.� For as manly as Mr. Well Hung was trying to achieve, what with being a male stripper/dancer and all, he didn't do much for me.� That may be obvious, considering the whole being easily distracted right now.

Mr. Well Hung raised his arms over his head and gyrated to the overly loud music playing in the strip club.� He moved ahead of the beat � either they played the same playlist nightly, or he had no rhythm.� My bet was on the lack of rhythm.� The stripper had shaved, or more likely waxed, his armpits.� Well, at least they didn't smell?

God, I was pathetic.

My remaining bridesmaids hooted and hollered, and I smiled at them, wishing one would save me.� Somehow.� Hey, with my luck, one would marry the stripper.� Stranger things had happened to my friends this weekend.

I wondered � if he couldn't touch me, could I touch him?� Hell, if I couldn't touch him, maybe me touching him would get him to stop.

Okay, so what should I do?

I could stroke him � run my fingertips lightly down his ribcage.� If I was lucky, he'd be ticklish, and he'd jump away from me.� Nah.� Too risky.� With my current luck, he'd flail and accidentally punch me.� I didn’t think a black eye would fade by my wedding next weekend.� Run my hands through his shoulder-length Fabio hair?� Gah, I'd be afraid of getting my fingers stuck in the massive amount of hairspray.� That'd ruin my evening.

Hmm.� I considered.

It was out there, but what if I spanked him?� I'd seen spanking as a theme all over the place this weekend.� I wasn't into spanking, but my bridesmaids who abandoned me were.� There was outspoken Glennys, who was hiring a prostitute this weekend for the sole reason of spanking her.� I didn't know if she had done so, but I did know she had met up with her boyfriend (who had followed her from San Diego) and gotten married.� Glennys had gotten me in trouble with my fianc� for going to this strip club, and when I told her now-husband, Carlos, he promised me that he'd be giving her a sound spanking for such naughty behavior.

I tried not to be too smug about that.

I felt a touch more badly for the other bridesmaid, Abby.� She had innocently come along as just another bridesmaid to enjoy my bachelorette party weekend in Las Vegas.� Unfortunately, Friday was her birthday, and Glennys had bribed (although I didn't think money had exchanged hands, because hello, Abby was adorable, and who'd resist?) a waiter to give her a birthday spanking.� One of Carlos' military friends, Matt, came to Abby's rescue, and the two of them ended up getting married that night.

Yeah, my bachelorette party was ending up with everyone else getting married and not me.

So, spanking.� If I gave Mr. Well Hung a few spanks on his very fine ass, maybe he'd move said fine ass along.� It's not like I was hooking my fingers in his way too tight waistband and trying to pull the banana hammock down.� With the way the fabric fit, he wasn't leaving much to the imagination to begin with.� So I reached a hand up around him, drew it back (which was awkward, given the angle), and gave a tentative slap.

Mr. Well Hung didn't react.� At all.

Man, I sucked at spanking.� Long term, I should keep that in mind.� Maybe I'd do better being the spankee, rather than the spanker.

Wait, did I just volunteer � to myself, at least � to be spanked?� I contemplated the idea while watching Mr. Well Hung continue to gyrate.� Proving once again that women can think simultaneously on more than one track, I realized that Trevor could give me a lap dance any day and it would totally turn me on, and realized that I wouldn't mind having Trevor try spanking me.

Not that Trevor would have any problems with that (the spanking, not the lap dance.� Although really, he could do that as well).� The man could do anything he put his mind to.� That was how he managed to own his own MMA gym at the young age of 25, and be doing a combination bachelors/MBA on an accelerated track at the same time.� No, I think he'd be perfectly happy spanking my large ass anytime.� More happy than I'd be having him look so closely at my bigger than average globes.

Since one hand didn't make any impact � ha!� I amused myself � I tried both hands this time.� Rat-a-tap-tap, I spanked in time to the bass beat of the music like I was playing bongos.� This time, Mr. Well Hung reacted.

He broke the 'No touch customer' rule, and pushed against my shoulders as he high-tailed it off of my lap.� My bridesmaids, previously laughing their asses off at my spanking of the stripper, scrambled out of the way of the man (except one optimistic one, who planted herself directly in his way, hoping to break his fall).

I grabbed a twenty out of my pocket, and sheepishly handed it to the scowling man as he stalked away.

With customer service like that, see if I come back here.� Not like I actually planned on coming back.� But hey, you know what I mean.

I excused myself to go to the restroom, which was as scary as I imagined.� On the way back, I was looking around, poking my head in all of the rooms of the strip club.� While my friends and I were in a room meant for the female clientele, other rooms were designated for different viewers.� A male Liza impersonator sang karaoke alongside a female Elvis.� The next room had the female pole dancers, and I adverted my eyes quickly.

They flicked back into the room when the sight of my fianc� registered.

Yep, there my Trevor was, apparently not as bored by a lap dance as I had been.

The perfect lithe red haired stripper undulated on his rock hard thighs.� I couldn't see from the distance if his dick was just as rock hard, but from the jeering from his friends, I wouldn't be surprised. �Look at her, with that bikini top.� The lace triangles barely covered her erect nipples (those, I could see from here.� For goodness sake, she could put an eye out with those), and the string tying the bikini top was more like a thin ribbon.� One could barely touch it and it'd fall apart.

The stripper wasn’t big on trimming, as the bikini bottom didn't really cover her mound.� Let's say this � she was definitely a natural red head.� And bottom was a misnomer � there was no coverage on the rear.� Just like that nasty Betsy Sanchez from high school.

I hated her.� I hated her for wearing a thong.� I hated her for wearing a thong at a high school football game.� She wore a teeny tiny flippy skirt that blew up in the wind and all of the boys stared at the perfect little ass that was displayed, bare with just a thong worn.

I hated that ass.

It was tiny.� Small.� Perfect.

I hated Betsy Sanchez.

My boyfriend, may he burn a fiery death at the stake, had the unmitigated gall to comment on Betsy's butt.

We broke up two weeks later.� He immediately got together with her.

I hated Betsy Sanchez.

This red haired, tiny stripper had the same small butt as Betsy Sanchez.

I hated her immediately.

I wanted to kill her.� I wanted to go right on over, pushing Trevor's groomsmen out of the way.� Didn't matter that they were all also MMA fighters, training alongside Trevor at his gym, and I didn't have a chance in hell of getting them to budge.� They still went down if you kneed them in the groin.� Once I got to Trevor, I'd grab Not-Betsy by her long red hair that she was draping all over Trevor (what, does the 'no touching' rule not count for hair?), give a good yank to pull her off of his lap, and throw her onto the ground.�

Once she was down, I'd jump on top of her.� Yeah, the MMA guys may be drunk enough to cheer us on as hot girl-on-girl action, but they also might let their training kick in and throw out fighting tips for me.� I didn't think I'd have to wrestle with her, but a few jabs on that too-perfect face?� Maybe break that cute upturned nose?� She could use a nose job.� Mess her up good.

Part of me wanted to turn away, not watch Not-Betsy on Trevor.� I was green with the amount of alcohol I'd drunk, not with envy.� Any sane woman would hate seeing her fianc� having a tiny butt six inches from his face.� Yet, I couldn't not watch.� He was my fianc�.

So, I was glad that I was watching when he gently pushed Not-Betsy off of his lap.� My eyebrows rose.� Had he already gotten off?� I mean, I knew we were waiting for marriage.� Was he so... pent up... that such close contact caused him to... spurt... with so little hands-on interaction?� Should I feel guilty that I haven't given him the release that he so obviously sought if that's the case?

Trevor pulled out his cell phone, and a second later mine rang.� My heart jumped in my throat as I answered, knowing it was him (and not just from the caller ID).

"Hi, hon," I answered over the din in the club.� "What's up?" I asked, knowing full well what was up.� His dick.

"I'm at a strip club," he said bluntly.

"Oh," I said.� I know, I wanted to say.� I'm staring right at you.� Do I tell him that?� What good could possibly come of him knowing I saw his interaction with the stripper?� "Having fun?"� Oh God, did I really just ask that?

"No, actually."� He paused.

It was like pulling teeth.� The sword of Damocles hung over me.� My heart pounded in my chest, matching the rhythm of the bass beat of the music.� Sweat pooled at my hairline, and I swiped it away with the back of my hand, not caring if I smeared my foundation.� My fianc� was about to leave me for little miss perfect ass � what did my makeup matter?� Forget my bridesmaids leaving me, there wasn't going to be a groom.

"I miss you."

Wait, that wasn't what I expected.

"Huh?"

My genius way with words made Trevor chuckle.� I heard him in stereo � both through the tiny phone speaker, and above the sounds of the club.� I loved my fianc�'s laugh.� It was the kind of sound that you could pick out in a loud room, the one that made you sit up and take notice.� Made me sit up and take notice, at least.�

"My groomsmen just tried to get me a lap dance.� Succeeded, for a minute, I'm sorry to say.� But I couldn't let her do it.� I pushed her away, Jackie.� She wasn't you."

Of course she wasn't me, she had a tiny butt.� Not my large ass.

Wait, that was a good thing?

"I miss you, babe.� I love you.� I don't want anyone else giving me a lap dance."

Emboldened, I spoke, "I don't want anyone else giving you a lap dance, either.� Stay put.� Seriously, don't move."

I hung up, put the phone back in my clutch, and strode matter-of-factly over to the table where Trevor sat with the groomsmen.�

One guy hooted.� "Oh no, man, here comes the smack down!� Better hide!"

I leveled a steady gaze at the man, not caring that he was twice my size, all muscle.� I reached over and plucked the glass tumbler out of his hand, and downed the whiskey in one really big gulp.� I blinked, trying not to flinch as the liquid courage burned a path down my throat.� Wasn't enough.

Another tumbler sat on the table, of indiscernible quality and contents.� I figured I didn't need to worry about germs � the alcohol should kill them, wouldn't it?� I downed that as well � ah, whiskey � and Trevor took the empty glass from my hand.

"Easy there, babe," he said softly, his baritone voice barely carrying over the music.� I looked over at him, and remembered I had a job to do.

I wasn't wearing a bikini like Not-Betsy, but I did have on a lacy cami under my sleeveless button up.� Several buttons were already unfastened, and I made quick work of the rest.

The strippers here may have a no touching policy, but I had no such rules.� Or qualms.

I stepped forward, taking the place that Not-Betsy had so recently vacated over my fianc�'s lap.� My legs were spread over his jeans-clad thighs, the denim rough where it touched my upper thighs.

That bitch Not-Betsy.� She was like this, her thighs rubbing against him.� With the strong muscular legs of Trevor, plus the shortness of her legs, she had to be getting off. �I lowered myself down more, so that I wasn't so much squatting over him, but more resting on his thighs, moving back and forth.� Yeah, if Not-Betsy was like this, her privates would be like mine, rubbing all over the denim.� The rough fabric grated against my smooth upper inner thighs, providing friction in a location that didn't normally have such a sensation.� If I moved all the way up � towards Trevor, not away from him � my clit would brush against his dick, which was pushing the limits of his button fly.� Oh yeah, just like that.

I raised my arms above my head, now understanding why Mr. Well Hung did it.� It felt... freeing.� My camisole rode up, exposing a line of pale skin that caught Trevor's eye.� He stared, and I liked the feeling of being objectified by my fianc�.� I danced back and forth, my unbuttoned shirt swaying side-to-side, tantalizing Trevor.� This idea was working perfectly.

My hips rubbed even more against his, and I was getting lost in the sensations.� The short, tight skirt I was wearing rode up my thighs as my legs had spread to straddle Trevor.� The overhead fans, trying to cool the ardor from the overheated men, created a breeze in the room that I could feel against my exposed skin from my thong.

Exposed skin.� Shit.� That totally changed the catcalls I could hear the groomsmen making behind me.� Instead of thinking they were egging me on, watching their friend get lucky, they were enjoying seeing forbidden fruit.

But, the buttons and denim felt so good against my privates.� The material was rough where I wanted it to be rough, pressed hard against my own 'button', and if it wasn't getting Trevor off, it was getting me pretty darn close.� I glanced down at him, and smiled as I saw him staring lovingly, wantonly, down my cleavage.� I carried all my junk in the trunk, not in the front, but he seemed reasonably happy with the little cleavage from my A cup.� He looked up, matched my gaze, and smiled back.

I cupped his face with my hands, and leaned in to capture his mouth in an engrossing kiss.� We deepened it, and I locked my legs around the chair, wishing that there wasn't any clothes or crowd.

I'm not sure what registered first � the crack of breaking wood, the shout of the groomsmen, or Trevor's startled yelp � but we found the back legs of the chair giving away, and the two of us falling backwards onto the sticky (from what, I really, truly, did not want to know) floor.

Trevor's broad, muscular back took the brunt of the impact, only squishing a few of my fingers between the back of his head and the floor.� I think my ankles may have caused the chair legs to break, as them giving way saved injury on my part.

Our heads did bonk together, since we were kissing as we went over.� We rubbed foreheads ruefully for a second, ignoring laughter from the groomsmen.

God, what the hell was I doing?� I was making a fool of myself in front of the guys my fianc� worked with.� Men who I also spent time around.� Now, when I spent an hour on the elliptical machine at the gym while watching Trevor work out, they would be staring at my large ass, imaging it in the thong, that hideous piece of butt-floss, which was not as sexy as I had thought it would be.� Instead of feeling sexy, I was feeling mortified.

I took the best man's offered hand up, and as elegantly as I could (which wasn't much), yanked my skirt back down.� It had rolled completely up to my waistband.� Holy shit, I was a slut.� Trevor jumped to his feet (literally, he's agile that way.� Makes you sick), and ran his hands all over my body.� I tried not to pay too close of attention as he lingered on various parts of my anatomy.

"Are you hurt, babe?"

No, but let's play doctor, okay?� "Just my pride."

I saw Trevor snap his gaze to the door, and I turned to see a manager-type man in a suit enter.� I had the distinct feeling that we were about to be thrown out of a strip club.

How humiliating.

Seriously, prior to this weekend I've lived a fairly normal life.� I'm an admissions counselor at a college, for crissakes.� Granted, it's no stuffy librarian (I leave that for Glennys, and that's another whole story), but as the first line of contact for potential students, I try to maintain a professional lifestyle, even in my real life.� My blonde hair, blue-eyed, girl next door matches Trevor's blond hair, blue-eyed all American boy look perfectly.� (And yes, our kids are going to be gorgeous.� I plan on having many of them; which will require plenty of practice.� Ahem.)

So, I'm not a goody-goody (I leave that for Abby, and again, that's another story), but still, clean cut, decent.�

Not baring ass in a strip club.

Not getting kicked out of a strip club.

Oh God, I was never going to live this down.

"Quick," I hissed to Trevor, "let's make a break for it."

He laughed, the melodious sound the same one that made me fall in love with him when he first sat in the student's chair across from my desk when I interviewed him for non-traditional student admission, and took my hand.� He held up his other hand and ducked his head in silent apology to the manager, and we slunk out of the club.

We got into Trevor's car, which made me glad, since I didn't have to worry about transportation.� I leaned my head back against the headrest and sighed deeply while Trevor walked around the vehicle after opening and closing the door for me.

"How're you doing, babe?"

"Good," I answered automatically.� I didn't know if I was.� It was just what you replied to the normal small talk question.

Apparently that didn't work for my fianc�.� He pulled the key back out of the ignition, not starting the car.

"Let's try again.� What was that in there?"

"Can't a bride want to give her fianc� a lap dance?"

Not surprisingly, that answer didn't fly, either.� Trevor didn't have to say anything, he just gave me the stare that earned him the nickname "Trevor the Terror" in the ring by his sparring partners.� I squirmed in my seat, pulling my skirt down further.� It didn't help.� Damn thing was too short.

"Behave, or I'll..." he trailed off, unable, or unwilling, to vocalize a proper punishment.

"Put me over your knee?" I offered helpfully.� Shit.� That second tumbler of whiskey was a bad idea.� It was making me blurt out things without thinking.� Things I didn't mean.� I think.

"Jackie?"� He managed to get a fair amount of humor across in those two syllables.� I closed my eyes in mortification.� "No, look at me.� What are you thinking?"

"Marry me."� Good Lord, I was blurting out everything.

"Sure, Saturday.� 2:00 pm."

"No, now.� Let's do it."� If Abby and Glennys can do it, why can't I?� I sat up straight, snapped my eyes open, and nodded sharply.� And then tried to focus my alcohol-fueled vision as it swam from the quick movement.� "Why not?� I love you, you love me."� We'll be a happy family, I added internally.� "We're both here, and we can get it done now.� We keep it quiet, just between us."

I thought of Not-Betsy grinding against Trevor during the lap dance.� Of course I thought my fianc� was hot.� Being honest, he was extremely attractive.� All American boy attractive.� The world was full of Betsy's and Not-Betsy's, and I didn't want them getting near Trevor.� Not one iota.� But there was no way I could tell Trevor that.� So I had to come up with something else to tell him.

I nodded again, slower this time, my thoughts taking shape.� "Yeah.� This makes sense. �We can have our time.� This way, we don't have to feel rushed at the wedding reception.� Not feel like we have to hurry out of there."

"Jackie, baby, we can stay as long as we want to at the reception."� Trevor was looking at me with utter confusion.� His brow was furrowed, and there were cute little furrow wrinkles on his forehead.� I just wanted to kiss each one of them.� They made him look like an adorable bulldog puppy (not that his skin was all flabby, that is).

Oh, he was so sweet.� "Trev, honey.� I love you.� I love your body.� I've waited two long, long years for it.� I could wait another week for it.� I could wait until after the wedding, and after the reception.� But sitting through the reception, knowing that I could finally have full, complete access to your body, and be able to make sweet love to you for the next two weeks?� Why on earth would I want to spend time at the reception?� I want to go jump your bones and screw you silly."

He opened his mouth and closed it, looking like a fish this time.� He was working his way through the animal kingdom.� You could definitely tell this realization just hit him.

"Again, honey, I can wait.� I love you.� I can wait as long as you want.� But, I'd also love to go elope with you right now, and then go back to the hotel and make love to you all night long.� And all day tomorrow."

He tossed me his iPhone and started the car.� "Figure out where we need to go."

Turns out that you don't even have to go visit the "Love Shack" or "House of Elvis" to get married in Las Vegas.� We did a nice and simple courthouse wedding.

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