Chapter 49
They were in the penthouse in Singapore, three days after the lingerie shopping, the five black La Perla boxes still sitting unopened on the dresser like a promise.
Brett was curled on the white sofa in the silk chemise from Set 5 — the simple one, the morning-after one — his honey blonde hair still damp from the shower, his bare legs tucked under him, scrolling through wedding seating charts on his iPad. Lance was behind him, freshly shaved, in grey sweatpants and nothing else, his hand idly stroking Brett's calf, his thumb tracing the spot where the garter would have sat.
It was quiet. Domestic. Perfect.
Then Lance said it.
"Brielle."
Brett looked up, his blue eyes soft. "Hmm?"
Lance hesitated — Lance Sullivan, who never hesitated about anything, not billion-dollar deals, not buying a private jet, not proposing in Montana — actually hesitated, his jaw working, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
"Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?"
Brett set the iPad down instantly, turning to face him fully, his chemise slipping off one shoulder, exposing the strap of the white lace bra underneath. "Always."
Lance took a deep breath, his blue eyes locked on Brett's, vulnerable in a way Brett had only seen twice before — the night of the first hormone shot, and the night Brett said yes to Singapore.
"When I was fourteen," Lance began quietly, his voice low, "my older cousin took me to Comic-Con in San Diego. I saw this girl... she was maybe twenty, in this homemade Spider-Man costume. Not the sexy Halloween version. The real one. Full bodysuit, red and blue, web pattern, mask. She was confident, she was strong, she was..."
He stopped, his hand tightening on Brett's calf.
"I've been fascinated with it ever since," Lance admitted, his voice rough with embarrassment and heat. "Women in superhero suits. Especially Spider-Man. The way the spandex hugs everything, the mask, the power... it's stupid, I know—"
"It's not stupid," Brett whispered, his heart hammering against the silk chemise, a slow, delighted smile spreading across his cherry lips.
Lance looked at him, surprised. "It's not?"
Brett slid off the sofa onto his knees between Lance's legs, his hands resting on Lance's thighs, his D cup breasts pressing against the thin silk, his blue eyes sparkling with pure, wicked delight.
"Lance Sullivan," Brett purred in that soft alto he'd perfected in voice lessons, "you flew me to Singapore, you put me in hormones, you bought me five wedding dresses and five sets of bridal lingerie... and you think I wouldn't be delighted to put on a superhero costume for you?"
Lance groaned, his head falling back against the sofa, his hands coming up to cup Brett's face. "Brielle—"
"Red and blue?" Brett asked, already pulling out his phone, already googling. "Full bodysuit? Mask? Web shooters? Do you want the classic, or the black symbiote one, or—"
"Classic," Lance choked out, his eyes dark. "The classic. With the web pattern. Tight."
Brett found it in thirty seconds — a custom cosplay shop in Los Angeles that did "premium superhero bodysuits for all body types," with discreet shipping worldwide.
He ordered two. One classic red and blue, one black. Size small, extra stretch, with a reinforced front panel "for tucking," the description said discreetly.
Express shipping to Singapore: 48 hours.
Lance watched him the whole time, his breathing shallow, his hands fisted in the silk of Brett's chemise.
"You don't have to—" Lance started.
Brett looked up from the confirmation screen, his smile soft and sure and completely in love.
"I want to," Brett said simply. "You gave me the fantasy of being your bride. Let me give you this one."
Forty-eight hours later, the black discreet box arrived.
Brett took it into the master bathroom alone, his heart pounding, his hands shaking as he opened it. The suit was inside, folded in tissue — red and blue spandex, glossy and thick, the black web pattern printed perfectly, the white eye lenses in the mask staring up at him.
He stripped out of his clothes — out of the pink panties and bra he'd worn that morning — and stepped into it.
It was tight. Impossibly tight. It hugged his 23-inch waist, it compressed his D cup breasts into a smooth, powerful curve, it showed every inch of his long legs, his tucked front perfectly flat under the reinforced panel, his ass high and round in the blue.
He pulled the mask on last.
He looked in the mirror and didn't see Brett. He didn't see Brielle in a wedding dress.
He saw a superhero. He saw power. He saw the fantasy Lance had carried since he was fourteen.
He walked out of the bathroom slowly, his bare feet silent on the marble, his hips swaying in the spandex, his gloved hands at his sides.
Lance was waiting on the bed in just his boxer briefs, his phone forgotten in his hand.
He looked up.
And froze.
Completely froze, his mouth open, his eyes raking from the white lenses of the mask down the red and blue bodysuit, over Brett's breasts, his tiny waist, his long legs, back up to the mask.
"Brielle," Lance whispered, his voice wrecked. "Holy... fuck."
Brett struck a pose in the doorway — one hand on his hip, the other making a web-shooter gesture, his head cocked.
"Your friendly neighborhood..." Brett purred, his voice muffled slightly by the mask, his blue eyes sparkling behind the lenses, "...bride-to-be."
Lance was off the bed in a second, crossing to him, his hands hovering over the spandex like he was afraid to touch, like Brett was sacred.
"Can I?" Lance asked hoarsely, his fingers tracing the web pattern over Brett's stomach, over the curve of his breast.
Brett nodded, his breath catching in the tight suit.
Lance's hands slid around Brett's waist, pulling him close, his forehead pressed to Brett's masked forehead.
"You have no idea," Lance murmured, his voice shaking with emotion, not just lust but something deeper, something fourteen-year-old Lance had dreamed of and thirty-four-year-old Lance never thought he'd get, "what you do to me. In the wedding dress, in the lingerie, in this... you're every fantasy I've ever had."
Brett wrapped his arms around Lance's neck, the spandex squeaking softly, his masked face nuzzling into Lance's neck.
"Then keep me," Brett whispered. "In every costume. For the rest of our lives."
Lance picked him up — easily, despite the suit — and carried him to the bed, laying him down gently on the white sheets, the red and blue a shocking, beautiful contrast.
He didn't take the suit off right away.
He just looked. For a long, long time.
And Brett, who had once been terrified of being seen, let himself be worshipped….