I pick up Kate’s glass from the bedside table and sit beside her on the bed. She reaches out and replaces my hand with her own, stroking me expertly, caressing the tip with her thumb.
And I can’t help but groan.
I raise the glass over her, tip it slightly, and pour the cold liquid between her breasts. She gasps and her hand tightens around me in the most fantastic way.
Then I lean forward, lapping at the champagne infused juice. Over her sternum, around the supple base of her perfect frigging tits, I lick every drop, tasting the drink—and her. It’s a heady combination.
And as much as I love the feel of her hand on me, I take Kate’s wrists and bring both hands over her head, so she’s lying flat on her back. Kneeling on the bed, I lean over her and dribble more of the mimosa onto the peaks of her breasts and suckle hard, flicking at the nipple with my tongue—first one, than the other.
She writhes on the bed and moans, a needy, desperate sound that spurs me on.
A few more drops are poured on her stomach. Kate tenses reflexively, but relaxes again when my warm mouth glides across her skin, following the path of the sweet liquid.
Her moans turn to gasps as I lick and suck my way around her adorable belly button, then down to her thighs. And her gasps turns to high pitched whimpers as I nibble on the flesh of her thighs, inching ever higher.
Kate likes to get creative with the pussy grooming. Today it’s a barely-there landing strip, which has me practically shaking to sink my face into it.
I don’t make myself wait long.
I hold the glass above her and pour the rest of the liquor between her spread thighs. Then I cover her with my mouth, sucking and licking, lapping up every trickle like an alcoholic consuming his last indulgence before going cold turkey.
I feel light headed from the taste, the fragrance, the smooth, slick feel of her pussy against my tongue. I moan against her flesh and Kate cries out in carnal fucking joy.
I bring two fingers to her clit and rub it in firm, quick circles. Kate’s hips rise and push instinctively as she gets closer, in time with my tongue as it pushes in and out.
Her thighs squeeze my head and I grip her hips hard, lifting her against my mouth. She stiffens as one last, long, serrated moan escapes her lips.
Then she goes slack in my hands. Spent and satisfied.
And it still gets me. The undiluted gratification of going down on her. Of giving her bliss. But as happy as I am that I made her come, my own hedonistic craving pushes at me, driving me like the roar of a crowd at a college football game.
Go, go, go!
I rise to my knees and hook my arms under Kate’s calves, spreading her wide. Then I bury myself fully in one powerful push.
There’s nothing better than this—nothing on earth that feels this perfect. That first thrust, when my cock is enveloped by Kate’s tight, wet, warmth—it’s rapture so intense, it borders on pain.
My head rolls back on my neck as I savor the feeling. Then I pull my hips back, sliding against her grip, and drive back in.
Using her legs for leverage, I fuck her hard, but slow. When I’m buried to the hilt I rock my hips side to side, rubbing my pelvis against Kate’s sweet spot, until she’s recovered from her first orgasm and climbing towards number two.
With each move of my hips, Kate cries out in harsh breaths.
The pleasure tingles and builds, gathering low in my stomach. And when Kate arches her back and clamps down around me, I push forward a final time and pulse inside her as I groan and curse.
Out of breath, I collapse on top of her, and she presses her lips to mine in an open- mouthed, chest-heaving kiss. Afterward, I turn my head and pant against her neck.
With a small laugh she says, “Wow. So I guess you really missed me last night, huh?”
I smile. “What gave me away?”
I roll to the side and Kate snuggles against me. Once her heartbeat slows, she complains, “Now I have to take another bath. You made me sweaty.”
I run my fingers through her hair. “I like you sweaty. You should stay like this.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I smell.”
I press my face against her neck and inhale dramatically. “You smell like sweat and sex…and me. It’s hot. Eau de Cum kicks Chanel Number Five’s ass.”
For a guy, there’s something primordial about a woman covered in your scent—it’s the most primitive way of staking your claim. Of showing every other peckerhead that a woman is very much taken. It’s animalistic, sure, but that doesn’t make it any less arousing.
“That’s gross. I’m taking another bath.”
I chuckle. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Plus, it’ll give me a reason to make her sweaty again. Another reason.
After five minutes of customary cuddling, Kate lifts her head from the pillow of my chest and orders, “You have to get the hell out of here.”
My brow furrows. “Kicking me out already? I feel so used.”
I say, “I see how it is. You only want me for my body.”
Mimicking my earlier tone, Kate replies, “Well…yeah. Although your mind can be mildly entertaining.”
I smack her ass with an open palm.
She squeaks and jumps out of bed, out of my reach.
“Get dressed.” My clothes are thrown at my head as Kate slips into her robe and tip-toes out the door to check if the coast is clear.
I’m dressed by the time she comes back in.
She holds out her hand. “Come on, Dee’s in her room. You’re good to go.”
I pull on her hand until she crashes against me. “I don’t wanna go. I want to defile the prestigious Plaza Hotel by having you ride me like a slutty mermaid in the bathtub.”
Kate shakes her head. “Not today. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
I sigh. “Fine.” I brush my lips against hers quickly. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”
Kate pinches me, because she knows I’m being sarcastic. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
“There’s going to be a lot of people downstairs. How am I going to find you?”
She smiles. “You won’t be able to miss me. I’ll be the one walking down the aisle to you. Wearing…silver.”
The final frontier.
Steven went first. He was kind of our test subject. Like those monkeys that NASA sent off into space in the fifties, knowing they’d never make it back alive.
And now Matthew has followed in his footsteps.
What? You didn’t think I was getting married today, did you?
No frigging way. I’ve barely got the boyfriend thing down. I’m not ready to tackle the title of husband. Don’t want to bite off more than I can chew. Matthew, on the other hand, is just crazy enough to give it a try.
And the proposal—now, there’s a fucking story. Matthew had this whole romantic thing going. Rented out an entire restaurant for just him and Delores. He even had a string quartet playing music in the background. But when the big moment came? He was so nervous, he hyperventilated.
And then he passed the fuck out.
Nailing his head on the table on the way down.
Delores freaked—Kate said she was never good with blood. She called 911. And even though he swore up and down that he was fine, she made him go to the hospital in the ambulance.
That’s when things got interesting.
Because hospitals have certain protocols they have to follow. One of them involves hospital gowns. So when they wheeled Matthew in, a bloody bandage on his head, they started to cut his clothes off. Then they put all of his belonging in a big plastic bag—including the two hundred thousand dollar diamond ring he’d purchased for the occasion.
The idea of losing that ring cured Matthew of his cold feet real frigging quick. So he hops off the gurney, grabs the ring, runs out into the ER, and drops to his knees in front of Delores. And that’s how he popped the question.
In the middle of the god damn emergency room with his ass hanging out the back of a hospital gown as bare as the day he was born.
Naturally, Delores said yes. And two days later, the four of us jetted to Vegas for the Elvis Chapel Special.
Crazy? Sure. But it kind of fits, don’t you think?
Anyway, we come back to the city, where Matthew announces to his parents that he’s a married man. I’ve never seen Estelle Fisher so animated in my life. She started bawling her eyes out, sobbing about how she missed her only child’s wedding.
I felt bad, so I can only imagine how shitty Matthew felt. Making your mother cry? That guilt is like the sixth circle of hell.
Frank, being a man of few words, just looked at his son and said, “Fix this.”
But his eyes said so much more. They said, ‘You may be thirty years old, but I will still kick your ass up and down Park Avenue if you don’t make this right real motherfucking quick.’
And so here we are.
At Matthew and Delores’s grand New York City wedding reception, courtesy of Frank and Estelle. No expense was spared—very New York high society. It’s supposed to be elegant. Classy. And it is.
Except for Delores’s dress, of course. Have you ever seen Madonna’s Like a Virgin video?
Perfect—then you know just what Delores looks like.
Cocktail hour—hands down, it’s the best part of a wedding. Exceeded only by that garter thing. I’ve always been an excellent garter catcher, and there’s no better way to get to know a chick than sticking your hands up her dress as high as you can go.
But that was then. My now is much better.
Because I’ve got the hottest girl in the room sitting next to me—and I can stick my hands up her dress anytime I want.
Now that Kate is wearing her dress, I understand why she said garters wouldn’t work. It’s silver and short. I’m talking micro-mini. And strapless. Every time I look at her, I can’t help but think about how easy it will be to get it off. And her shoes? You remember my thing for shoes, right? They’re very high, very strappy, open toed and…
Amelia Warren, Delores’ mother, stands up from the table. She’s thin, with shoulder length, feathered 80’s style, strawberry blond hair. And like her daughter after her—she’s nuts. When I say nuts I mean that in the most literal way possible.
For Kate’s birthday, Amelia sent her a huge, heavy, natural crystal necklace harvested from the caves of Perigord, because she believes they’ll protect Kate’s lungs from the city air pollution.
It’s a shame, how stringent the involuntary commitment protocols in this country have become.
Oh—and Amelia doesn’t like me at all. Don’t know why. I only met her once before this blessed event, and we didn’t speak more than five words to each other. I wonder if the withering glares she throws my way have anything to do with her nephew.
“Oh look—Billy’s here! He made it!”
Speak of the Devil and he doth appear. I glance over to the doorway where, sure enough, the ball-licker just waltzed in.
Yep, still hate him. He’s like genital herpes—he just won’t go the fuck away.
He’s been living in LA for the last eight months and much to my displeasure, he and Kate still talk. She says they’re just—say it with me—’friends’—but I don’t buy it. I mean, sure, for Kate, they’re just friends. That I believe. But for a guy? No way.
The “friend” card is one of the oldest hook-up tricks in the book. Right up there with ‘I think I might be gay.’ He’s just biding his time—waiting for me to screw up so he can be the shoulder Kate cries on. Then when she’s all vulnerable and weak, he’ll stick his tongue down her throat.
Not gonna happen. Not on my fucking watch.