A Girl Walks Into a Wedding Page 12

  When you’re sure he can’t take another second of your mouth, you crawl up his body again, reach for the condom you dropped onto the tray, tear it open, and wrap it quickly onto his cock, while he whispers your name and begs to come inside you.

  You hover over him and then drop down slowly onto him, his cock filling you inch by inch. He starts to thrust up into you as you rotate your hips, feeling the head of his cock rub against your G-spot.

  His pounding becomes harder and faster and more furious, hitting your sweet spot every single time, and you arch your back as you start to feel yourself going over the edge. Your orgasm beats around and through you in waves, and he follows closely after you with a series of ramming thrusts that reverberate. Satiated, you drop down onto his chest and feel his skin soft against yours, the brush of his stubble on your forehead.

  Viva la France, you think. So far Jane’s wedding is the best wedding you’ve ever been to, and it hasn’t even started yet.

  The End

  You go straight to the pilot’s hotel room

  He swipes the key card and lets you in ahead of him, using the dimmer to keep the lights low. You feel giddy as you step into his suite, hardly able to believe you’re doing this.

  ‘Drink?’ he asks, walking towards the minibar.

  ‘Please,’ you say, doing a quick survey of the lavish suite, all modern understated luxury. His broad shoulders ripple under his shirt as he pulls out a couple of small bottles, and you can’t wait to feel the shape of his muscles under his skin, and his lips on yours. You’ve always loved that moment before a first kiss. All that flirting and flutter of nerves, the buildup of expectation, the slow burn escalating in your panties.

  You try to decide where to sit. The bed feels too obvious and the armchair too lonely, so you settle onto the sofa. He hands you a glass, and then hovers. You can tell he’s nervous, and it’s kind of cute.

  ‘So, when you start dating … ’ you say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you manage to get a woman up to your room, it’s okay to sit next to her on the sofa. If you want.’

  He smiles and joins you, then without saying anything else, he places a big, warm hand on the back of your neck and leans towards you. You kiss, and it’s urgent but gentle at the same time. There’s no awkward bumping of chins or knocking of teeth, your faces fit together perfectly. His tongue does a round of your mouth, and you return the favour. The kiss ends and he pulls away from you a little.

  ‘You’ll have to be gentle with me, okay? I wasn’t kidding – I haven’t done this in a long time.’ His vulnerability is touching and a turn-on.

  ‘Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.’ This time you kiss him hungrily, feeling his stubble burn against your cheeks. You place both hands on his chest and feel the tautness of his muscles underneath. Your fingers slip between the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel his skin.

  He fumbles at the straps of your dress, running his hand across your chest and around your neckline, his fingers slipping under your bra strap, but not quite straying onto your breasts.

  Then you go back to kissing like a pair of teenagers for what feels like hours, getting to know the shape of each other’s bodies. At some stage he sweeps you onto his lap, and you feel his erection against you through his jeans.

  As you kiss, you slowly undo the rest of his buttons, and he peels the straps of your dress and your bra lower and lower until you can feel his skin against yours.

  ‘How am I doing?’ he mumbles into your neck at some point.

  ‘Not bad for a beginner,’ you murmur back.

  ‘I’ll show you beginner,’ he says, slipping his arms around you and laying you down on your back on the sofa, kneeling over you, his body pressed against yours as you kiss some more. You’re going to have a hard time explaining your beard rash to the girls tomorrow. An allergic reaction to shellfish, maybe. But you can’t think about that as he runs his mouth down over your breasts, taking one nipple gently between his teeth, and his fingers slide up under your skirt and rub over the fabric of your knickers. You moan as you anticipate what’s coming next.

  If you want to go down on him, go to page 199.

  If you want him to go down on you, go to page 202.

  You want to go down on him

  ‘Wait,’ you whisper, and he raises his head and looks at you.

  You wriggle out from under him. Then you smile like a lynx, toss one of the sofa cushions onto the floor and kneel between his legs. He bends over you and kisses you so deeply that your head reels. When at last you break apart, you undo the buttons of his jeans and slide them down his legs, then toss them over your shoulder.

  You kiss him again and rake your fingernails down and then back up both his thighs, feeling the muscles go taut. Then, still kissing him, you reach for his cock, releasing it from his boxers and grasping it in the palm of your hand. You’ve never been this brazen before, but you’re loving the reaction you’re getting. He sucks in a breath and then groans happily. The skin of his cock is so soft to the touch, it’s almost silken. It’s the ideal size, but to your surprise, it has a definite bend to the left. More curve than the leaning tower of Pisa, but less than a boomerang. Fascinated by your discovery, you lower your head and take just the tip of it into your mouth. He groans again, and clutches the sofa cushions so tightly his knuckles go white. This is going to be fun, you think.

  Slowly you take his cock into your mouth, bit by bit, then return your hand to the base of it, bobbing your head as you run your hand up and down in time with your sucking. Then, when he least expects it, you alter the speed of your attack and devour him whole again. His groans escalate and his hands lace into your hair, massaging the back of your neck with strong fingers.

  Then you lick the length of him in one tantalisingly slow move, before taking him in your mouth again and starting over from the beginning, using his moans to gauge his excitement, and gradually increasing the intensity and speed of your movements until he’s bucking to meet your mouth, and begging for you not to stop, not to ever stop. But you do, because you can.

  Then you climb back onto the sofa and straddle him, nuzzling the nape of his neck. Still wearing your knickers, now soaked through, you ride him, the underside of his hard, pulsating cock rubbing against your slit. The feeling is exquisite, and he holds you and nips at your neck as you ride him faster and faster, until you’re bucking against each other for long delectable minutes. It crosses your mind briefly to find a condom so he can slip inside you, but the thought of stopping what you’re doing is impossible, the sensation is so phenomenal. So you build up speed instead, and the friction between you is insanely pleasurable, maybe it’s the pronounced bend of his cock that makes it fit so perfectly against the curve of your pussy, so he’s able to rub your clit over and over, and you can’t stop yourself from coming, and then almost immediately he comes in a great release of energy, cries of pleasure racking both your bodies.

  You shudder as you sink beside each other on the sofa, and he snakes his arms around you as your pulses slowly jog back to normal.

  Go to page 205.

  You want him to go down on you

  He kneels over you lying on the sofa and uses four fingers of one hand to rub up and down your slit over your knickers. You close your eyes and thrust your hips to meet the strokes of his hand. At the same time, his lips travel the length of your neck, visiting your breasts and nipples slowly, teasingly, and then moving back to your mouth. Soon his hands slip inside your undies, and he murmurs when he finds how wet you are. You feel him shift his body as he drops to his knees on the floor beside the sofa.

  He slips your knickers off, then sinks his head between your legs, nuzzling at your mound, nipping very gently.

  You can feel his stubble rubbing against your thighs, the prickle of it heightening your sensitivity. At last you feel his open mouth on your pussy, and he licks you just once, before taking your lips gently between his teeth, tugging on them, and then he’s licking you
properly, over and over again like an ice-cream, dipping his tongue inside you, his hands massaging both of your inner thighs. You raise your hips to draw his tongue deeper.

  ‘Oh my God,’ you moan, squirming as he slips a finger inside you at the same time as his tongue keeps flicking and teasing at you. ‘Don’t stop,’ you urge as he briefly takes your clit between his teeth, which is the very best kind of agony.

  You run a hand over the top of his head, and with your other you grip a sofa cushion as he keeps on licking, and the sensations are so intense that you can’t tell what’s tongue and what’s fingers any more, you only know that if he stops doing exactly what he’s doing right now, you might just die. Before you can even try to control it, your orgasm blows through your body, making every muscle quiver uncontrollably.

  As your body racks with miniature quakes, you shift to make room for him on the sofa, and he lies alongside the length of you, wrapping his arms around you tightly as you shudder out the last of your orgasm. He pushes your hair out of your face and smiles at you, and you reach down, feeling for the button of his jeans.

  Then you find his cock, which is as hard as a boulder, and run your hand from the base to the tip, surprised to discover that it has a considerable bend to the left. The skin is as soft as silk, and you love the feel of it, so powerful in your palm. You run your hand up and down it, slowly at first, then, as he starts to groan, you speed up your pace until he can’t help bucking into your hand, moaning as he devours your mouth and neck with kisses, your hand moving faster and faster, until he comes with an orgasm so intense it rocks his entire body, and he shouts out in pleasure.

  Then you turn and nestle your back against him so you can spoon, your eyes closed, feeling his pulse beating against your back as he holds you tightly, catching his breath until it matches the slow rise and fall of yours. So this is what a one-night stand feels like, you think. Wow. You could get used to this.

  Go to page 205.

  You wake up in the pilot’s hotel room

  You must have fallen asleep. As you open your eyes, you remember you’re in a fabulous hotel suite with the Bruce Willis-lookalike pilot you met in the bar. The one with the bendy penis. You can feel him breathing evenly behind you, deep in sleep.

  You slip off the edge of the sofa and crawl guerrilla-style along the floor, grabbing at stray items of clothing as you go. You wonder about leaving your phone number, but that would defeat the object of a one-night stand. Lisa was right, it was fun for a night, something to cheer you up. And at least by leaving, you’re cutting out any awkward post-action conversation. This man has barely been divorced for five minutes. Someone on the rebound is definitely not the kind of guy you’re after.

  A porter stops and stares blatantly as he catches you slipping on your shoes outside the hotel room.

  ‘Morning, nothing to see here,’ you say as you head for the reception desk, where you have to ask the concierge to call you a taxi.

  The taxi driver smiles knowingly as you climb in and ask him to take you back to your hotel in what is clearly a cocktail dress and heels – not exactly suitable attire for eight in the morning.

  You assess your face in your makeup mirror, finding that your mascara is clumped, your eyeliner has smudged, and fixing your hair would be impossible without industrial-strength equipment. You do your best with your fingers (why is there never a tissue or a comb in your bag when you need one?), but the majority of the damage will have to be dealt with using heavy-duty makeup remover back at your hotel. Thank goodness you slipped out before Bruce Willis’s stunt double woke up. You might have given him a heart attack looking like this.

  It was dark when you arrived last night, and you hadn’t realised the full magnificence of the venue where the wedding is being held. As the taxi putters down a long gravelled drive, you see an old stone manor house, an even more ancient chapel, formal rose gardens, lawns that sweep up to a folly and then down to a glimmering lake complete with serene swans – there are even sheep grazing in a meadow beyond the water. You expect the theme music for Downton Abbey to start playing any minute.

  The taxi driver drops you off just as a black van draws up, drum ’n’ bass leaking through the windows. A guy dressed in skinny black jeans, a tight t-shirt and boots jumps out of the driver’s seat, and shoots you an appreciative glance.

  ‘Morning,’ he says. ‘You here for the wedding?’

  ‘Um … yes. You?’

  ‘I’m the DJ.’

  ‘DJ Salinger?’ Jane’s assessment of his hotness was right on the money.

  ‘The one and only. Forgot your luggage?’ He grins at you and you smile back. It’s clear he knows exactly what you’ve been up to, and isn’t judging you.

  ‘To be honest, I’m trying to slip in without anyone noticing.’

  ‘Been there, done that,’ he says. ‘If you wait while I unpack my gear, I’ll help smuggle you in.’

  You’re about to take him up on his offer when you see a motorbike powering down the drive, followed by several cars. No doubt other guests arriving for the wedding weekend. ‘Don’t worry,’ you say, with a twinge of regret. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Cool. See you later … I hope.’

  You mutter a greeting to the receptionist, and speed-walk towards the corridor that leads to the rooms. But you only manage a few steps before you hear a voice calling your name. You hesitate. It’s Jane’s mum. Busted!

  If you make a run for it, go to page 209.

  If you face the music, go to page 210.

  You make a run for it

  The thought of being discovered by your best friend’s mum sneaking back to your hotel room after a night spent doing the dirty with a stranger is mortifying. You speed up to a brisk hobble in your killer heels. If she gives you a hard time later, you can always say you were listening to your iPod – those headphones get smaller every year.

  ‘Oh there you are,’ says Cee Cee, emerging from a doorway, her arms full of dress bags, blocking your escape. ‘If you’re not busy, you can help me steam the creases out of the bridesmaids’ dresses. And I’ve got the flower girls’ outfits here as well.’

  What to do? The last thing you want is to spend the morning ironing that sartorial nightmare you have to wear on Sunday. It looks like you’re caught between a frock and a red face. You choose the lesser of the two evils. ‘Can’t,’ you say. ‘Your mum needs me.’ Before Cee Cee can respond, you turn and call, ‘Coming, Mrs B!’

  Go to page 210.

  You face the music

  ‘Morning, buttercup!’ Jane’s mother carols, fluttering towards you in a bright orange velour tracksuit. ‘Isn’t it just beautiful here?’ she gushes. ‘I’m so glad you’re here safe and sound. Did you arrive last night? How did you sleep? Do you have a lovely room? Ours is just heavenly.’ She barely leaves you time to nod in response. On the bright side, she doesn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that you’re wearing a cocktail dress and sequinned heels at eight-thirty in the morning.

  ‘Come and say hello to everyone,’ she says, taking you by the wrist and dragging you towards a sunny breakfast conservatory. The DJ, who’s lugging boxes of equipment into one of the adjoining function suites, mouths ‘Good luck’ at you.

  You’ll need it. As you and Mrs B enter the room, everyone seated around a large breakfast table stops talking mid-sentence, and stares at you.

  ‘Morning, darling,’ Jane’s Aunt Lauren greets you, giving your cocktail dress a knowing – and slightly approving – glance. She’s unshockable, having been almost solely responsible for putting the word ‘swinging’ into the term ‘swinging sixties’.

  ‘Morning,’ you say. Then you nod at Jane’s dad, who is layering his toast with marmalade as if he’s a builder cementing bricks.

  Jane’s mother introduces you to Tom’s mother and new partner (who is a good twenty years her junior), then gestures at a raffishly handsome man seated next to Jane’s dad. ‘And this is Father Declan. He’s doing the honours on Sunday.
’

  So this is Father Declan. Holy cow. No wonder Jane had a crush on him as a teenager. This man can’t be a priest, he’s too hot. He has that dark Celtic colouring, his eyes fringed by the thickest, blackest eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a man. His hair just touches his collar, and his strong jaw is speckled with something that’s halfway between a beard and unruly stubble. He’s wearing jeans and an open-necked black shirt.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, an unmistakable lilt in his voice.

  ‘You can’t be a priest,’ you blurt. Dammit. You hadn’t planned on actually saying that out loud. ‘I mean, you’re not wearing a collar,’ you try to recover.

  He smiles, and his eyes crinkle, his whole face lighting up. And you suddenly want to find religion, say as many Hail Marys as it takes, as long as you can follow this man wherever he leads you.

  ‘I promise to wear it to the wedding as proof,’ he says in that beautiful voice, and your legs turn to jelly.

  ‘And of course you remember Bruno, Jane’s brother,’ Mrs B says, gesturing at a dark-haired man sitting next to a slender woman at the end of the table. ‘He’s a real TV series writer now.’

  You’d forgotten that he was flying in for the wedding. The Bruno you remember was overweight and pimply, smelled a bit ripe, and had a nasty habit of shoving you into cowpats. Still, life seems to have been good to him. He’s still a little on the stocky side, but he’s definitely shaped up since you last saw him, and improved his dress sense, too. What he does still have is a mischievous smile, a shock of jet-black hair, and eyebrows that have a life of their own.