A Girl Walks Into a Wedding Page 4

  You don’t want to be cruel; Steve doesn’t seem like such a bad person. But the self-help stuff is more than enough to wipe out anything you felt for him, however good a kisser he is. You should have known those looks were too good to be true.

  The last thing you feel like doing now is going back to the bar and avoiding Steve, and you feel dusty after the long drive, so you decide to wash away your troubles instead.

  You walk into a huge marbled room, with a claw-footed bath set at an angle in one corner, and an enormous, luxurious shower in the other.

  If you want a bubble bath, go to page 51.

  If you want a shower, go to page 54.

  You decide to have a bubble bath

  You run a bath, emptying every drop of the complimentary bubble bath into the old-fashioned tub, and strip off your clothes. You climb in and close your eyes, sighing as the hot water and jasmine-scented foam envelop you.

  Heaven.

  You spill water over the side as you hear the sound of a door opening. Dammit – you completely forgot to lock the door connecting to the other room.

  You slide under the water, but you can’t hold your breath forever. You surface, coming face-to-face with a pair of dark eyes and a shock of black hair.

  ‘I thought it was you, Stinky,’ Bruno says.

  Fortunately the bubbles hide most of your nakedness, but they’re dissolving fast.

  ‘Do you mind?’ you snap, snatching a face-cloth and covering your breasts as best you can with the small square of fabric.

  ‘I don’t mind, actually,’ Bruno says, brazenly checking you out. ‘You’re in my bathroom, after all.’

  ‘Our bathroom.’ You explain the mix-up with the room.

  ‘But I thought you came here with your boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Really? I thought I heard him calling you “babe”.’

  You really don’t feel like going into the short history of your and Steve’s relationship with your childhood nemesis. You scrabble for an explanation. ‘It’s … his nickname for me. Um … after Babe. You know, the one from the movie, the pig that thinks it’s a sheep.’

  Bruno bursts out laughing. ‘So you’ve progressed from being Stinky to a pig?’

  ‘Yes,’ you say haughtily.

  ‘Well, I’d keep Steve on a short leash, if I were you. Aunt Lauren thinks he’s the best-looking guy she’s ever seen. And you know what that means.’

  ‘I’d forgotten she was going to be here. At least with her around, things won’t be dull.’

  ‘I’ll say. No well-endowed waiter will be safe.’ He sits down on the closed toilet lid. ‘So what have you been doing since I saw you last, apart from collecting ridiculous nicknames?’

  You fill him in briefly on a few career highlights. For some reason it feels completely natural to be swapping notes about your lives while naked in the bath. Bruno tells you about his work as a sitcom screenwriter, launching into an amusing and scurrilous story about an A-list actor and Scientologist who made a cameo appearance on one of his shows. ‘None of the crew or extras were allowed to look him in the eye,’ he says. ‘And everyone over five-nine had to clear the set so that he’d feel taller. I didn’t get the day off, of course. The curse of being a short-arse.’

  He smiles self-consciously, which is at odds with the brash Bruno you remember from your childhood. Could he have changed? Lost some of his cockiness along with the puppy fat? You almost say something about size not mattering, but decide to change the subject instead.

  ‘So tell me about Cat,’ you say. ‘How did you two meet?’

  Turn to page 58.

  You decide to have a shower

  You step into the shower and turn on the water – it comes shooting at you from multiple angles, and you revolve slowly so that the water from the jets hits you all over.

  Slowly you start soaping yourself, your hands running over your breasts and then down to your thighs, the heady smell of jasmine filling the bathroom.

  You reach for the sachet you brought with you – an expensive hair hydrating mask, or masque, according to the label – which instructs you to massage it into your hair and leave in for precisely eight minutes, before shampooing it out. You tear the sachet open with your teeth and apply the creamy contents to your head, turning off the taps while you work it into your scalp. You bend down to take a closer look at the thigh-height jets. Hmm, you could do a lot with one of those in eight minutes.

  You hear a creak and the door to the connecting room opens. Shit, you had assumed it was locked. You shoot up straight, trying to cover your nakedness with your hands, doubly embarrassed not only at being caught in the shower, but at your naughty thoughts – you’re sure they’re etched all over your face.

  Oh no. It’s Bruno, and he’s heading for the basin, humming under his breath. He squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush and starts brushing his teeth. You stand frozen to the spot, aware that the towels are on the rail on the other side of the bathroom. When Bruno sees you reflected in the mirror, he starts and swears, then turns around. Your eyes lock for several seconds.

  ‘What are you doing in my bathroom?’ he says.

  ‘Our bathroom! And would you mind turning around!’ you yelp, your pricey hair goo dripping slowly down your face.

  Bruno laughs. ‘Don’t panic, Stinky. I can’t see anything. Unfortunately.’

  He’s right. The shower door is conveniently frosted from about upper thigh to chest height. But it still feels weird to be standing naked with him only a few feet away.

  ‘And what do you mean “our bathroom”?’ he asks.

  ‘The only single room available was the one next door, and it’s connected to your bathroom,’ you explain.

  ‘How come you aren’t sharing a room with your boyfriend?’

  You frown. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, he seems cool. And he looks like the love child of David Beckham and Daniel Craig – isn’t that what women want?’

  Bruno looks momentarily downcast. You’ve always suspected he felt a bit self-conscious about his looks. As a teenager he was pimply, a bit overweight and short. He’s grown a fair bit since then, lost the pimples and most of the weight, but as looks go, he’s not in Steve’s league by any stretch of the imagination.

  ‘Looks aren’t everything,’ you say, feeling a pang for him. For a second, you forget that you’re naked, and that Bruno used to be your sworn enemy. ‘I’ve got another seven minutes to wait while this conditioner does its work. You may as well fill me in on what you’ve been up to.’

  Bruno sits down on the toilet seat and starts telling you about his job as a screenwriter for several comedy series. His send-up of an actor who demanded to know what his character’s ‘motivation’ was for spilling a cup of coffee actually makes you laugh out loud.

  ‘So what about your personal life?’ you ask. ‘Cat seems really nice.’

  Go to page 58.

  Cat joins you and Bruno in the bathroom

  As if on cue, the door opens and Cat enters, dressed only in her underwear – matching, expensive, lacy underwear at that. You wonder if it’s possible that by the end of the weekend, you will have seen every single guest in a state of undress.

  She blinks as she takes in the spectacle of you nude, albeit partially screened, and Bruno perched on the toilet seat.

  ‘Am I interrupting something?’ she asks.

  ‘No, no!’ You hastily explain the room debacle. She doesn’t seem especially concerned that Bruno has been in here for far longer than should be necessary to discover a naked woman in their bathroom. She’s clearly not the jealous type.

  Cat sits down on Bruno’s lap, and you register the easy familiarity between them. She asks you about Bruno’s childhood, and you spend a few minutes filling in the gorier details. She throws him a play punch when you tell her about the time he set your hair on fire, killing the blaze by throwing a jug of lemonade over your head.

  ‘I’
d better rinse off and get dressed,’ you say, when there’s a pause in the conversation.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Bruno says invitingly. Cat play-punches him again, but they leave together.

  You’re surprised at how much you enjoyed chatting to Bruno. You suspect he’s still a bit of a bastard, but at least now he’s an entertaining bastard. And Cat is the sort of woman you wouldn’t mind hanging out with. That could have been so much more embarrassing than it actually was.

  You finish washing your hair, wrap yourself in a thick and thirsty bath sheet the size of a sail, then pad into your room, having snagged the complimentary body lotion in the bathroom – you remember reading that it’s best stroked on while your skin is still warm and damp. You crawl onto the bed, still wrapped in your fluffy towel, squeeze a blob of lotion into the palm of one hand, then start to apply it to your bare legs. It smells of freesias, citrus and something tropical, and you sigh as you relax.

  Between the long drive and your discoveries about Steve, you could do with forty winks. You lie back against the pillows, telling yourself you’ll just close your eyes for a couple of minutes.

  As you’re about to drift off, there’s a soft tap at the door. You clutch your towel a little closer and prop yourself up on one elbow, hoping that Steve hasn’t tracked you down. But it’s JD’s head that appears around the door. ‘Can I come in?’ he asks. ‘I don’t want to disturb you.’

  You’re puzzled, but intrigued, especially when he slides around the door wearing only a pair of jeans, his magnificent torso and tattoos on display. ‘Have they mixed up our rooms?’ you ask, wrenching your eyes from his chest to his face.

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m just planning my playlist, and although I’ve got the request for the first dance, I thought you’d be the best person to ask if there are any other songs that have special meaning for Jane and Tom.’

  Your mind goes blank, but then you remember. ‘It’s old-school, I know, but Jane loves “You Got A Friend”. The Carole King version.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He makes no move to leave and you look enquiringly at him.

  His eyes stray to the body lotion on the bedside table. ‘Seeing as you did me a favour … could I be of service to you?’ He strolls over to the bed and grins down at you.

  You’re completely thrown, very aware that you’re warm, drowsy and stark naked under your towel.

  ‘For instance, you might need someone to rub this lotion onto your skin,’ JD goes on.

  You take a long look at him. You really should ask him to leave immediately, but instead, you find yourself extending an arm towards him, your hand falling open.

  ‘You can start with my arm,’ you say, almost imperiously.

  JD’s teeth flash as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to you, lifts your arm, and lays it across his lap.

  Then he slathers cream across his hands, rubbing them together. ‘Relax and don’t worry about a thing,’ he murmurs, as he grips the top of your arm gently with both hands, forming a cuff of fingers which he pulls firmly and slowly down the length of your arm. When he reaches your hand, he uncurls the palm and gets to work with both his thumbs, kneading across the fleshy pad of your hand beneath your thumb, and pressing the sensitive spots just below each finger.

  You make a faint noise of pleasure and approval, and relax still more deeply, lying back against the pillows as he repeats the entire movement. Then he moves around to the other side of the bed and begins to work on the other arm. This time, once he’s repeated the pull-knead manoeuvre, he lifts your hand to his lips and delicately nips at each fingertip in turn, the slightest press of tooth and tongue.

  Your gasp is audible, as the warm sensation elicited by his stroking hands is amplified by a distinctive tug in your lower belly. You wriggle very slightly in your towel-cocoon, feeling heat rise to the surface of your skin.

  JD doesn’t seem to notice. He applies more of the fragrant lotion to his hands, moves lower down the bed, slides his hands under your calf and foot and lifts your leg slightly. You can’t help a flare of anticipation as he tugs it to one side, opening you up a little, but he seems intent on massaging your feet, and you almost whimper as his long, strong fingers probe deeply into your instep in small circular movements. Then he slides his hands over and around your ankle, caressing the circle of sensitive flesh just beneath the ankle-bone.

  ‘That feels so good,’ you say, breaking the spell of silence – apart from the sound of your breathing – that has fallen.

  ‘According to reflexologists, this part of the foot corresponds with, er, the female parts,’ JD says smoothly.

  At his words, you feel an unmistakable pulse in the said female parts, which becomes more insistent as JD switches his attentions to your other foot. Part of you wants to drift as he rubs and soothes and strokes, and part of you is tense with anticipation, wondering where those clever fingers will wander next.

  And then he slides both hands up one of your legs, kneading the calf firmly, then stroking the soft spot behind your knees with exquisite delicacy. You know it’s wanton, but you soften your legs, letting them fall a little further apart, as he nudges the edge of the towel up, creeping up your thigh with maddening slowness.

  He lifts your entire leg and flexes it, placing it back on the bed in a bent position. The towel falls away from your thigh, with just one fold falling between your legs, all that’s shielding your heated pussy from view.

  Still moving slowly, his hand travels the length of your inner thigh, stopping just short of your pussy, his thumb gliding in lazy, teasing circles. You can feel the wetness flooding your pussy lips, the syrupy sensation of fullness in your pelvis, his fingers just an inch away, you’re mad for him to slide them home – and then he shifts, switches sides, and starts all over again with your other leg.

  You can’t help it, a little noise of frustration escapes you, and his hands still at once: ‘Would you like me to stop?’

  ‘God, no,’ you groan, and give yourself over to the slow torture of his hands travelling gradually up your leg, now feathering your other thigh, closer, closer, almost grazing against your pussy – and then he stops again.

  This time, you arch your back and lift your hips with frustration and, with the movement, your towel starts to slide open, exposing your breasts.

  ‘Would you like me to—?’ JD pauses.

  ‘Oh yes, please!’ you beg, casting all caution to the winds.

  This time, there’s no teasing: he places his warm, supple hands directly onto your breasts. They’re still slightly oiled from the lotion, and he massages your flesh firmly but gently, rubbing in circular movements. Your nipples pop against his warm palms, and he grunts with satisfaction. Through your half-open eyes, you see his Adam’s apple moving in his strong lean throat, and with a thrill, you realise he’s as excited as you are.

  Then his hands slide around your back, one coming up to cup your head as he kisses you for the first time, tentatively at first, his lips just grazing against yours, his tongue pressing hesitantly, then retreating.

  And you open up your mouth to him, seizing his head and winding your fingers in his hair, and you take long draughts of each other’s mouths, the soft wet noises of tongue against tongue the only sounds in the room apart from your accelerated breathing.

  Still holding your head with one hand, he shifts his long lithe body alongside you on the bed, and trails his free hand down from the top of your chest, between your breasts, slowly over your rib cage and tummy, pausing to dip a finger into your belly-button, before finally coming to rest on your mound.

  ‘Please,’ you say again, tilting your pelvis up against his hand, and at last he strokes down between your swollen wet folds, spreading them open, exploring and teasing, his middle finger nudging the opening of your cunt, just dipping in, until you raise your hips and his finger slides up and in, and you both gasp with mingled hunger and satisfaction.

  The two of you kiss again, his tongue mimicking the slow movements of his finger
inside you until you move your head slightly and capture his earlobe with your teeth.

  ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ you whisper, and he dips one hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out a condom, then moves away from you momentarily to strip off his jeans. He has the most magnificent bottom, neat and tight, but you only get to admire it for a few seconds before he kneels between your legs, the tattoos on his skin rippling as he braces an arm on either side of your shoulders.

  He seizes a pillow and threads it under your hips, raising the core of you up to him, and you wrap your legs around his waist, presenting his erection with a bulls’eye. He buries the tip of his cock between your pussy lips and once again you both groan as you push up and against him, and he slides in, pressing deeper and deeper as you clutch at him, digging your fingers into the strong muscles of his back, your feet pressed against his buttocks.

  His cock isn’t just a generous length, it’s also thick, and you can feel yourself stretching around him, clasping him intimately, your bodies settling and adjusting to the angle and each other. He kisses you again, lingeringly, then tucks his chin into the curve between your neck and shoulder as he begins to thrust, slowly at first, grunting with each stroke.

  There’s something about the angle of your hips, or maybe it’s because you’re so relaxed, each time he pushes into you, every nerve-ending in your body thrums as he stretches the cushiony walls deep inside you. You know you’re heading for a huge, effortless orgasm, and all you have to do is lie back and let it wash through you … one more thrust, one more, just one more … and you explode in JD’s arms, your back arching so strongly you lift him with you, your pussy clenching and unclenching around his cock as wave after wave of intense pleasure radiates out from your pelvis all the way to the roots of your hair.

  Your orgasm triggers him off, and with a shout, he comes as well, every muscle in his body tightening seconds before he collapses bonelessly in your arms, then slowly rolls off you, your limbs still tangled together.