THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) Read online

  “Blake, what’s going on? Where are we going?”

  “Vegas. My grandma was right. Let’s elope.”

  Shock bolted through me like lightning. “Blake, that’s crazy!”

  “Jen, all I want is to marry you and for you to be happy. I don’t need my mother’s over-the-top wedding. I just need you.”

  My emotions swirling, I digested his words as he continued.

  “We can get married at the Hard Rock. That place has meaning.”

  Indeed it did. It’s where I totally fell in love with Blake Burns after a weekend of working, gambling, and dancing in his arms to Roberta Flack’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” Every moment of that unforgettable weekend danced in my head.

  “We’ll get one of those Elvis impersonators to officiate,” he said, cutting into my delicious memories and bringing me back to the moment. Reality set in.

  “Blake, we can’t do that. It would upset your mother and break my mother’s heart as well as my dad’s. My parents have lived to see me get married. And it would break my heart if they weren’t at our wedding.”

  It was Blake’s turn to think about my words. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled, preparing to turn off the next exit.

  As much as I loved him for caring so much about my happiness, I was glad he hadn’t lost his mind and pursued the Vegas idea. Eager to get back to the office, I got another surprise when he made an unexpected screeching turn into the parking lot of one of those roadside motels. The turn was so sharp my head swung out the window.

  “Sheesh, Blake. You practically gave me whiplash.”

  “Sorry, baby. Between work and this wedding, I’m just really stressed out.” He pulled the car into an available parking spot.

  “Why are we stopping here?”

  “Because there’s a vacancy. And I need to de-stress and fuck your brains out. And fuck myself senseless.”

  Oh.

  Chapter 12

  Blake

  Ten minutes later Jen and I were checked into Room 202. Trust me, with its cheap brown wood furniture, dingy floral bedspread and curtains, and worn out pea-green carpet, it was no suite at The Beverly Hills Hotel. But something about it made me fucking horny as hell.

  I plopped down on the edge of the rickety wood-frame bed while wide-eyed Jen explored her surroundings. God, she was adorable.

  “Blake, they have free SIN-TV here,” she pointed out.

  I wasn’t going to need any porn. Just my tiger. “Baby, I want you to strip for me. Like a strip teaser.”

  Jen raised her brows and then quirked a sexy little smile. “Really? Are you going to compensate me?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m going to compensate you big time.”

  “Some music would be good,” she replied with a wink.

  To get her in to the mood, I pulled out my phone and searched my iTunes app. “Bang Bang” fit the bill. My tiger loved this song.

  Strutting around the bed, she began to undress. My eyes stayed riveted on her slender figure as she slowly and sensuously unbuttoned her silk blouse, taunting and teasing me. The temperature in the room was rising by the minute. Hot damn. I loosened my tie and opened up my shirt. I was unwinding, but my dick was winding up. Way up.

  “Bang, bang,” Jen mouthed, her voice all breathy, as she sensuously slipped the blouse off her shoulders, whirled it around above her head, and tossed it to me. It was an easy catch. I kept it in my lap as I watched her massage her lace-encased pert breasts; her full lips parted in a sexy pout. God, she was good, totally getting into it. I knew from the day she stepped into my office and pretended to have a major orgasm there was more to this sweet little Midwestern girl than met the eyes. Yeah, I needed a good girl to blow my mind.

  Thinking her bra would go next, she surprised me by taking off her pencil skirt, slipping it seductively down her hips. She gracefully stepped out if and stood before me in just her lace bra and panties and her heels. She splayed her fingers on her hips and gyrated. Bang, bang went my heart. Bang, bang went my cock. Mr. Burns was totally enjoying the show. Then she did something that totally drove my cock crazy. She pulled the elastic out of her hair and her perennial ponytail fell loose, her soft dark waves cascading over her shoulder like a sexy cape. She flung her head forward, her locks falling over her tits, and then flung it back, raking her fingers through her mane while she licked her upper lip with her talented tongue. Man, this show kept getting better and better. My cock was raging.

  “Do you like what you’ve seen so far, Mr. Burns?” she purred.

  “Come here, tiger,” I growled, crooking my index finger. She sashayed up to me until she was standing between my spread legs. I dipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out a crisp one hundred dollar bill. I slipped the bill into her soaked panties, brushing my fingertips along her hot wet folds.

  She shot me a satisfied, seductive smile and proceeded to expertly unhook her lacy bra. It slithered down her arms and, in the blink of an eye, it was sitting in my lap.

  I studied her. Oh my sexy tiger—clad only in her scrap of lace panties and her heels. I inhaled. Mmmm. She already smelled of sex. So fucking intoxicating. On my next heated breath, I shoved her bikinis down and buried my face in her pussy.

  I couldn’t get enough of her. I licked, sucked, flicked, and circled. She tasted as good as she smelled. So sweet. So fucking sweet.

  I planted my hands on her hips, and she gripped my shoulders as she let out moans. Rocking into me, she was enjoying every minute of this game as much as I was.

  “Oh, Blake,” she panted out. “You’re going to make me come.”

  Not the time to stop my ministrations. That was the point. I wanted to give my tiger a mind-boggling orgasm and feel her pussy throb all around my tongue. I darted my tongue into her pussy while my right hand moved to her clit and took over.

  “Oh God, Blake!” she shrieked.

  Just hearing her say my name sent me orbiting. How the words of only one woman could send me flying into outer space. With a pinch of her clit, I sent her over the moon. As she came, she roared my name, and I looked up just in time to see the rapture on her face. Man, what a fucking beautiful sight!

  Now it was my turn. Though she had barely recovered from her mega-orgasm, I flung her onto the bed. She was so spent she didn’t resist. I frantically pulled down my pants and briefs and then mounted her. The bed made a strange creak.

  Spreading her beneath me, I tore off her panties and plunged my hungry cock deep inside her entrance. Dripping wet, she didn’t even yelp. I began to pound her. I mean really pound her.

  Having one of those expensive memory foam mattresses at home, I wasn’t prepared for this thrill ride. Man. Sex on this decrepit spring mattress was fucking unbelievable. The bounce was practically sending me flying, and I didn’t have to work hard at pumping away. I don’t know what was louder—the sound of our harsh pants, the rattling of the swaying bed, or the creaks of the ratty mattress. And I seriously wasn’t sure which would last longer—the mattress or me.

  Jen was thinking the same thing. Between pants of ecstasy, she breathed out, “Blake, I think we’re going to break the bed.”

  Bang, bang. I didn’t give a flying fuck. If the damn bed went down, we were going down with it. I picked up my pace, ramming ruthlessly into her at full throttle. What a cacophony of sounds—my body slamming against hers, our harsh breaths mingling with grunts and groans, and that damn boing-boing of the cheapo mattress springs.

  And then one sound overtook them all. That of my tiger screaming to come. I moved my fingers to her clit, working it vigorously in circles the way she adored, and in a few breaths, she came with a roar. Craving my own release, I gave her one more forceful thrust, and as I exploded, the mattress crashed to the floor. Bang bang. Boing boing.

  “Oh my God, Blake!” shouted stunned Jen as we went down.

  “Fucking shit!” I growled, my cock still inside her.

  Then we both burst out in hysterical laughter. I was laughing
so hard it hurt, and Jen was practically in tears. After the stress of the last few days, laughing our asses off felt so fucking good. Still roaring with laughter, I cradled her head in my hands.

  “Baby, we’re going mattress shopping right after this.”

  “To replace this one?”

  “No, baby, to buy us one just like it.”

  Chapter 13

  Jennifer

  Over the next few weeks, I learned that planning a wedding was a lot like producing a movie. It was a huge ordeal with much to commission, coordinate, and approve. Except unlike the erotic romance telenovelas I was overseeing, I was not the executive in charge of production. I would sum up the credits as follows:

  Slate: Jen’s Wannabe Wedding

  Executive In Charge of Production: Enid Moore

  Co-Producer: Helen Bernstein

  Associate Producer: Katrina Moore

  Gopher: Yours Truly

  I was the bride. I was supposed to be the star and executive producer. The one in charge. Making the decisions. Selecting and approving invitations, flower arrangements, the menu, and lots more. Even being catered to. But this was hardly the case. I was more like a dispensable extra from central casting.

  Because of the tight time frame, much of our correspondence and decision-making was done online. And it wasn’t like I had a say. Whenever I got an e-mail from Enid regarding the wedding, it started off with two words “We have” As in…

  We have created a Pininterest board to keep you abreast of our creative decisions. Please check it regularly. Today, I posted the most positively divine floral arrangement for the tables. A seascape of exotic flowers and seashells. Don’t you just love the coral pedestal?

  I must say, however, she worked at breakneck speed and was super organized. She’d created a To Do List and a timeline. Within one week, the following had been accomplished:

  * A Save the Date had been sent to all twelve hundred potential guests via a Paperless Post custom design. Rather than a virtual envelope, a virtual scallop shell opened when you clicked on “You’re Invited.”

  * A caterer was in place. Claim to fame: the coveted Vanity Fair Oscar party.

  * A florist had been selected: “The Florist to the Stars.”

  * Extras had been hired to be part of my bridesmaid troupe. Per Enid, having only three—Blake’s sister Marcy, Vera Nichols, and Gloria Zander—would look “positively pathetic” in publicity photos. I only hoped none of Blake’s blond bimbos were among them.

  * Photographers were in place. A dozen of them. Many would be shooting photos for various magazines, including In Style.

  * A videographer was in place. Actually, it was the production team from one of Conquest Broadcasting’s reality series.

  * A twenty-piece band had been hired. But Enid was still hoping the Disney orchestra would come perform.

  * Security was in place. There couldn’t be enough. Paparazzi and wedding crashers were likely to abound at the Hollywood wedding of the century.

  And that was just a partial listing. There was so much more to do—or should I say sign off on—including the final wedding invitation (to Enid’s chagrin, the “right” pearls from her “preferred” supplier hadn’t yet arrived), setting up a wedding registry, locking the menu, and putting together a play list. I wouldn’t be surprised if Enid picked out all the gift items and decided what songs I should dance to with Blake and my father.

  Last but not least, there was still the issue of my wedding dress. My dream dress. Or so I hoped it would be. Monique was out of town. I should have been thrilled at the prospect of meeting with her, but instead, the more time that passed by, the more I dreaded it.

  My mom called me everyday to find out how things were going. So much of me wanted to unload on her. I missed her so much. I so wish she lived close by and could be here for me. I’m sure, if I asked, the Bernsteins with their billions would put her up (and my dad too) in a nano second, but that was so not my humble parents’ style. Nor mine. Moreover, Enid, the shark, would likely eat my poor my mother alive. I assured her everything was going well. The truth: I felt overwhelmed and disconnected from my own wedding. The most important day of my life. To make matters worse, Blake had to embark on his yearly round of meetings with SIN-TV affiliates, which meant he was going to be out of town, traveling across the country for two weeks.

  “Tiger, I’m going to miss you,” he said on the morning of his whirlwind trip. Earlier, we’d fucked our brains out as if there were no tomorrow. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I nodded. “The telenovelas are moving along great.”

  Standing at the doorway, his roll-away bag by his feet, he tilted up my chin with a thumb. “I mean about the wedding and everything.”

  I met his gaze. “Yes, baby, I’ll be fine, but I’m going to miss you terribly.”

  “Same. I’ll text you whenever I can and let’s try to Skype every day. And you let me know if Enid or Kat cause you any problems.”

  The thought of sexting him every day and Skyping him—and having virtual sex—cheered me up a little, but I knew the brunt of Enid and Kat was mine alone to bear while he was gone. Thank goodness, I hadn’t had to deal with Kat since that horrific lunch, but who knew how long that would last. Standing on my tippy-toes, I kissed Blake for a long time, not wanting to let go of his kissable lips, and not wanting to say good-bye.

  That morning I got into my office, feeling overwhelmed and downtrodden. I already missed Blake. I booted up my computer. My inbox was besieged with a barrage of e-mails from Enid, all Subject: Wedding Detail. One, in particular, marked URGENT, captured my attention and I opened it immediately. It was straight and to the point.

  We have our first dress fitting today. Details below. It’s imperative you be there. Be sure to bring a nude strapless bra and heels.

  Where: L’Atelier de Monique Hervé

  Address: 8420 Melrose Place, 2nd floor

  Time: Noon

  My stomach bunched up. With nerves, not excitement. What was wrong with me? I should have been excited about picking out my dream gown but strangely wasn’t looking forward to it. Not one bit. And didn’t Enid have any idea I had a high-powered job? She just assumed I could drop everything I was doing and race to meet her. Two words resounded in my head. No buts. I checked my Outlook Calendar, and luckily, my schedule was open at lunchtime, though I had no time to fetch the heels and bra. I immediately speed-dialed an important number. I wasn’t going there alone.

  *

  I arrived at Monique’s atelier early. Having boned up on my French in preparation for the Pearl telenovela, I know that atelier meant studio. It was located just above her eponymous boutique on chic Melrose Place—a short drive from Enid’s office.

  My eyes took in my surroundings. I felt like I was in some kind of fairy tale. Everything was white, gilt, and velvet with accents of girly hot pink. A regal crystal chandelier bathed everything in a warm glow, including breathtaking arrangements of fragrant white flowers on scattered pedestals. Above a glass console sat a huge, almost ceiling-high gold-leaf mirror, and in the corner, there was another massive tri-fold mirror. Bolts of tulle, lace, silk, and other fine fabrics were stored on built-in glass shelves, and elegant mannequins were clad in the most extravagant bridal dresses ever. There were also several racks of gowns gracing the marble floor.

  A familiar breathy voice caught my attention. “Hello, dear.” Theatrically stepping out from a pair of pink velvet curtains was Helen, wearing a stunning one-shoulder coral gown and flanked by Enid and Kat, dressed almost identically in designer black V-necked body-hugging silk dresses. My jaw dropped.

  “Oh, Helen,” I gushed with sincerity. “You look beautiful.” She truly did, the magnificent silk-satin gown accentuating her svelte figure and the color complementing her platinum hair, cerulean blue eyes, and alabaster skin.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she beamed. “Monique is absolutely brilliant. She came up with the idea of the scalloped edges—so in tune with
the theme of your wedding. By the way, Monique needs your mother’s measurements. She has an equally wonderful idea for an oyster-white suit for the mother of the bride.”

  “Sure,” I murmured, wondering how my mother would take this and wanting her to look as fabulous as Helen. I suddenly missed her. Terribly. Wishing she was here with me on the day of my first fitting.

  An attractive petite brunette woman emerged from a back room. She was clad in a stunning chartreuse sleeveless sheath with matching heels. A tape measure was draped around her neck.

  “Helen, darling, you must take a look-see in the mirror.” I assumed she was Monique Hervé. I expected her to have some kind of foreign accent, but she didn’t. She instead sounded very Valley.

  Helen slinked over to the three-way mirror to admire herself. “Oh, Monique! It’s positively divine.”

  Enid echoed the sentiment while Kat’s poisonous eyes stayed focused on me. Monique turned her gaze to me and gave me the once-over. “So you must be the bride-to-be.”

  “Yes, I’m Jennifer.”

  She plastered a big fake smile on her face. “Wonderful. I have another very important client coming in shortly so let’s get started.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m waiting for someone.” Where was he?

  Enid sneered at me. “Dear, we can’t be wasting Monique’s precious time. She squeezed you in today as a favor to me.”

  “Well, I guess I can start looking through the dresses on the racks.” Having perused bridal magazines, I had in mind what I wanted—something with a vintage feel, either flapper-like from the twenties or Grace Kelly-like from the fifties.

  Monique rolled her eyes. “Please, darling, there’s no need. Enid and I have already chosen your dress.”

  I felt my blood bubbling. Didn’t I—hello, the bride!—get a say?

  My stormy eyes stayed fixed on Monique as she waltzed over to one of the racks and pulled out a gown. Folding it over her arm and not giving me the slightest chance to view it, she headed back my way and ushered me into the fitting room.