But I don’t. I ignore my cock twitching in my pants and stride over to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. That delicate shower-soft skin so intoxicating beneath my hands then I kiss her on the neck. She smells like a dream. I could be buried here.
“You smell incredible,” I tell her.
She giggles, squirming a bit. I know my stubble tickles her but that’s always half the fun.
“Don’t get carried away,” she warns. “It took an hour to get my face and hair just right.”
I pull back and inspect her. “Don’t you always look this way?”
“Ha ha,” she says. “I need to get dressed and put in my earrings. But I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes. Ava’s just having a nap and Lisa should be here soon.”
“It takes you twenty minutes to get dressed?” I ask her, as I sit down at the kitchen table and split open a banana from the bowl.
She disappears into the bedroom, her voice carrying. “You know me. And you know I want to look good for this. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a black-tie event before.”
“That’s not true,” I tell her mid-bite. “There was Linden’s wedding. And I know you’ll get a kick out of this, but guess where the gala is?”
“Where?”
“That same yacht club on the other side of the bridge. Same as the wedding.”
I look over and I see her paused in the doorway of the bedroom, a long olive green dress in her hands.
“You’re kidding me,” she says.
“Nope.”
She looks impressed as she considers that. “Wow. It’s like we’ve come full circle.”
We’ll see, I think to myself as she disappears into the room.
Thirty minutes later – not twenty – we’re in the back of a black town car and heading across the Golden Gate Bridge. The sun is setting over the pacific, illuminating the stray patches of fog and low-lying cloud that clings to the downtown buildings. It’s absolutely beautiful.
And so is Nicola. She’s wearing a floor-length red gown with gold detail. It has a low back that just begs for me to lick up and down her spine, but a modest front. The material feels better than silk and thinner than a condom between my fingers and I deduce she’s not wearing any knickers either. I can see the outline of her breasts and it’s no wonder that I’m hard the entire ride. She used to lament that she couldn’t go without a bra because she had child-bearing breasts, but she’s become a little more free in that department and I’m grateful for it. In my opinion she has incredible tits.
Actually, she has incredible everything. As we get out of the car and enter the gala, everyone there dressed to the nines, the tuxedoed waiters going around and handing out canapes and shrimp cocktails and foie gras and truffles, there’s no doubt that she’s the most beautiful woman around.
And to think, to fucking think, she has no idea.
“You’re so gorgeous it should be illegal,” I tell her after we grab two flutes of champagne off a server and slowly walk around the grounds.
“You’re so handsome, it makes girls stupid,” she says and then jabs a thumb at herself. “Myself included.”
I know she’s completely joking but it’s something she used to say and believe so often, back before we hooked up, that it smarts just a little.
But I brush it aside and we continue to do the rounds. The truth is, situations like this have always made me a little nervous. I’m okay once I know someone, but here I don’t know a soul. I paid for both of us to be here and now that we are, I’m not sure who to approach. I’ve done my research and met with a lot of people thus far, but no one looks familiar.
It isn’t until a bit later, when some speeches start being made about the fundraiser and the need to further develop San Francisco into a city that’s accommodating to all people with the emphasis placed on jobs, that I see Mr. Bayswater from earlier today. He wasn’t the one who invited me and I had no idea he would be here, but then again, I was talking their ears off earlier about my plans that I probably wasn’t listening.
To my surprise though, at the end of the speech, he mentions my name. I have to do a double-take and Nicola nudges me in the side. I swallow, straightening my bow-tie, and stand up to show myself as Mr. Bayswater has asked.
Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything, he just mentions my project and what I’m trying to achieve and then moves on. But when the speeches are all done for the night, I find myself being accosted by a reporter and a cameraman.
“Are you Bram McGregor?” the woman with caked-on makeup and glow-in-the-dark veneers asks. When I tell her I am, and that I’m the man that Mr. Bayswater mentioned earlier, she thrusts the microphone in my face and starts interviewing me.
I don’t recall giving her permission to do so but this is a great opportunity and I use every second of it. Actually, it feels really good to be discussing it with the potential of it really getting in people’s ears, all while Nicola looks on proudly in the background.
The whole interview takes about five minutes and the reporter – Chelsea Chain, such a fake-arse name – says they’ll probably whittle it down into a quick soundbite for the section they are doing. Doesn’t matter to me. I finally feel like I’m behind something that could have legs.
“That was fucking hot,” Nicola whispers to me once the reporter moves on to someone else.
I glance down at her while she slides her dainty hands underneath the lapels of my tuxedo. “Was it now?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, looking hungry and not for food but for cock, the best kind of hungry.
I know it’s probably a risk in asking her this, lest it conjure up some bad memories, but I say to her, “How about we go back into the past and finish what we started?”
Hesitation washes over her brow for just a second, her glossy lips held in a pout, then a sly smile tugs them apart. “Sure.”
I grab her hand and lead her through the crowd, remembering the path that took us around the building and to the garden.
Sure enough, there is no one back here and the sounds of the gala are muffled, sounding far away. Fucking brilliant, the stone bench is still here too.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I tell her, sitting her down on the bench. “And by comfortable, I mean scootch over to the end here and get on all fours.”
“Wait,” she says, lifting a finger. “Did you screw that blonde chick here?”
“No,” I tell her, knowing she’d ask that. “It was in the bushes over there. And it wasn’t very fun to be honest. No one wants a thorn up their backside. At least, I don’t.” I pause, giving her a delicious grin. “But perhaps you’re game for something a lot bigger than a thorn.” I wiggle my thumb at her.
She rolls her eyes and I know she probably won’t graduate beyond my thumb for a long time.
She’s still not moving though, so I tell her again and she finally gets on all fours and backs up till she’s at the end of the bench. I stand behind her and flip up her dress so it’s gathered around her waist. Her arse looks so fucking amazing, I can’t help but cup her cheeks in my hands, my fingers digging into her soft flesh. My need is wanton, elicit, and real. I squeeze and kneed them for a bit before my dick starts to ache in my pants, begging for attention. Then I unzip myself free and bring out a condom from my jacket pocket.
“Always prepared,” she comments and wriggles that decadent arse in front of me.
“Stop teasing me,” I warn her, smacking her lightly on the cheek. “I’d rather not come all over your dress.” I see her shake her head slightly. “Okay, I would totally love to shoot my cum all over that expensive piece of fabric you’re wearing and cover you in it from head to toe. But I won’t.”
“Because you’re a gentleman.”
“Oh that’s right.” I smack her other cheek. “The best kind.”
So I have her right there on that stone bench, the way I should have had her last year at the wedding. I take her rough and hard and wild and we don’t care who the hell hears us because we can’t be filtered.