by J. J. Sorel
The ride home was a silent one, which suited me. I wasn’t good with funerals. I wasn’t good with death. Period.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CLARISSA
“Is it too revealing?” I asked, standing in front of the mirror, moving my head from side to side.
“No, Clary. You look beautiful. It’s so silky and gorgeous to the touch. Aidan’s hands will be all over it in a flash, I’m sure.” Tabitha smiled.
As always, sex entered the conversation. I didn’t mind, because the thought of Aidan’s needy hands all over me worked miracles at easing my nerves.
“And the way it pools to the ground with that little train,” said Tabitha, stroking my wedding gown.
“I love the fall too. It’s as if it were made for me. I didn’t have to get it adjusted at all.”
“It’s perfect. And we’ve done a fine job with strapping those out-of-control boobs of yours. Holy shit, you actually almost look normal sized.”
I laughed, which hurt. I had a corset on, and it wasn’t comfortable. Nevertheless, the excitement of the day did away with any physical discomfort.
Tabitha put the final touches on my Spanish bun that she’d expertly arranged to sit down on my neck. The beautiful chandelier diamond earrings dangled heavily off my ears. All that was left to do was to place the splendid antique lace veil on my head. We’d attached it to a tortoise shell, diamante-encrusted hair comb like the Spanish women used to hold up their mantillas. It had actually belonged to my late Spanish grandmother, and for that reason it felt special.
It was such a flattering and feminine look that I’d always admired. I recalled when, as a young girl, I was taken to my grandmother’s house for parties. All the women would dress in flamenco outfits. On their heads were high combs and flowers, and their hair combed back tight with long buns on their necks. That was when I fell in love with that style.
As I stared at myself in the mirror, tears welled up. I thought about my late mother, and how she would have loved seeing me looking like her mother, whom I looked exactly like.
After placing the large comb on the top of my head, Tabitha pushed in some large hairpins to hold it in place. She took a few steps away from me and held her chin, studying me intently.
“You look just like a Spanish senorita from those fifties films we love.”
“Good. That’s how I want to look,” I said.
I was as nervous as hell. This was it. I was to be married to the man who, every waking moment, made my heart and body swell with love and desire.
Greta entered the room, carrying a bouquet of creamy silk flowers. She stopped, and her face filled with wonder.
“Clarissa, you look so beautiful.” She stroked the silk of my gown. “That is a genuine thirties dress. So tasteful, and very you. Aidan will be thrilled. I love the diamantes around the neckline, and I see they carry on around the dip in the back. Stunning.”
“Thanks, Greta. You look great in that dress. Did you buy it in Europe?”
“I did. As soon as Aidan told me that we better be here for his birthday because that was going to be your wedding day, I made sure I went shopping in Paris.”
“I love it. It really suits you, Greta. You look great, and so does Dad in his tux. How did you get him to wear it?” I laughed. My dad was not a conventional man when it came to wardrobe. “He’s even wearing a bow tie.”
“The bow tie was a battle,” said Greta with a chuckle. “When he lunged for a purple one with red polka dots I had to take charge. It was probably the first argument we’ve ever had.”
“I can imagine. Dad’s always been eccentric when it comes to clothes.”
“Hmm… now we know where you get it from,” said Tabitha.
Greta turned to look at Tabitha. It wasn’t a smile as such, just a subtle nod. I couldn’t read how she’d taken the news that Tabitha was her twin brother’s new wife to be. My stepmother-stroke-auntie-to-be, as always, was at her inscrutable best.
Greta handed me the antique bouquet of cream silk flowers with hanging ribbons and lace. “Here, Clarissa. These belonged to my mother, Aidan’s grandmother.”
“Oh, they’re lovely. Thank you,” I gushed.
Then the nerves really kicked in. As the bouquet balanced languidly in my palms, I was reminded that I really was about to become Clarissa Thornhill, and that it wasn’t some sexy dream.
“Okay, I will leave you to it,” said Greta. “See you out there. Your father’s nervous, but excited. He’ll be here soon to take you.”
“Thanks, Greta.”
I turned to Tabitha. “My legs are wobbling.”
“Take a walk around the room. Get used to the shoes. They’re perfect. I love them.”
“They’re uncomfortable, Tabs.” I looked down at my off-white ankle-strapped, open-toed sky-scrapper shoes. “I don’t know how I’m going to walk onto the uneven grounds in them.”
“Your dad will help you balance, then you can lean against Aidan’s strong shoulders.”
My heart pumped little butterflies through my body, making it tingle from all the fluttering.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, my eyes welling up.
Tabitha held my hand and looked directly at me. “Don’t you dare cry. You’ll ruin my fantastic makeup job.”
I giggled. “You did use waterproof, I hope.”
“Of course. We can’t have our girl looking like an ax-murdering clown.”
I laughed. “Oh, Tabs. I’m so glad you’re here with me. And you look gorgeous in that green dress.”
She’d worn a slinky green silk dress with a little train to match my dress.
“Do you think so?” She stood before the mirror adjusting it to make a little cleavage show. “I’m glad you didn’t go all bridezilla on me and expect me to wear a puffy dress that made it hard to distinguish me from the wedding cake.”
We both looked at each other and broke into screeching laughter. Tabitha had done it again.
“Stop it, Tabs. I’m going to look like a wreck out there. And you better not pull any of your crazy faces at me. I’ll kill you.”
“Who are you going to kill?” said my father, stepping into the room. When he saw me, he stopped, and his dark eyes widened. “Oh, my darling Clarissa, you look so beautiful.”
I fell into his arms. “Oh, Daddy. Please don’t. You’ll make me cry.”
He stepped back and looked at me, shaking his head. “You are your mother. And I love that Spanish touch.” He pointed to my hair comb. “Just like your grandmother, Esmeralda.” He took a hanky out of his pocket and blew his nose. His handsome dark eyes glistened.
“You’re looking sharp, Julian,” said Tabitha.
He hugged her. “Oh, you think so? And you too, darling girl. Green’s always been your color.”
Tabitha smiled demurely. She was always that little girl around my dad.
“Okay, then, are we ready?” my father asked hooking his arm.
I slipped my arm around his. “Let’s do it. On with the show. This is it,” I sang, mimicking Aidan’s childlike response to pomp and occasion.
It was quite a walk to the rose garden, especially taking the path and not the grounds to cut across, which was how I normally got there. But that was wearing sensible shoes.
“Can’t I take them off until we get close?” I asked as I wobbled along.
“Oh, Clary, by now you should be able to sprint in them,” said Tabitha. She had her arm linked with mine.
Between my father and Tabitha, I managed to move forward.
“They’re ridiculously high,” I said, tottering along. In truth, my nerves were wreaking havoc on my equilibrium. I was so relieved that my father would walk me down the aisle.
Aidan had arranged the music.
Devina Velvet, dressed in a wine-colored body-hugging gown, sparkled as always. Her presence in the rose garden was a natural fit. It was like a magical dream. By her side stood a stand-up bass, as curvaceous as she was, along with a se
ated guitarist and a man playing a shiny saxophone. From her sensual lips, a husky, sweet sound floated through the garden.
As she sang Summer Breeze it floated in the air like a smooth caress, making the fine hairs on my arm spike.
A saxophone solo sent curvy, sensual notes swirling through the air, that seemed to glide us along.
When we arrived, the guests’ heads all turned together, fifty smiling people sighing, whispering, and generally aroused by the spectacle before them.
And a spectacle it was.
In the redolent, intoxicating rose garden, one didn’t need champagne to feel light-headed.
My seriously handsome husband-to-be waited for me at the end of the aisle. His head turned with those eyes twinkling like the sea. Aidan was dressed in a heart-swelling tux that fitted his scrumptious, strong body so perfectly a silent moan left my lips.
I stepped onto the red carpet, my father holding my arm, while Tabitha arranged my veil to trail behind me.
A soft, swirly saxophone solo started the proceedings. It danced all the way up to Devina’s velvety voice as her husky breath kissed the air while she sang, “It’s very clear. Our love’s here to stay.”
Aidan was the prize. Our eyes locked. Everything around me was a blur. My legs weren’t even there anymore. I was floating.
My mind, heart, and soul all asked the same question. “Is this really happening? Am I really going to be in that delicious man’s arms forever?”
As I fell into Aidan’s turquoise gaze, my beautiful late mother entered my thoughts. I thanked her, as I’d done often, for bringing joy into my life in the shape of that beautiful, sexy man whose heavy-lidded stare sizzled through me.
I was swept away in a sea of emotion. A big lump had parked itself in my throat.
It was an out-of-body experience, and I felt as if I were flying through the air. All I saw was my handsome husband-to-be dressed in a tux that left me breathless. His tall, strong body owned it to perfection.
A long, shaky breath left my lips, which were curling out of control as we continued to lock eyes. Aidan’s hair, pomaded back gently, brushed his collar.
As I glided toward a destiny that promised everything and so much more, Devina crooned about our love lasting forever. Her stretched, impeccable, heartrending notes made my heart dance, especially with Aidan’s eyes eating me up, reflecting belief.
Belief in us.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
AIDAN
Was that graceful beauty really going to be mine forever? I asked myself as I indulged in a skin-tingling moment of the Gershwin tune that Devina Velvet sang almost as purely as the Ella Fitzgerald version I loved.
Dressed in that silky vintage dress that hugged those curves in a way my skin ached to do, Clarissa was a goddess. The veil framing her face, which had launched a thousand emotions in me, made her look like an angel.
And an angel she was. An angel that was to be mine forever.
All mine, forever.
As Clarissa glided toward me, I’d never been more certain of anything in my life. My heart grew so large that it felt naked and on show.
I didn’t see anybody, except Clarissa.
She stepped by my side, and our hands clasped. Her little hand was hot and damp, the heat of which raced up my arm.
Adhering to tradition, Clarissa had insisted on a night apart. As a result, I’d had a restless night. But as she stood by my side, her hand in mine, I felt so energized that I could have run a marathon. Never before had I felt like that.
It was pure happiness.
As a natural pessimist, I’d never believed in such a thing before Clarissa entered my life. But at that moment, life was so good that I suddenly felt religious for the first time in my life. I believed there had to be a god for delivering to my soul, heart, and body the prize that was Clarissa Moone, soon to be Clarissa Thornhill.
“Will you take this woman, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you live?”
Not even a second passed before I uttered, “Yes,” with such ironclad certainty that I felt like punching the air. Of course, I remained decorously still, even though my body was doing all kinds of strange things. And when Clarissa’s beautiful lips parted with a breathy “Yes,” not only did my soul sigh, but my cock got in on the action.
Shit.
I tried to grip the member with my legs. The last thing I needed was my pants tenting.
As I moved in to kiss Clarissa, I pressed against her. She felt it all right, because she pushed against me. The kiss lingered. No tongues. This was a classy affair, after all. Just soft, hot, beautiful, soulful lips that still managed to send me flying to the moon
A sexy saxophone riff set it off spectacularly as our lips remained locked together. We released each other, and when the chanteuse began singing the opening words of “At Last” with her husky voice, we both nearly fell into each other’s arms again.
I’d chosen Etta James’s sultry song for what it meant to me, because Clarissa had come to me after I’d lost hope of ever finding the kind of love great art had been raving about forever.
I looked down at my banded finger. It was beautiful ring, not plain and ordinary, but florid with Celtic scrolls. I loved it sitting there on my finger as a testimony to the extraordinary, creative life Clarissa and I had before us.
“Aidan, I love this song,” my angel said in a thick, emotion-gripped voice.
That song always did that to me. It was a risk having it there. But boy, it packed a punch, and it described me. It was melancholic in a hopeful want-to-embrace-life way.
“It’s sad, though,” she said.
I stopped and stared at her. I brushed her warm, wet cheek. “Beauty and love inspire so much feeling and emotion, it can seem sad. But not in a tragic way, in a heart-releasing way.”
“Aidan, you’re deep, sexy, and oh God, I’m so happy, I could cry. In fact, I am crying,” she said, sniffling and laughing at the same time.
I passed her a hanky. “Here, princess. And Clarissa…”
She stared up at me with her large eyes. “Yes?”
“I have never seen a more stunning bride in my life. I can’t wait to see the photos and I also can’t wait to…” I held her in my arms.
“To do what, Aidan?” Her eyes sparkled with promise.
“I can’t wait to see that gorgeous silky dress slink off that irresistible body, which is mine. All mine. Has always been and now, always will be.”
“It is yours, Aidan. It always has been. Just as your scrumptious body is mine. All mine, forever and ever.”
We both pulled away and looked at each other and laughed, more from the intensity of our words than anything else.
EPILOGUE
“Aidan, how did you arrange this?” Clarissa asked as we headed through the entrance of the Uffizi gallery.
“If there was one thing I learned last time I was in Italy, it was that one can get anything for the right sum of money.”
“You paid someone to give us free rein of the museum?”
“I certainly did,” I said, feeling pleased with myself. It hadn’t exactly been that easy. In fact, I’d had to line the quality leather wallets of six people. But it was worth it. The exuberance bouncing off Clarissa’s big eyes was definitely worth it.
“I didn’t want men to hear my favorite girl oohing and aahing as if she were being entered by a hungry cock.”
Clarissa giggled and slapped my arm. “You’re a sex maniac, Aidan.”
“Around you I am.”
“In any case, I don’t ooh and aah when I’m looking at art. Do I?”
I smiled. “You do, Clarissa. I’ve heard it over and over again. It’s the most perfect sound on this planet. I recall you doing it the first night at the Gala event. Remember that, when I could hardly talk around you? I’m sure you thought I was stupid.”
“You didn’t appear stupid, Aidan. You just looked smoking hot, so much so, I babbled.”
I laughed.
“It was sexy, intelligent babble. That much I do remember.” I stopped walking and turned to face her. “In truth, I remember every delicious second of it. I remember every moment I’ve spent with you, Clarissa. I often replay it in slow motion. Especially that first night on the yacht.”
“Me too, Aidan,” she said with a gentle smile.
Holding hands, we continued on, and within two steps, Clarissa was indeed oohing and aahing. It was music to my ears. I loved the reddening of her cheeks and girlish excitement that overtook Clarissa whenever she was surrounded by art.
I stood there, smiling, indulging in her beauty. She just grew more beautiful each day.
As we strolled along the ancient marble floor, the only sound, other than our footsteps, reverberating off the walls was Clarissa’s sighs, leaving me to wonder if anybody had, in its four hundred fifty years, ever fucked in the Uffizi.
Mm…
There was always a first time for everything, I thought as I watched Clarissa’s delightful butt swaying before me after I’d taken a step back to watch, as I always did.
Sensing my ogling, Clarissa turned and giggled. “Aidan, you should be looking at the art.”
“I am looking at the art.” I raised my brows.
Yes, life was great, greater than I could have imagined. Especially after I’d gotten a call from Detective Hudson, telling me that a new commissioner had been appointed to the LAPD, and that Jonathon Mansfield had been tried and convicted for the murder of Chris Wilde.
The story had it that he’d sent in one of his men to inject Chris with the lethal dose that killed him. He tried to plead that he was protecting his daughter from slander. He also made up some half-cocked story that Chris had raped Jessica.
Jessica didn’t get away either, much to my relief. She’d been convicted for kidnapping Clarissa. And although they couldn’t pin the hit job on her, I was assured that the FBI were getting closer to finding out the dead hitman’s contracts and who’d ordered them.
Clarissa pointed to a statue of Eros and Psyche. “It’s magnificent. Enfolding lovers.”
I opened my arms. “Just like us, my love. Come here and enfold me.”
