by Kate Angell
“Never doubt the speed of my fingers.”
No doubt. No debate. He played ball. Sharp reflexes. Flexible fingers. Which would wander beyond the buttons. She couldn’t take that chance. He was six feet, four inches of foreplay. His kiss seduced. The gift of the panties was a sensual promise. He still stood so close he boxed her between his body and the door. Yellow bikini and bridal thong in hand, she half-turned, softly said, “Thank you, Joe. I needed you today.”
“What if I need you tonight?”
Sex snuck between them. Swelled. A hot flirtation. Common sense spoke for her. “We can’t follow a pretend wedding with an actual honeymoon.”
“It’s our sexual reality.”
“I thought your life was ‘all about baseball.’”
“It is, starting with the exhibition game tomorrow. Tonight, it’s all about us.”
A night with this man would be a commitment for her, a one-night stand for him. Memorable, but not practical. She left the bathroom with sex heavy on her mind.
* * *
“The bride has gone to the dogs,” quipped Liza, the creative director of the I Do magazine wedding shoot. Photographer Paige, a lighting technician, and Aronson, the dog handler, nodded their agreement. “The movie-wide staircase provides the perfect backdrop. Very Gone with the Wind. The bride is positioned perfectly. We just need some minor rearranging of the dogs.” Pause. “No groom.”
Of which Stevie was aware. Joe had yet to return. Ninety minutes was a long run. Unless he’d run away from her, and kept on going.
“He’ll show,” she promised Liza.
A tight smile from the director. “Soon, dear. We’re on a tight schedule. Two hours. Sadly we can’t use a male model, as this spread has been billed as an engaged couple’s shoot. I’d hate to cancel and have to draw another winner.”
Stevie would hate to have that happen, too. She presently stood halfway up the stairs. Her off-the-shoulder lace and satin gown fit tight across her breasts, pinched her waist, and shimmered over her hips. Beneath, the thong creased her butt. Crystal floss. The blue garter hugged her thigh. She peered beneath the gauze of her rhinestone circlet veil. Her long train was fanned out behind her, nearly reaching the second-story landing. She shifted on her five-inch glass fairy-tale heels. Narrow width. Squashed pinkie toes. She’d given up comfort for glamour.
Eight dogs surrounded her. Some higher, some lower on the flight of steps. All sizes. All breeds. All motionless. Almost surreal. Additional owners and their pets were gathered in the entry hall, forming two lines. Obedient canines were ready to hit their spot and pose.
Stevie listened as Liza stood away from her crew to take in the scene. The director hung back, hands on designer jeans – clad hips, and sighed as if she was heavily burdened. Her gaze narrowed. Her brow creased. Her lips pinched. Absolute silence. Stevie herself held her breath, until Liza snapped her fingers, and the dog trainer appeared by her side. Leashes circled his wrist. “The white standard poodle fades into the wedding gown,” she noted. “Move Princess Pom-Pom two steps higher.” Aronson was quick to act.
Stevie thought the poodle might outshine her, as Pom-Pom was wearing a pink rhinestone tiara and necklace. The dog’s toenails were painted metallic silver. Shiny.
“What do you think, Paige?” Liza asked the photographer.
Paige crossed to the camera that was mounted on a tripod in the middle of the hallway. The lighting technician hovered close. She bent, studied the layout, taking significant time to check the shot. She eventually straightened, rubbed her lower back, and said, “I’d like to change out the Newfoundland and the mastiff on the landing, holding the corners of the train. They slobber, pant, and are too ‘weighty’”—she used finger quotes—“making the photo top-heavy.”
Aronson took the stairs and leashed the big boys. They lumbered down and were handed to their disappointed owners.
“Sleek dogs up top, Aro,” Liza instructed the handler. “Two trained not to tug or tear lace.”
“The Blue Ridge greyhounds,” Aronson called out. “Heel,” he commanded as he bounded up the stairs. His “sit and stay” staged the dogs. Descending, he suggested, “We’ll have them pick up the train at the last second.” “A runaway,” Paige called out.
Aronson went after a restless Jack Russell. The dog bounced up the steps. A minor interruption. Quickly suppressed.
Stevie felt like a mannequin. The dogs were like statues.
The director glanced at her watch. Tapped her foot. Her tone was sharp as she said, “Your groom—”
“Has arrived,” Joe loudly announced from the front door. Sweaty, winded, wild-eyed, he kicked it wide. Turbo shot through. Joe came in more slowly. He held Etta in his arms, her leash wrapped around his arm. He set down the fifty-pound bulldog, adjusted his T-shirt and gym shorts. Caught his breath, then took in the scene. Stevie wanted nothing more than to walk down and meet him. To hug him. The bridal assistant hovered on the balcony above. Jana had fidgeted and formed the gown into perfect angles. She’d ordered Stevie not to move an inch. Stiffness invaded her every muscle. Shallow breathing squeezed her lungs.
“Sorry we’re late,” Joe apologized at large. “I left on a run two hours ago. Back roads. We started at a good pace, reached our turnaround point, but then Etta gave out. She lay down. Stayed down. I couldn’t coax her up. Neither could my dog, Turbo. No iPhone to call for a ride. I had to carry her back. I got here as soon as I could. Would have been sooner, if she hadn’t gotten wiggly.”
The creative director crossed over to him. She gave him the once-over, her look long and lingering. Recognition was in her eyes. She politely introduced herself, “Joe Zooker, I’m Liza. You were worth the wait. We’ll give you some time to clean up.”
“Quick shower, shave—”
“Leave the scruff,” Liza insisted. “The look of the spread is coming clear to me. This shoot will play up the contrast between you and Stevie. Your bride’s as beautiful and as soft as her satin gown. You’re . . . earthy. Rugged. Muscled.” She looked to her photographer. “No tux on this man. He can wear his own clothes. Sports coat, T-shirt, and jeans. Boots.”
“I like,” Paige approved. “The magazine has a wide circulation and it’s known for its creative bridal shoots. Last month’s beach-themed spread got tons of attention. The bridal party was staged on the coast against an approaching thunderstorm. Wind, and an unexpected waterspout, literally blew everyone away.”
Joe headed upstairs. Turbo charged beside him. Etta dragged herself up, too. He stopped on the stair next to Stevie. Lifted her veil, despite Jana’s indrawn breath. Her total disapproval was obvious.
“You made it,” Stevie whispered. Boneless in her relief.
He winked at her. Then lightly kissed her lips. Jana cleared her throat. Censure. Which Joe ignored. He cut his gaze to Etta. “Turbo’s girl quit on us. Next time we’ll go a shorter distance.”
“‘Next time’?” she had to ask.
“Turbo wanted nothing to do with me,” he admitted. “He ran beside Etta, until she stopped. Then he kept jumping on me when I picked her up, afraid I was taking her away from him.”
“Separation anxiety.”
He grinned then. “I felt anxious being away from you.”
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Liza pacing the hallway. The lady was impatient. “Get going, get ready. I’m tired of standing. Save me from locked knees.”
A second quick kiss. “I’m saving you for later,” he said, and was gone.
Leaving her anxious. He shook her to her core. Her hands trembled. She clasped them before her. Her mind was reluctant; her heart ready. She’d thought only of him during her makeup session and fitting. Resolving that sex with Joe would be the perfect ending to an amazing day. As long as she could let him go afterward without questions or pain.
Her aunt Twyla entered through the back door. She leaned her crutches against the wall and eased down on a dog bone – shaped bench. She waved at Stevie. Stevie gav
e her a short nod, not wanting to muss her veil.
Joe returned, hair tied back, looking undeniably sexy in a navy sports jacket, white T-shirt beneath, scripted with I Do You. Liza was quick to suggest he pull the button side of his coat over the word You. He obliged. I Do fit the magazine’s theme. He was himself in ladder-ripped jeans and worn boots.
Jada held up her makeup kit. “Powder, blush on the man?”
Joe curled his lip. Resistant.
Liza shook her head. “His hard face, broken nose, craggy cheeks appeal. He’s a guy’s groom, and a girl’s perfect wedding night.”
Joe started down the staircase. “Where do you want me?”
“The steps are wide. Snug in behind Stevie,” Liza requested. “Let’s show oneness on your wedding day.”
Joe got in place. He defined closeness. His groin aligned with her bottom. Nearer still, he parted her legs with his knee, without disturbing the flow of her gown. The contact was sexual and erotic. His knee fit her thigh gap. Stevie shivered, nearly fell off the step. He splayed his wide hand over her hip, steadying her. She laced her fingers with his. More contrast: his calluses; her lotion-soft skin.
Turbo and Etta appeared suddenly, bounding down the stairs. Turbo sniffed nearly every dog, rousing them. The canine statues came alive, arching their backs and stretching.
“Stop!” Aronson yelled at Turbo. “You’ve disrupted the gallery.” Leash in hand, he went for the rottie.
Joe eyed the handler sharply. “Don’t touch my dog,” he warned, deadly soft and dangerous.
The trainer drew back. “He’s messed up the shoot.”
“Turbo’s being a dog,” said Joe. “This whole scene sucks. Animal lovers have their pets at weddings. Dogs are as important as any other guests. They shouldn’t be posed. Obedience shouldn’t be a prerequisite. It’s not natural. They should be barking, tails wagging, as happy as the couple is.”
Aronson was horrified.
The lighting technician blinked.
The photographer looked piqued.
The creative director was stunned silent.
Stevie smiled to herself. Joe called it as he saw it. Fine by her. She felt stiff, like a plastic cake topper. She’d want to be relaxed and in love on her own wedding day. She squeezed his hand, approving his comments. Encouraged, his fingers strayed along her hip, discreetly feeling for the outline of her thong. Easily found. She sensed his smile at the back of her neck. Felt his breathing deepen.
“Garter?” for her ears only.
“Left thigh.”
Low, animalistic growl.
Heightened color on her cheeks.
Liza soon motioned to Paige. Their heads went together. Discussion ensued. Until Liza tapped her fingertips on her lips and stared into space. Envisioning.
Her decision came on an exhaled breath. One that appeared difficult to admit. “Cancel the dramatic layout,” she said to Paige. She looked up at Joe and said, “We’ll title the new layout ‘Woof, Woof Wedding.’ Not quite what I’d envisioned, but eye-catching.” Pause. “We’ll see how it plays out.”
Kudos to the director, Stevie thought. The idea hadn’t been hers, but it was a great one. Joe had imagination. He’d put the whole shoot in perspective. He brought real life to an imaginary scene.
“No restrictions,” she told the dog trainer.
“Free.” Aronson moved among the dogs, putting them at ease. They wiggled, barked, then dropped and flopped where they were the most comfortable. There was no order. No pretense. A dappled dachshund rolled over, paws up, near the bride’s glass slippers. Fell asleep with soft snores.
Aronson’s jaw clenched when Turbo parked himself next to Joe. Etta sat, too. “They’re not contracted for the shoot,” he complained. “We’re only using dogs from my obedience school.”
“Turbo’s with me. Etta’s with him,” Joe stated.
“I’ll need releases on both dogs,” said Liza. She sent the lighting technician up the stairs with the paperwork. Joe signed, his signature unreadable. “Magazine offers a flat fifty dollars. Checks payable to the owners.”
“I Do can be added to your dog’s résumé, should he continue doing shoots,” added the technician. “Dog food companies, pet toys, and miscellaneous products are always holding auditions. Aronson’s looking for a new furry face to represent his obedience school.”
Turbo barked.
The trainer choked on the thought.
The photographer eyed each dog with a practiced eye. She commented to Liza, “Let’s add the Shar-Pei puppy. Wrinkles would be a nice contrast to the smooth drape of the gown. The red Irish setter is distinctive. The black Scottish terrier. Interesting face. The hair is lightly trimmed and brushed forward.”
The creative director smiled, pleased. “You’ll be shooting in color, black-and-white, and later adding Photoshop sepia tones for an antique look. The magazine editor can decide which works best.”
Aronson unleashed the chosen dogs, and they scampered up the steps, choosing their spots and settling.
“Finalizing,” from Liza. She pointed to Jana in makeup. “Give Stevie her bouquet.” Yellow roses and baby’s breath. “The couple’s just gotten married—we need wedding bands.” Two gold rings were provided. Loose on Stevie’s finger, tight on Joe’s. “Toss white rose petals on the staircase.” The floral scent was fresh and pure. Turbo bit a petal. Spit it out.
Paige got behind her camera. Gentle lighting set the mood, making the scene romantic, yet natural. “Talk, joke, smile, kiss, fool around,” she told them. “A feature editor will call in a day or two and set up an interview. She’ll cover the fashion and human-interest angles.”
Joe breathed near her ear. “I like interviews.”
“You like talking about yourself.”
“I’m interesting.”
“To you.”
They smiled easily for the first formal photographs. A few were taken straight-faced. Up until he poked her in the ribs. Startled, she gasped, giggled.
She playfully pinched his thigh. Felt his muscle flex.
He lifted one side of her veil. Kissed her on the neck.
She angled her head back against his shoulder. Closed her eyes, lost.
He next brought her hand to his lips, nuzzled her palm. His facial scruff tickled. More smiles.
She teased him, too. Squeezing his hidden knee between her thighs. Heat and moaning from the man. He raised his knee, almost to her thong. She shifted, and her hip brushed his groin. He groaned low in his throat.
Liza gave them a thumbs-up. “Love the chemistry. More.”
Joe eased to her side, turned her to face him. He raised her veil in heart-racing foreplay. He cupped one cheek, went in for a kiss. So tender, she softened to him. Her knees went weak. His arm circled her waist, secured her to him. They grafted themselves to each other, as close as humanly possible. Her lace and satin gown embraced his sports coat and jeans. Her glass slippers kissed the steel toes of his scuffed boots.
“You getting this?” Liza asked the photographer. Her words reached the couple. Super-excited.
“Oh . . . yeah,” replied Paige. “They are hot.”
Joe teased the camera. He broke their kiss, then slid his hand over her hip, along her thigh. She eyed him questioningly. His purpose soon became clear. He carefully grasped her gown with two fingers, drew it up her calf, beyond her knee. High on her thigh. Flashed her blue garter.
Stevie blushed.
Joe was all sinful satisfaction.
The creative director clapped.
The lighting director cheered.
The photographer put her hand over her heart. Sighed.
Turbo howled. Joe, too. Not surprising. He threw back his head, his own howl raw, carnal male. Barking ensued. Even prissy Princess Pom-Pom yipped. Dogs began wagging, moving about, and becoming playful.
“A few more shots,” called out Liza.
Joe had his own agenda. He skillfully removed her circlet veil and placed it on Etta’s head, h
ooking it behind the bulldog’s ears. Turbo immediately sniffed the gauze. Etta cocked her head. Stevie swore she smiled.
Unexpected, yet as romantic as a fairy tale, Joe scooped her in his arms, held her high on his chest. His gaze held hers. “We’re done here, babe.”
Fine by her. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, buried her face in his neck. Breathed in the man. Earthy arousal. She trembled. Lost a glass slipper on the stairs.
“Catch it!” the director shouted.
“Got it,” from the photographer.
Joe took the steps easily. He paused on the landing, turned toward the camera with a wicked victory smile. He walked along the balcony toward her bedroom. The door was cracked, and he kicked it open.
The bridal assistant hurried toward them. “I’m here to assist Stevie out of the gown,” she said anxiously.
“I’ve got it covered,” from Joe.
“Sir, there are dozens of pearl buttons. Difficult to undo.”
“Bill me for the gown,” said Joe, as he carried Stevie over the threshold. “I’ll undress her my way.”
Ten
Stevie’s heart beat so fast she could barely catch her breath. “Your way?” She recalled his comment on the boardwalk, during the bridal fashion show. No man wasted time undressing his bride on their wedding night. He’d rip and pop the pearls. “You’re not really going to tear the back of my gown, are you?” she asked once Joe shoved the door closed with his boot. Then locked it behind them.
He held her tightly against his chest. She clutched her bridal bouquet with one hand. Clenched his shoulder with the other. Her breast pressed his forearm, soft and full. The arc of her left hip molded his groin. His desire was evident. His chin brushed her cheek. “I want you bad, babe. No row of pearl buttons will stand in my way.”
Stevie shivered. No man had ever wanted her badly enough to strip off her clothes that way. The word thrilling came to mind. Joe would pop the tiny buttons, scrap the fabric, and fulfill her fantasy. If given her consent. The gown was exquisite. Ruining it would be outlandish. Disrespectful to the designer. She couldn’t live with herself. Even if he had made the purchase.
