Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  But I can hear her—her sexy murmurs, her relentless cries of pleasure, and her groans of my name, again and again.

  Like the chorus to that rock song.

  It’s just an oh god, over and over and over, but it’s more than enough for me to blast off, too. My balls tighten, my neck goes tense, and I groan. I’m louder than I want to be, but I can’t control the rumble that falls from my lips. “Gonna come,” I warn, and those words turn into grunts and curses as I drive deep one last time, coming hard inside her on a pinball machine somewhere in the storage room at an arcade in a Vegas hotel.

  I pant and breathe out hard. She loops her arms around my neck. The after-effects of epic pleasure hum in my bones. Damn, this is a fucking awesome night. And it’s only just begun.

  “You’re a loud one,” she says, smiling at me.

  I shrug. “Loud is good.”

  She nods. “It is.” She sighs contentedly and plays with the ends of my hair. “We’re good together,” she says softly, and her words take root deep inside me. They feel right. They feel true.

  “Yeah, we are,” I whisper. “And there’s more where that came from tonight.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” she says, then her lips curve up. “What’s next on the agenda of Wyatt and Natalie’s Excellent Adventure in Vegas?”

  I stroke my chin, thinking. Then it comes to me. “I’ve got just the thing to show you.”

  11

  We top off on the way out of the hotel. A double round of shots for both of us keeps the night shimmering in a fine coat of a it-just-gets-better-and-better buzz.

  Though, it’s not just the smooth taste of Casa Noble going down that makes me feel so damn good. It’s Natalie’s hand in my back pocket as we leave New York-New York. It’s the way she squeezes my ass as we walk along the Strip. It’s how she runs her other hand through my hair while we chat.

  She can’t stop touching me, and it’s fantastic. “You’re quite the frisky mittens,” I tell her as we stop at a crowded crosswalk, waiting in the throngs of tourists taking in the city of sin.

  Running her fingers across the front of my T-shirt, she says, “And I get the impression you like me so . . . hands on.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I cover her fingers with mine and drag them down my abs as far as the top of my jeans.

  By the time we reach the fountains at the Bellagio, I’ve surpassed all ordinary levels of turned-on to the point that I’m mildly grateful we have something to do besides touch. If she keeps up at this rate, I’m not sure how I won’t be arrested for public fornication in a few minutes.

  Public decency is so overrated.

  I gesture grandly to the lake. “I believe this was on your Vegas Sites to See list.”

  She parks her palms on the railing, bouncing on her toes as she waits for the aqua extravaganza to begin. “I’ve wanted to see the water show here ever since I read a book that has a scene where the hero gets the heroine off in front of the railing.”

  Well, that’s not helping my situation south of the border. “Is that your way of telling me something, Frisky Mittens?”

  She laughs louder than usual and holds up two fingers. “I’ve got two in the bag already. I’ll take my third a little later.” She seems lost in thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, this writer has a bunch of books with scenes set here.”

  “Maybe she has a thing for the Bellagio fountains,” I say as the lights splash across the placid surface and the lake begins its nighttime ballet.

  Natalie gazes at the show as sprays of water dance up in the air. She sighs happily and stares at the scene before her with the contentment that only liquor can add to a night. “I can see why she likes it.” She turns to me, and her tone is flirty and curious. “What do you really like?”

  “Like enough to write about in a few books?”

  “Sure.”

  “Burgers. Beer. Spicy food. But you knew all that,” I say, as I pinch her ass, just because I can. She wiggles an eyebrow, and I continue, “I like sports and watching the Yankees. I like walking dogs for the rescue, helping them find homes. I enjoy random facts about the world. And I like to cook as often as I can.”

  A huge grin splashes across her face, and she shoves her hand on my chest. “You cook?”

  I jerk my head back. “Why do you sound so shocked? I’m a man of many talents. I’ll have you know I can work wonders with a grill and a skillet.”

  “Just surprised. I’m so used to you with your hammer and drill and that sexy-as-sin tool belt you wear,” she says, roaming her eyes up and down my body, drinking me in in a way that intoxicates me more. “Now I’m picturing you cooking some delicious, spicy stir-fry in your kitchen, and since it’s my fantasy, I’ve decided you’re shirtless with a spatula.”

  “In my fantasy, you’re wearing red panties, heels, and nothing else when I serve you this spicy stir-fry.”

  She shifts closer, her voice all sexy-husky as she says, “I bet it’s yummy.”

  “Just like you,” I say, wrapping my hand around her hipbone and yanking her close to me. We turn back to the water and gaze at the fountain choreography. “What about you, Frisky Mittens? What do you like so much you’d write about it in a bunch of books?”

  “Besides Ed Sheeran songs?”

  I shudder. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” She knows I can’t stand the guy, but I can appreciate what he’s done for scores of men by providing musical lubricant in the form of his songs.

  She hums a few notes from his most popular tune then answers me. “I like being daring. I like exploring new places and exploring places I already know. I like being a goofball sometimes and being serious at others. I also love getting pedicures and having my toenails painted in alternating colors. And I like finally being able to live in Manhattan, because it makes me feel like anything is possible if I just keep trying.”

  “That’s a perfect way to describe New York.”

  “And Vegas,” she adds, meeting my eyes once more. “Turns out I like Las Vegas.” She places her palm on my chest, softer this time, less Frisky Mittens, and more Sweet Natalie. “A lot,” she adds. “I like it a lot.”

  An electric current swoops through me, sending warmth and desire all over my body. “Me, too.” I dip my mouth to hers, brushing her lips with mine. Her soft breath ghosts over me as I pull back from the gentle kiss. “I’m really having a great time with you.”

  For the briefest of moments, I can see us having more conversations like this. I’m picturing spicy food competitions, exploring new corners of Manhattan, checking out all the roller coasters in the tri-state area and ticking off how many rides we can get busy on. Not because we’d be trying to amass notches in bedposts, but because it’d be fun. Natalie and I have that in common—the relentless pursuit of fun. We both like making the most of every second.

  But that’s not in the cards on account of that little detail of me employing her.

  A flickering awareness of what might happen on Monday morning when we’re back at work flashes in my brain, but then it disappears just as quickly as it arrived—because this night exists in its own bubble, and I’m having too much fun to think about anything more than the here and now.

  In front of us, the aquatic show has glided into its finale, the sprays soaring high in the sky.

  “Hey, let’s take a selfie right now,” she says, then whips out her phone, swinging it wildly into shooting position. I crowd in close and wrap an arm around her. We smile for the camera, framed in the background by one of the prettiest sights in all of Vegas.

  “Now, let’s get you to the Venetian, and grab the next gondola.” I smack her ass.

  She wiggles her eyebrow. “I like that.”

  “You are so fucking interesting, Little Bo Peep.”

  “Just wait till you see my crook.”

  As we head to the Venetian, she posts the image of us together on her Facebook page. A crew of women out on the town walks in our direction. One of them
sips on a towering drink that looks like an oversize beaker from a chemistry class. Natalie stares at it longingly after she puts her phone away.

  “Ever had one of those in Vegas?” I say to her.

  She elbows my ribs. “You know I haven’t.”

  “Then we need to deflower you in the ‘towering, delicious-looking cocktail that you down on the street’ department.” As the group nears us, I call out, “Hey there. Just wondering where we can grab one of those fantastic concoctions.”

  The woman points to a street cart on the next block, where we order one. And it turns out this beaker is full of the good shit.

  Natalie taps the pink plastic container shaped like a bong. “This is like a fast track to a super-buzz.”

  “Yeah, it pretty much goes straight to the brain. Probably the judgment center,” I joke, then hum a line from the Sheeran number she sang earlier. “Definitely the judgment center.”

  As we walk along the canal shops, my arm draped over her shoulders, we tell dirty jokes, sing snippets of favorite songs, and laugh so hard I’m not sure we can stop.

  “Hey, want to hear something funny?”

  “Duh. Of course I do.”

  “When I was in middle school, there was a rumor going around that if you laughed for twenty-four hours straight, you’d get a six-pack. Like, it was a one-time thing. If you could pull this off for a full day, you’d be set for life, all carved and shit,” I say, gesturing to my belly.

  She cracks up then slides her fingers over the fabric of my shirt. “Did you do a laugh-a-thon to get these?”

  “No, but we tried it at home,” I admit, sheepishly.

  She clutches her belly, cracking up. “Oh my God, you’re ridiculous.”

  “We decided to watch the funniest shows on TV, and Nick and I found these cartoons he was totally into. Some Japanese animated thing that was fucking hilarious. We managed about fifteen minutes of non-stop laughing.” Then I pull her close. “But I’ve laughed a lot tonight, so maybe I’m finally getting a twelve-pack.”

  She shakes her head. “Not gonna happen.”

  I pout. “Why not?”

  “Because soon, you’re going to stop laughing.”

  “Are you going to tell me something sad?”

  Another shake. “Nope. But I’m pretty sure you won’t be laughing when we’re naked later. You’ll be moaning and groaning and making those sexy sounds you make when you lose control for me.”

  And the temperature in me shoots through the roof. I do groan as I tug her close.

  “Just. Like. That,” she says in a sexy purr.

  I cup the back of her head and kiss her like crazy. We both sound like we can’t get enough of each other.

  When we manage to untangle, I guide her to the gondola ride. We settle on the seat as a man in a striped shirt and a red beret pushes a giant pole-like oar through the water. I wrap my arm around Natalie, and out of nowhere, I start humming that same tune again. And it hits me—I would never sing this sober. I would never sing it buzzed.

  Which means, I’m not buzzed.

  I’m borderline drunk.

  And the world is my oyster.

  Evidently, it’s everyone’s oyster tonight, because there’s clapping and cheering from the other gondolas. I swing my eyes around to the boat in front of us. A dude in pressed pants and a white button-down shirt has dropped to one knee, and a brunette has her arms around his neck and is crying happy tears as she gazes at a new ring on her finger. I watch as the afterglow of a proposal unfolds around us. Everyone else is cheering for them, too. Onlookers from the banks of the canals offer their hoots and hollers, and so does Natalie.

  She cups her hands around her mouth. “Woohoo!”

  She nudges me, and that’s my cue to chime in, too, so I pump a fist and shout, “Congrats! Go marry her tonight!”

  The guy laughs, and shoots me a thumbs-up. His bride-to-be waves at us. Someone walking along the shops seconds my idea. “Go to A Little White Wedding Chapel!”

  In their gondola, the button-down guy and his lady lock eyes, and seem to be weighing the idea, whispering to each other. A few seconds later, he holds his arms out wide. “We’re getting married tonight!”

  The cheers erupt, this time like your favorite slugger just knocked in a bottom-of-the-ninth game-winning homerun. Natalie’s shouts are the loudest, and she grabs my arm as she calls out boisterously, “They’re going to the chapel, and they’re gonna get married . . .” She slinks her arm tight around my waist. “Because you convinced them to tie the knot tonight.”

  “When in Vegas . . .” I say, and my voice trails off as our eyes meet.

  Those three words echo.

  Her eyes sparkle, and it’s like we’re thinking the same damn thing.

  I like being daring.

  “Exactly how daring do you like to be?” I ask.

  One corner of her lips curves up. “Exactly as daring as I can be. Why do you ask?”

  “Because of our deal for tonight. To do it all. One night only.” I tip my forehead to the couple, and I swear I’ve never had a better idea in the history of ideas than the one I have right now. It’s fucking genius. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Her mouth drops open, then she nods, her eyes wild with excitement. “I’m pretty sure I might be. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m thinking there’s one more thing that would make this the full Vegas experience.”

  She clasps one hand to her mouth then lets go. “Oh my God. Are we really going to do what they’re doing?”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice, given the deal we made back at the New York-New York bar. Go big or go home.”

  For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. I don’t have to wait long for an answer, though.

  “Go big, Wyatt,” she says, her voice soft, but her intention loud. Clearly, she thinks my idea is brilliant, too. How could she not?

  Dropping down to one knee, I grab her hand. “Frisky Mittens, want to go to a twenty-four-hour chapel and tie the knot?”

  She hiccups, then laughs and tugs me in for a sloppy kiss that tastes like tequila and fruit mixer. “When in Vegas . . .”

  12

  One sideburn slides off the man’s face.

  It’s mildly distracting. But nowhere near as disturbing as the officiant’s gold leisure suit. The one-piece has a collar that could double as wings, and is the very definition of skintight. It hugs every inch of his body, and yeah, I do mean inch.

  Sorry, not sorry. He’s wearing a fucking unitard. Hard not to notice shit.

  “Is he Leisure Suit Larry or Elvis?” I hiss to Natalie. When the venue has a name like Larry, Lana, and the King’s Full-Service Quickie Weddings, he could be either.

  She nods at the guy, who’s got a full perm going on, taking kinky curls to new heights, and whispers to me, “Or Richard Simmons got a new gig.”

  Only it’s not a true whisper. It’s a drunk whisper. So she’s not quiet in the least, but I doubt the exercise fanatic double cares, since I’m pretty sure he’s stoned. Looks that way, as he fumbles around for the wedding bands while we stand at the front of the tiny chapel. That’s part of the full service—two gold bands for fifty-seven bucks. What a steal.

  He reeks of pot, and judging from the Bob Marley tune playing as our wedding music this second, I’m guessing he was toking up before the limo dropped us off a few minutes ago, right after we grabbed a marriage license before those offices closed at midnight. The swanky black stretch number waits for us in the lot. I sprung for the best on my wedding night. That’s just the kind of swell fellow I am.

  Fishing around in the breast pocket of his suit, the dude grabs the rings, and holds them up. “‘Got ’em.” One slips from his fingers. “Oopsy daisy.”

  That sends Natalie into peals of laughter, and she grabs my arms, clutching me as she holds on. I chuckle, too, because everything is funny tonight. And everything is awesome, like my life is bob
bing on a raft in an infinity pool under the warm sun, drinking a piña colada without a care in the world.

  Natalie runs her hands up and down my arms, and I wiggle my eyebrows. We can’t stop flirting, touching, giggling.

  The dude bends to fetch the ring when I hear the telltale sign of stitches coming undone. I’m not sure what part of the leisure suit has popped open, but I decide to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the bride-to-be, just in case Larry Elvis Officiant is a commando-style guy.

  “That’s the real oopsy daisy,” Natalie says, and now I’m the one to crack up, grasping her trim little waist in my hands. Nothing quite like laughing like a hyena at your own nuptials.

  “All set now,” the guy says, and then he cups his hand to the side of his mouth and shouts, “Hey Lana! Can we get some grand finale music?”

  A woman in a white Elvis suit, her breasts spilling out from the mostly unzipped zipper, pops in and gives a big thumbs-up. “Oh, look at the happy couple,” she coos, then points overhead. Maybe to the sound system at the chapel, which now pipes in the opening bars of a song I recognize as soon as I hear the first line about what wise men say.

  A strange thing happens to my chest again when I turn back to Natalie in my arms. It’s like my heart is being squeezed. I blink, trying to center myself, but it’s hard when she’s staring at me as Leisure Suit Larry clears his throat, and the King croons in this most romantic song about fools rushing in. I kind of feel like I’m floating. Must be all the liquor playing tricks on me, making me smile like an idiot as Natalie looks at me, her eyes big and full.

  The officiant hands me her band, and Natalie and I move apart briefly as he runs through the familiar vows. We exchange rings, and as I stare at my newly adorned finger, something unnamed bubbles up inside me. I step closer to Natalie once more, clasp her hands in mine, and words tumble out in a rush. I’m telling her how gorgeous she is, and how much I’ve loved working with her, and how ridiculously fun this night is, and then I’m saying all sorts of things about what the future holds, and doesn’t hold, and I can barely keep track of everything I’m saying. I’m just serving up all that feels true, past, present, and future. She nods vigorously the whole time, and I love this about her—she fucking gets me. Then, that unnamed thing in me shifts, and now it tightens, ratcheting into worry. Before I know it, I tell her the most important thing I’ve ever told her. And I find myself making her promise to hold me to it.