The Bride (The Boss)

by Barnette, Abigail

  “And you’re going to be my maid of honor, right?” Holli asked, biting her lower lip. “I mean, I know in the past you’ve said you’d hate being in someone’s wedding—”

  “Oh my god, shut up! I will totally be your maid of honor!” I mean, I had kind of expected she would ask me, since I was her best friend and all, but that didn’t make the invitation any less exciting.

  Our chatter turned to the possibility of destination weddings in tropical climates. As independent, twenty-first century young women, maybe we should have spent our lunch talking about more important topics, but we’d all just gotten engaged. I gave us a pass for one stereotypical lunch.

  When we were ready for the check, I picked it up. “Seriously, it’s on me. You guys have no idea how much I needed this today.”

  “Still waiting to hear on the job, huh?” Deja asked, her perfect eyebrows knotting together in sympathy.

  “Unfortunately. But that’s not the problem.” I slipped my card into the black leather case and left it on the side of the table. “I’ve just really missed New York. London is an amazing city, and Emma was a lot of fun, when she was there…but the past year sucked. It’s good to be back to normal.”

  “The version of normal where you live in a palace on Fifth Avenue and I’m engaged to a human being instead of an architectural structure?” Holli laughed. “I’m so glad you’re home. Never, ever move away again.”

  “I’ll try not to.” There was no point in telling her that in fifteen years, Neil planned to entomb us both at some crusty old estate. She didn’t need fifteen years to worry about it.

  In the cab home from the restaurant, I thought about Holli and how different our lives had become in just a year and some odd months. Before Neil had strolled into Porteras—and hired Deja—neither Holli nor I had ever expected there might be an end to our single days. I mean, we’d hypothesized about it in a dreamy, far-off sort of way. “We might think about doing that when we’re in our thirties.” “We’d better decide on the children issue before we hit our forties and it becomes difficult to conceive.” It was always in the abstract, far off future.

  Maybe it was because we’d viewed married or engaged versions of ourselves as being boring and restricted—I know that’s how I’d envisioned myself. And I’d always had this idealistic view about not getting married. The wedding, the dress, the honeymoon, all of that had been beneath me in the picture of independent, successful Sophie that I had begun painstakingly constructing in college.

  Had I taken a sledgehammer to that construction? Getting married to Neil—hell, just moving in with him—had definitely taken down some walls, but they hadn’t been structural supports. I was still Sophie, just like Holli was still Holli. Being with our respective partners didn’t make us any more or any less.

  So, if getting married was a total non-issue, why was I so up in my head about it? Probably because it was new and exciting and, truth be told, a little scary. But I usually dug exciting and a little scary where Neil was concerned.

  I’d always assumed that when you loved someone and you wanted to marry them, that was that. If it was this complicated, was I really ready to do it?

  My phone rang as I stepped out of the elevator. I juggled my purse to answer it as I entered the security code and slipped my key into the lock. Holli was on the other end.

  “Okay, so, are you freaking out?” she asked in lieu of a hello. “Because I’m freaking out.”

  “What are we supposed to be freaking out about here? Because I might be freaking out, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.” In the foyer, I dropped my purse and coat on the floor and headed directly to the library.

  “The whole getting married thing. Sophie, I have no clue what I’m doing.” Her voice trembled. “Is this… If I feel like this, then it’s probably not the right decision, huh?”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” I went to the antique secretary where I kept my laptop, and I opened the lid as I dropped into my chair. “This is a major life change. I think it would be stupid of us not to have some serious considerations.”

  I typed wedding, cold feet into the search bar.

  “Are you Googling this, Sophie?” Holli asked with an annoyed “tch.” “I don’t think this is a Googleable thing.”

  “Aha! ‘Cold Feet or Something More?’ It’s an article, and we are going to read it right now.” I leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “Okay. Apparently…it’s totally normal to have cold feet, blah blah… Okay, right here: ‘Many couples experience symptoms of anxiety, including increased bickering and diminished sex drive.’ Is that going on with you two?”

  “No, things are better than ever. It’s like those damn rings have sex powers or something.” Holli paused so I could continue.

  “‘While it’s normal to interpret every spat over household chores as an omen, remember that you’re both moving into an exciting new chapter of your lives together. Talk to your guy; he might be feeling the same way.’”

  “‘Your guy?’ Are you giving us relationship counseling out of Cosmo? Because so help me—”

  “It’s not Cosmo, it’s some Wedding Belles blog. I think it’s for Southern brides, but a lot of this still applies.” I scanned the text. “Oh. That’s not good.”

  “What’s not good?” Holli shrieked.

  “Well, there’s a list of reasons why you should call off an engagement. Do you want to hear them?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear them.

  “I don’t know?” Holli sounded as panicked as I felt. “Wh-what if there’s stuff on there that applies to us? What happens then?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we…don’t get married?” The thought of it crushed my heart, like it was being sucked out of a tiny breech in an airlock in a space movie. “Or, not. I mean, it’s a blog, right? It’s not like if we read it, we’re doomed to unhappiness forever. Nobody gives a shit about blogs.”

  “Not even a little,” she agreed. “But what if we don’t read them? After all, neither of us planned to get married. We’re probably just freaking out because we changed our minds, or whatever.”

  “But it might be nice to know—”

  “No, it won’t,” Holli stated firmly. “Look, do you think there is going to be anything on that list that’s going to make you love Neil less? Because I’m pretty sure there won’t be anything on that list that’s going to make me fall out of love with Deja.”

  “Okay. You have a point,” I conceded. “We’re just being crazy.”

  “This is terrifying, though. I mean, I just moved in with her in September. And things are going great, but—” She broke off with a sigh. “You know, it’s just so grown-up and official. I’m only twenty-five. The rest of my life is a long time.”

  “It might not be,” I reminded her. “It almost wasn’t for me and Neil. And I feel like kind of an asshole. This time last year, I would have given anything for some kind of future with Neil. Now he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, and I’m doubting something that I desperately wanted before?”

  I imagined Holli nodding sagely as she said, “You know, we’re totally fucked up.”

  “We are,” I agreed. “I’m so glad we talked each other off the ledge.”

  After we hung up, I sat with my finger hovering over the track pad. Holli was right. There was nothing on that list that would make me not want to marry Neil. So there was no sense in even looking.

  But I bookmarked it just in case.

  * * * *

  Neil texted me at one saying I should call him at around five for our phone sex rendezvous, because he’d be between meetings. Then he texted again at three to tell me his schedule for the day had gone off the rails, and he wouldn’t be home until after ten.

  I whimpered as I read the text, then scolded myself. I’d gotten so spoiled by having Neil to myself all the time, and I’d known that it would be hard to go back to the way our lives were when we’d just started dating. Compared to our old routine of Skype sex du
ring the week and the occasional weekend together, things weren’t so bad for us now. Still, I dialed his phone, because I needed to hear his voice.

  “Sophie?” He sounded concerned, but a bit distracted.

  “You’re really not going to be home until ten?” I whined.

  “I’m sorry, darling, but I did warn you that going back to work—”

  “Would mean taking care of stuff that piled up while you were gone. I know. You’re making up for a year off.” I resigned myself to falling asleep to reality television.

  “Look, darling, I have to go, but do call me later. Around seven, I should have time then. Do you remember what you have to do this evening?” he asked, his voice pleasantly neutral. The naughty man was talking to me about this in a room full of people, I was sure of it.

  “Of course I do, Sir,” I purred.

  After we hung up, I told Sue she should knock off an hour early and leave dinner to me, since Neil wouldn’t be coming back and he’d probably eat at the office. Then I worked on a video for my YouTube channel.

  After India had started linking my videos to her massively popular Tumblr, I’d had to invest a lot more energy into them. I couldn’t just point a flip phone at the mirror and do my eye shadow. Now I had a studio light, a small, collapsible background, a state-of-the-art HD camera and professional microphones. The videos used to be a hobby, dashed off in a couple hours’ time. Now, I worked for weeks on just one, and Neil had taken to calling the library “the studio.” They just weren’t as much fun as they’d been before. Today, I decided I would record a tutorial on a smoky eye look—if Neil did get home early, I might be able to pull off the sultry vixen routine—and consider whether continuing with the makeup maven shtick was worth it.

  At around six, I put away my stuff, washed my brushes, said goodnight to Sue and headed into the bedroom. Neil wasn’t always going to be around for sex, but it wasn’t like working late was the worst thing that had ever happened in our sex life. When he’d been ill, we’d gone for months without making love. I knew how to make this work.

  Part of making it work was committing fully to great sex with myself. I ran a hot bath with lots of bubbles and scrolled through Neil’s iPod, since he’d left it plugged into the sound system in the bathroom. I found Morcheeba and decided I could definitely get down to their slow, sultry beats. I lit the candles around the garden tub, hit the lights, and sank into the water.

  I leaned back, careful not to let my messily pinned up hair get wet. That would be uncomfortable later, when I moved to the bed. I had an awesome bath pillow, and I rested my head and neck on it as the tub’s jets blasted away the soreness in my calves and thighs. Closing my eyes, I imagined Neil coming home and catching me like this. I could clearly see him standing beside the tub in his button down and expensive trousers, his sleeves rolled up to the thickest part of his forearms. He would watch me wordlessly for a while as I stroked myself beneath the water…

  I slipped my fingers down my body, lifting my hips as my hand strayed closer and closer to its goal. If Neil really were here watching me, I would take more time, teasing my nipples and making long, fluttering sweeps down my stomach. Since he wasn’t—and since he’d given me the time-consuming task of fifteen edges—I parted myself with my fingertips and made slow, gentle circles around my clit. The hot water moving around the unprotected bundle of nerves made me sigh, and a naughty smile bent my lips. I briefly considered getting out to retrieve the video camera, but the water was so nice and warm, and touching myself felt so good, I didn’t want to stop.

  I thought about what Neil would say if he were standing over me. Something to get my attention, like, “No one should be so filthy in a bath,” or some similar cliché, yet insanely hot, quip. And I would gasp and open my eyes, and see him there, feel the sudden, piercing weight of his stare as he took in my form, and I would be utterly helpless.

  My fingers sped up, rolling over and over my flesh. Fifteen edges. Fifteen orgasms denied at the last possible moment. Fifteen clenched fists, cramped toes, countless sobs of frustration and joy. I had to do them all and then I had to call him so he could give me permission to finally let go and tumble over.

  “Oh, fuck,” I whispered, my other hand gripping the tub beside my head. I pumped my hips in time with my fingers and rose higher, higher…

  I thought of Neil’s big hand dipping beneath the water, his fingers brushing mine as I pleasured myself, and I was so close, I had to jerk my hand away, laughing a little at how intense I’d gotten so quickly.

  I handled the first five edges in the tub before I forced myself to get out. My knees shook, but as I moved about the bathroom blowing out the candles and drying myself, my arousal dimmed. I was in control enough to get to my sixth edge by tapping my clit with the soft terrycloth towel, though I had to grip the bar for support as I struggled not to come.

  Making a little game of it, I considered how to get close to each next edge. I seated myself on the padded bench beside the shower and used a makeup brush to tease myself, whisking the smooth, ticklish hairs over my clit. He’d said no toys, but I didn’t think a blush brush counted as a sex toy. I went out to the dressing room and sat, legs splayed, in front of the mirror to watch my fingers spread my glistening wetness over me. The sense of being exposed and doing something really naughty harkened back to the days of my inventive teenage masturbation. There was a dirty thrill in taking so much time, moving from the bathroom to the closet to the bedroom, making a full event out of exploring my sexuality. It had been a long time since I’d really gotten to know myself in this way; after a summer of stresses that had pushed sex as far from my mind as possible, it was so good to catch up.

  By the time I reached number fifteen, I was a sweating, panting mess lying in the center of the bed. When I was close, so close I felt a step from the summit, I pulled away my fingers and held painfully still. Any movement, even breathing too hard, could have triggered my long delayed orgasm. My vulva throbbed, all of my delicate tissues painfully swollen. I dripped onto the duvet beneath me; I should have put a towel down.

  When the danger had passed, I reached for the phone on the nightstand. My hands shook, as much from physical tension as from excitement. As Neil’s cell rang, I held my breath, afraid that I might come just from hearing his voice.

  “Hello, Sophie,” he answered cheerfully. “Is there something you need?”

  A gasped laugh tore from my throat, hoarse from my moans and hisses at the denial. “Please, Sir. Can I come?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m all alone here.” The cocky half-smile that matched his tone would be on his face, I was sure of it. “But first, let’s make sure you followed my instructions. Are you wet?”

  “Are you kidding?” I snapped.

  He clucked his tongue. “I could always just deny you, you know.”

  “I could always just come anyway!” I was mindless with desire, and though I knew my Sir didn’t like bratty subs, I couldn’t imagine any punishment he could come up with that would be worse than withholding release now.

  His voice lowered to that dark, silkily stern tone that set every inch of my skin tickling. “If you did, I would tie you down and make sure you got your fill, and then some. You wouldn’t want to come again for a year.”

  He would, too. He loved torturing me with orgasms, making me come over and over until I begged him to stop. If he did something like that tonight, after all the torment I’d already been through today, I wasn’t sure I would be able to last five minutes without safewording.

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “That’s better.” Something thumped in the background, maybe a file cabinet door closing. It was a bit off-putting to know that my climax was being multi-tasked. “Put the phone near your cunt and touch yourself, so I can hear it.”

  A hot flush burned in my face and across my chest, and I giggled in embarrassment. “You want to talk to my cunt, Sir?”

  “No, I want to talk to my cunt. Who does it belong t
o?” His demand left my knees quivering.

  “You, Sir. It’s yours.”

  “Good. Now, do as you’ve been told. I’ve missed that gorgeous pussy, we haven’t spoken in a while,” he said with a low chuckle.

  I reached the phone down, and I couldn’t help my laugh. It was so ridiculous, yet oddly arousing. I slipped my two middle fingers inside my vagina and pumped them, exaggerating the squishy, wet sound. Then, I lifted the phone to my ear again. “Okay, now can I come? I’ve been waiting for an hour.”

  “You may. But do it slowly.” In the background, something dinged. “Darling, I’m heading through the lobby right now, I’m about to get on the elevator. I’m just returning from a dinner meeting with Rudy. If I lose you in the lift, wait for me to call you back. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.” Unfortunately. “So, go slowly, and don’t finish if we get disconnected.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Okay, I’m going to speaker.” I hit the button, closed my eyes and tipped my head back on the pillow. “You have no idea how much I need this.”

  “I think I might have some idea,” he said, and the line was a bit crackly. Luckily, he didn’t lose service, and I heard a set of elevator doors sliding open before the signal cleared. “But you’re being awfully quiet.”

  If he wanted me to make some noise, I could make some noise. My tortured clit practically recoiled beneath its hood as I stroked myself. My own lubrication was enough to keep things good and slippery, and I was swollen, so swollen that I hurt. The tightening in my pelvis was almost a cramp, and my clitoris felt like it was being pricked with needles. I didn’t need to be told to moan and thrash as I got closer and closer. My hand fisted in the pillow beside my head just as the bedroom door opened, and Neil stepped inside.

  The bastard! He’d been in our elevator.

  I opened my mouth to say something witty, and I burst out weeping.

  He slipped his coat and jacket off, smiling slightly to himself. “I can leave again if you’d like.”