by Giselle Fox
“Don’t say that!” I said, looking out through the big plate glass windows in the living room. I could only see blackness beyond. “That’s it, now we have to check everything.”
“I’ll come with you,” Camille said.
We crept around the house, holding hands. “What are we going to do with him if we find him?” Camille whispered as we walked into the spare bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway.
I flicked on the light. The room was empty, except for the bed. “I don’t know about you but I’m going to hit him with my fist,” I whispered back.
“What if you hurt him?” Camille asked.
“Isn’t that the idea?”
“It’s not very vegan of you,” Camille giggled.
“I wasn’t planning on eating him. I was just going to tenderize him a bit.”
We both started laughing. “There’s no one here but us,” Camille said, pushing me back against the hallway wall.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I checked. There are heat sensors all over the house. We’re the only warm bodies here.”
“What if he’s just cold? Maybe he’s a lizard man.”
Camille laughed.
“It’s possible.”
She pressed her body against mine again. “How drunk are you?”
I thought about that. “On a scale of one to ten, probably a six… and a quarter.”
“Would I be taking advantage of you if I did this?” She pulled the button on my pants and tugged my fly down.
I pretended not to have noticed. “Did what?”
Camille grinned. She began to undo the buttons on my Henley until it gaped open past my bra. She leaned her head close and kissed her way up the side of my neck. “You smell like raspberries,” she purred.
“I drank a keg of them,” I replied.
“Have we ever fucked in this hallway before?” she whispered. Her eyes flashed at me. Her breath was humid and husky.
I couldn’t remember. “Yes?” I replied because, in my state of level six-point-two-five drunkenness, it seemed unlikely that we wouldn’t have.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head gently. “We never have.”
“Maybe we should fix that,” I moaned. Her fingers were pinching my nipple and I was having a hard time focusing on anything else.
“Yes,” she breathed. She slid her hand roughly up the front of my shirt, her fingers curled around my throat, gently gripping it. She tipped my head back until it was pressed against the wall, all the while watching me with her eyes. Her lips curled over her teeth into a hungry smile, her eyebrow arched wickedly.
I was breathing heavily; Camille’s other hand was kneading the cleft of my pants. Her fingers pressed the seam into me with indelicate precision. I took a breath, trying to slow myself down. My arms were stuck to the wall beside me, rigid and uncertain like they’d been hastily painted into the scene. Camille was in charge and wanted it that way. I was the object of her conquest. Her icy-blue eyes ripped up and down my body, then settled on my open shirt.
The hand at my neck released and went for my breast again, this time pulling the cup of my bra and the strap down until my breast was freed. She kneaded my nipple again. I watched it peek through the space between her thumb and forefinger and then disappear. The hand between my legs kept working. I was aching so bad and so deep that it felt as if my walls were stuck together. What she would do to open me, to ease that ache, I could only imagine, but I hoped I wouldn’t be left to imagine it for long.
I felt drunk again. The heady ferment of berries and grains was cycling through me. But then, we were moving, back to the spare room at the end of the hallway where the light was still on, to the first room to have ever been anointed by her conquest of my body. She sat me on the bed and pulled at my trousers. I flung the shirt off my body and onto the floor.
“Lay down, Claire,” she whispered and took a step back from me. She removed her jeans and I realized they were mine. The t-shirt that she tossed onto the pile was mine as well, but the set she wore beneath was all her. My mouth watered at the sight of her—dark, sleek, animal—and those eyes, crystalline, icy, and canine. The ceiling light above her head was almost surgical in its luminance. Nothing was hidden; nothing shadowed. It was bald, naked, and stark. Nor were there sheets beneath me or pillows at the head; just a bare mattress in a spartan room with blank walls. This was how she wanted it: with the lights glaring and nothing to hide under. Just her and me.
She bent before me and reached for something under the bed. I heard it slide along the floor: the infamous black duffel bag, a traveling menagerie of silicon and leather, steel and silk. She found what she needed and stood with it in her hand; a rig I knew well. It was a friend and a lover wrapped in one long black shaft.
She looked down at me, stroking the shaft with her hand, slathering it with lubricant, warming it in preparation. “Let me see you.”
I lifted my heels off the floor and placed them on the edge of the bed. I let my knees drop to the side. Camille’s cheeks flushed pink, she took a step forward and guided my legs until they were stretched in the air above me. Her gaze traveled down their length, stopping at my center; exposed, wet, and swollen. She gripped the base of the shaft and let it glide through me.
I shuddered, inside and out. I tried to push into it to let it relieve the pressure that had built inside me, but she gripped my heels and held my legs back with one hand. Brutally, masterfully, she dipped and prodded the shaft, a fraction of an inch, then another, before pulling out and letting it glide over me again.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
She laughed, and if I didn’t know it better, it might have sounded cruel. She gazed down at me, aware of the exquisite agony she was putting me through. Finally, I reached out my hand and dragged my finger under the crook of her panties. Her bud pushed outward through swollen petals; honey coated my finger, even through the lace. I teased her again, harder. Her eyes went dreamy, her abdomen shuddered. When her eyes opened, I knew it was time.
She crouched on the balls of her feet in front of me. Her knees splayed open for balance. Her hands held the nook between my hips and thighs, then I felt her mouth, her lips, and her tongue. I felt her whimper, I felt her moan. She pulled my legs open and watched me as she lapped with soft painterly strokes. And then I felt the tip of the shaft parting me, opening me, filling the whole of me until there was no hole left.
I closed my eyes and let myself relax. The ache was gone, replaced by a stronger and more desperate need. Camille secured the shaft in place with her thumb and teased me again with her fingers; tapping a gentle and unpredictable beat. I felt the nerve endings inside me beat back, harder and harder until they began to throb. Each one brought on a wave, cycling me through one suspended climax after another. Tap, tap of her finger and then barely a touch at all, lifting me and then dropping me back down just before I could release.
She was a cruel and loving master and her eyes said she knew it. My legs were shaking and I could barely hold them up. She pulled my hand and guided it downward, then pressed it against the hilt of the shaft. “Don’t let go,” was all she said and then removed her hand.
She crawled onto the bed and straddled my chest. She hovered above me while looking devilishly down. “Do you want my pussy?”
I’m not sure if my response was English or even a word at all. I felt more like an animal calling to the moon.
Camille lowered herself onto my mouth, wet lace and all. I was ravenous and thirsty, aching to climax and to make her climax on top of me. Her head tipped back, her pulse raced at her throat. Her chest heaved in time with her hips. Her moans echoed off the walls of the room.
Then, she pulled aside her thong and let me have the whole sumptuous fruit. She whimpered and cried. I thrust my tongue inside her and felt her drip over my lips. Her cadence faltered, her hand pressed against my forehead, her fingers clawed at my hair.
She reached back and gripped the hilt, our fingers to
uched as I passed her the baton. With two hands, I lifted and pushed her up and down on my tongue. Her breaths became shorter as she spiraled upward, while her hand thrust the shaft into me again and again. We sailed higher and then shot like cannonballs one after the other, exploding in flashes of incandescent light.
We landed heaving, sweating, and flushed. Camille dropped down beside me, the bedsprings creaked under her weight, the toy bounced between us. My legs hung limply off the edge of the bed; the balls of my feet rested on the hardwood floor. I toed the rough material of the duffel bag and turned to kiss her. “That was pretty good, but we still haven’t fucked in the hallway.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was a fantastic day for a wedding. The sun was streaming through the windows in our bedroom. The blue sky was free of clouds. Camille was coiled around me; her fingers lazily tickled the side of my thigh. Being back at the beach house made everything feel so relaxed and peaceful. Vermillion Global felt like it didn’t exist.
It hadn’t taken us long to feel secure in the house again after the incident with peeping-tom camera guy. Under the light of such a brilliant morning, it all felt like more of a nuisance than a danger. I took a walk around the outside while Camille took a shower, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t out there hiding again, but there was no sign of him.
We sat out on the deck and ate a simple breakfast of oatmeal, nuts, and fruit. Despite having drunk an ample supply of raspberry wit, I wasn’t in bad shape at all. “Your hangover cure worked,” I said, nuzzling my toes under Camille’s bum. “I’m a little fuzzy but no headache.”
“It’s important to act fast,” Camille said, smiling.
“And more than once.” After the romp in the spare bedroom, we’d returned to the hallway. It had only been a quickie but it had counted enough to strike the location off the unofficial list.
“Are you excited?” Camille asked.
“About the wedding? Yes,” I replied. I loved Sherri and knowing she was in a great place with such a good man made me really happy. I just wanted the whole event to go perfectly for them so they would always have something special to look back on.
The ceremony was scheduled for two o’clock at an adorable little white church perched on the top of the rise as you came into town. The reception was at McMannis’s. Our high school grad had been there, countless other weddings I’d been to had been there. In our little town, it was as a ubiquitous location as you could get.
Camille and I arrived at the church early so we walked around, enjoying the grounds before going inside. I knew most of the other guests in one way or another. When we circled back around to the front of the church, Sherri’s mother was standing out front.
“Here she is,” she said when she saw me.
We walked over and she immediately pulled me into a hug. “Thank you for coming. It means so much to Sherri to have you here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I said. “Marjorie, this is my partner, Camille.”
She gave Camille a big smile and held out her hand. “How lovely to finally meet you. Thank you for coming all this way to spend this day with us.”
“I’m delighted to be here. You must be so happy for your daughter.”
Marjorie’s face was glowing. “I couldn’t be happier. Look at this day!” She held her hands up to the sky.
“It’s perfect,” I heard my mother’s voice say behind me. She tucked her arm in through mine. “Hello, Camille. You both look so lovely standing here together.” My mom gave me a kiss on the cheek and then smiled.
Camille’s eyes met mine. Yep, she’d been as shocked by my mother’s greeting as I’d been.
“What a nice thing to say, Nancy. Thank you. I love your dress.”
“Thank you. I heard about what happened last night.”
“Isn’t that just awful!” Marjorie said. “Who would have the nerve to do such a thing?”
“Was it someone from town?” my mother asked in a hushed voice.
Word about intruding camera guy had spread fast. Camille looked over our shoulders, scanning the small crowd that had gathered around the entrance.
“We don’t know,” I said. I heard the whir-click of a camera behind me and turned abruptly.
“That’s just Randy, the wedding photographer,” Marjorie said.
“Clarice’s husband,” my mother added.
I already knew who he was, but Camille looked relieved.
“Maybe we should go inside,” I suggested.
We followed in behind the stream of guests and were seated along the bride’s side of the church.
“It’s lovely in here,” Camille said, looking all around us. The long windows allowed sunlight to stream through, giving everything an ethereal glow. People were smiling and talking quietly. Brayden waved to us when he came in with his wife.
“Sherri’s probably in the back with her sisters,” I said.
“I wonder if she’s getting nervous yet.”
Soon, the violinist and the harp player that had set up in the corner began to play the beginning notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. Everyone in the church fell silent. Jarrett and his two best men appeared and stood in a line at the front of the altar. Jarrett looked about as handsome and grown up as I’d ever seen him and just watching him stand there so solemnly was almost enough to make me cry. There was a flutter in the crowd, and Jarrett bit his lip.
We all turned and then Sherri appeared with her father. I watched the exchange of looks between her and Jarrett. As she took her first few steps down the aisle, her tears began to flow, and at that point, so did almost everyone else’s. Camille gripped my hand. When I turned to her, I saw tears roll down her cheeks.
When Sherri’s father delivered her to the altar, the look in Jarrett’s eyes was so tender and loving that it made me wish I’d brought more tissue. Sherri wiped her eyes and started to laugh. Jarrett held her hands and then leaned in to kiss her.
“Easy there, son,” Sherri’s father said from his seat up at the front. “It’s not time to kiss her yet.”
Everyone in the congregation laughed. Then, the pastor gave them both a serene smile and began.
***
When the ceremony was over, we all followed the happy couple out of the little church and into the sun. I’d never seen Sherri look so elated nor had I seen Jarrett look so devoted. There was a feeling of rightness about their union. I couldn’t have been happier for both of them.
Randy, the photographer, had them over by the trees for some couple shots. Camille and I took a little walk around and I introduced her to everyone I knew. Soon, it was time for us all to start moving toward the venue. We slowly filed down the path back to the road where all the cars were parked. I looked back and saw Sherri and Jarrett walking down the hill together, arm in arm. Sherri’s white dress was luminescent in the bright sunlight. Jarrett’s haircut and new suit made him look more handsome than ever. Both of them wore dark sunglasses. I stopped to take a picture of them on my phone.
When we pulled into the parking lot of the venue, I knew something wasn’t right. There were trucks parked out front and people walking around the grounds with muddy boots and shovels. I looked over at Camille. “Oh dear.”
Sherri’s mother, Marjorie, was speaking with a woman out on the front steps. Neither woman looked happy. Everyone that had arrived before us was still waiting outside. Beyond the vine-covered arbor, the big white canopy stood over the party area, but for some reason, no one was being let in. Sherri and Jarrett hadn’t arrived yet, but I had a feeling there would be bad news when they did.
“This doesn’t look very promising,” Camille said.
No, it didn’t. “Let’s walk over there and see what’s going on.” As we did, Jarrett’s electric-blue Suburban pulled up; he and Sherri were sitting in the back seat while Jarrett’s brother, Bart, sat behind the wheel.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I heard Marjorie say.
“It’s the best we can do,
I am so sorry,” the woman standing with her said.
“What am I supposed to tell Sherri?” Marjorie asked sadly.
We all waited for Sherri and Jarrett to walk up the path. When she saw us all standing there, I could tell she knew something was wrong. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. A sewage pipe has burst in the back and they’ve had to shut off the water,” her mother replied.
“You’re kidding me? Today?!!” Sherri gasped. “What are we supposed to do?”
The venue lady shook her head. “The best I can offer is to set you up here on the front lawn. I’ve already called around and found some porta-potties, we can put those in the parking lot away from the tables-”
“You gotta be kidding! I’m not squatting in a porta-potty with my wedding dress on!”
Camille stepped forward. “Is there no other venue?”
“No,” the rest of us replied.
Sherri looked beyond distressed. “There’s a lot of people but… maybe we can all squeeze onto the patio at Brodie’s. Shit, this is a nightmare!”
“Tell your guests to come back to my place,” Camille said.
Sherri looked at her. “Are you being serious right now?”
“Of course,” Camille replied. “It’s a beautiful day, there’s more than enough space outside. I have six bathrooms, that should be enough. Tell the caterer to pack everything up and take it out there. Claire and I will go there now to meet them.”
Sherri looked like she was about to cry with relief. “You get free beer for a lifetime, I swear. This is incredible. Thank you!”
“You are very welcome,” Camille said.
Sherri stood up on the top step. “Everyone, can I have your attention, please!”
By then, most of the guests had arrived and were standing around on the front lawn or the parking lot. They all moved closer.
“We can’t stay here. There’s no water and no bathrooms. Thank goodness, Camille has been kind enough to offer us her home out on South Beach.”
There were scattered cheers all around.
