by Carys Weldon
And I looked up at her from down there and said, “If you lift a leg to the side of the tub...”
She did.
I pressed the cloth to her womanhood, watching her face. Her eyes closed again, and her head fell back once more. Despite the water raining down on us, I put my nose to her crotch and rubbed upward with it a few times, right on her clit.
One of her hands dropped to my shoulder and the other to the side of my head. She said, “Use your tongue.”
I did.
Now, obviously, her orgasm pill had worked off. I had to work to get her there, but she gave me time to do it. And when it happened for her, I lapped up her juices, both hands to her ass cheeks, squeezing possessively as I reached in for the last drop.
When she was done, though, she was done. Abruptly, she said, “Get up. Wash your face and I’ll wash your back.”
My cock was throbbing at that point, full and engorged, ready to go. She pretended she didn’t notice. I let her order me around. I stood up, used the same cloth I’d pulled across every inch of her flesh on my face, and then passed it to her, and turned my back.
Again, I pressed my forehead to the wall. I waited for her to scrub my back as she’d promised. She lathered up the cloth while I stared down at my penis. I wanted nothing more than to turn her around and squeeze into her from the backside. I don’t know why I didn’t. My hands tightened into fists as she applied the cloth to my back.
“You should wax,” she said.
I laughed. “That looks shitty in crinos and lupine.”
“It’s all about that, isn’t it?” She chuckled.
Glancing over my shoulder at her, I asked, “You ever seen a waxed wolf?”
“A few.” She winked.
I guessed she must’ve talked a few into it, if her expression of amusement was anything to go by. I asked, “You like that?”
“I like seeing what a man will do for pussy.”
One more time, I looked down at my cock. I told her, “I’m not into cats.”
That was it. She dropped the washcloth and soap at my feet and said, “I’m outta here.”
And I thought, Good.
I stood there, stock still, until she got dressed and out altogether. Then I beat off.
She liked seeing what she could get a man to do. I hated that about her. I hated the fact that, for a split second, I had contemplated shaving my back--or asking her to do it.
When I climbed out, and toweled down, I noted the shaving gear on the counter. Wiping the fog off the mirror, I stared at my reflection, and noted the stubble growth. And decided right then and there that I’d grow some facial hair. A goatee. Trimmed around it. I didn’t think it looked bad at all.
I took my time in there. Felt like I had all the time in the world. The clothes Frank had bought were expensive. Armani. Guess he wanted me to look good for the big to-do. I had a little trouble with the tie. I left it hanging. I don’t wear those much. And truth be told, I usually wear the same one, just loosen it a bit and pull it over my head.
Exiting the bathroom, I padded out. The alcohol in my system, coupled with Giselle’s treatment and the shower--masturbation, had relaxed me enough, I guess. Frank had obviously showered, and was completely dressed and ready to go, nursing a drink. Looked like a vodka screwdriver.
Amber had a water bottle in hand. Giselle nursed what looked like wine, while Hood stood at the window, a phone cord in one ear--presumably the phone itself was in his pocket, and a beer in his hand. I could’ve listened in, if I’d wanted to. But I was more interested in the small talk between the girls.
Giselle told Amber, very quietly, “He said he’s going to do you later.”
“If you say so.”
I growled and went to the bar. Now, I don’t believe they didn’t notice I’d entered the room, but none of them said anything to me, or looked my way, as far as I could tell. Dropping some ice in a fresh cup, I poured a little more scotch and asked, “So, what time’s the wedding?”
“Why?” Frank asked. “You got a hot date?” A small smile rolled around his lips.
Putting the glass to mine, I said, “Maybe.”
The women’s eyebrows went up. Hood turned slightly to look over at me. And, actually, I mentally ticked off a few friends I had in the area. People I ought to hook up with, at least for a drink--just so they didn’t feel snubbed. Politics, and all that.
I asked, “How long are we gonna be in town?”
“Until tomorrow, noon,” Frank said. “Then on to St. Louis.”
“Giselle has a thing for jazz.” Amber smiled. “Don’t you?”
Giselle strolled toward me, set her drink down and said, “Guess you could say that. Let me help you with your tie.”
I turned my body toward her and let her do it. Not that I had any choice. But I felt three sets of eyes on me. I looked down at Giselle and asked with a smile, “How’s the bride holding up?”
She shrugged. “How are you doing?”
I chuckled. “I’m a little more relaxed than I was earlier.”
Her lips curved. Her eyes lit up. She said, “It’s amazing what a good shower can do for a person.”
I couldn’t help but sniff. There was no odor on her at all. Not mine. Not Hood’s. And she wrinkled her nose back at me. We were behind the counter. The others could only see from the waist up. When she was done, and had picked up her glass again, she copped a feel at my zipper area. Then she spun away, leaving me to wonder, what was that all about?
What? Frank.
Oh, nothing. Get the hell out of my head.
Then shut the fuck up.
I readjusted myself. I downed the damn drink.
Amber had her lips pursed, and her gaze narrowed on Giselle. Hood’s phone conversation had ended, and his eyes were on her, too. Both suspicious.
Way too happy with herself, Giselle asked, “Shall we go down to the chapel?”
Chapter Eleven
We waited in the foyer of the chapel forever. I couldn’t, for the life of me, guess what the hell the women were doing behind their pearly door. We were fitted with white roses in our lapels. I was told where to stand, beside Hood, and Frank sat down--the only spectator besides the official chapel personnel.
I don’t know what I expected. Not what I got, I know that. When the music started, and the door to the women’s dressing room opened, I felt my heart drop. Amber came out when the first chords of music began.
It felt like my wedding. Not that I’d ever planned on having one. But...she looked beautiful in her cream colored confection: a cocktail length dress with fluffy layers of net skirting, and a boatneck, off the shoulder, low slung, jacquard silk top. I never would have figured her for frilly and flowery. She carried a small bouquet. Red roses. It matched her lipstick.
And Giselle’s.
My eyes were on Amber’s the whole time as she came up the short aisle and took her place. Even when the wedding march itself started, and Giselle did her hesitating walk up it. I glanced over at her, sure. Mostly because I felt a change in Hood the minute she came into view.
He didn’t gasp or anything so dramatic as that. It was more what he didn’t do. I don’t think he was breathing at all.
Giselle stunned us all. Instead of a bride in white, or cream to match Amber, she wore all red. A body hugging sheath of crimson with a low-dipped, heart shaped neckline. And elbow length gloves. And a slit up her thigh. Red fishnets. Stilettos to match. Her hair had been swept up in combs, too, on each side. To my mind, she looked like the highest priced hooker on the planet.
The minute I thought it, I felt Hood’s whole body tighten. Giselle faltered.
Frank said, Shut the fuck up.
I looked over at Amber, past Hood. And she looked like she was going to cry...for Giselle. Tears had welled up in her eyes. And felt her...weeping inside, aching.
She said, You look beautiful, Giselle. He’s an oaf. Don’t listen to him.
Mind talk is a curse.
Hood rea
ched out a hand, taking Giselle’s, and drew her forward. We turned toward the justice of the peace, or reverend, or whatever he was. A nothing old man. Obviously human with no shapeshifting or mind reading capabilities. I wondered if Hood had picked him on purpose.
The man smiled at Giselle, one of those patriarchal visual pats. He felt sorry for her, as he glanced from her to Hood, then got uncomfortable and stuttered over his bible for a few minutes. We could feel it, palpably, his emotions. Or smell it. I don’t know which.
I did feel like an oaf. I wondered why in hell Hood had wanted me there. To replace Bark? I’d thought the two of them gelled pretty well. But we all knew I was a poor substitute for my brother.
You know, I’d never felt less than before. Not really. It’s funny how finding a woman you want, beyond all costs, changes a man. Makes him want to be better than he is.
I didn’t listen to the ceremony. I concentrated on blocking my thoughts, getting a mental grip.
When it was over, Hood turned to Giselle and looked down at her. I tipped my head to watch it. To see what passed between them. No one was thinking aloud.
Giselle tipped her head back and waited. Hood dropped a hand to her hip and slid his other one behind her head, into her hair. His eyes searched hers. And then I heard his thoughts, and they sounded...almost awed.
You are beautiful.
He kissed her, then. Not the controlling things I’d seen him do to her and Amber before. A reverent press, if you will, where his eyes and hers closed lightly as their mouths came together. A savored second, I think. Her lips parted and she gasped, looking up at him.
I could see her better than him. Her gloved hand went up to his cheek and she pulled him down to her and gave him another kiss. A full fledged, sweeping tongue tango. It stirred my loins, and I looked over them to Amber. It surprised me to see that she was watching me, instead of the happy couple, as I had been. I couldn’t read her thoughts. I wish I could have.
Then it was over. We were out of there in no time and heading to a restaurant. The Palace has several, but only one that Hood would have taken his bride to. The table was already reserved, of course, and that had me thinking about how everything around Hood seemed well-oiled, pre-planned. Premeditated, if you will.
Hood sat beside Giselle, and gestured for me to sit on his other side, which surprised me. Frank pulled out Amber’s chair--placing her between him and me, and him between the two women. I knew, instantly, that he and Hood had worked that out beforehand. Like I said, nothing to chance, really, in Hood’s circle of reach.
The conversation tilted to mainly menu talk, and wine selection. I saw a new side of Hood. Solicitous gentleman. Every fiber of his being was tuned toward Giselle. And although she took it well, I think it surprised me that she didn’t lap it up. She took it as her due and seemed courteous in return, but more than that, she seemed to be in hostess mode, intent on including everyone in the conversation, and asking our opinions on everything from lamb to Merlot. It felt extremely superficial. Like we were all in avoidance of something we wouldn’t put a name to.
It may seem a bit late for this, but I realized that I had no wallet or I.D. Maybe my mind wandered to the gambling tables or something. I usually do all right at that sort of thing. Maybe it was because I felt a little like I was playing Russian roulette. I don’t know.
Amber turned to me and said, “I gave it to Frank.”
We were over dessert at that point. I leaned back, rested an arm on the top of her chair, and asked, “Did you go through it?”
“What do you think?”
I skewered her with my eyes. Gave her my most penetrating stare. “I think you’re a nosy bitch.”
It was my take on flirting. Trying to, anyway. I’d spent a whole meal smelling her at close range and trying to not think about it. But her oohing and aahing over every bite of steak, and subsequently the lip licking she’d done over wine and cheesecake--had me going to dangerous ground.
Too many drinks. I should’ve watched my liquor and kept my wits about me. But, oddly enough, I felt like I was in safe territory. That Hood’s inner circle could not be breached.
Maybe that was the appearance of two dozen goons within sniffing range as we exited the chapel. Like secret service, they held a perimeter.
“Well,” Amber picked up her glass. “You’d be wrong.”
I leaned a nose into her ear and whispered, “And you’d be lying.”
She stiffened her back, licked her lips, took a sip, and carefully set her glass back down. I didn’t move a muscle, I kept at her throat, inhaling. I didn’t dare think.
Amber tipped her head ever so slightly and I took that as an okay. I shifted a little more in my chair, toward her and wondered at her profile. You could say love was in the air. Or that I was intoxicated by her.
You could also say that she put up with me. Or that she, actually, was trying to ignore me. I could tell she was trying to concentrate on something Giselle was saying.
Amber’s hand dropped to my knee and she squeezed. I liked it. She squeezed again, and then Frank kicked me. I realized that Giselle had asked me a question.
I grunted at the kick, and turned my attention on the bride. “What was that?”
“I said,” Giselle murmured, “That it might be fun to try our hand at the tables. I hear that you’ve got a lady luck that travels in your pocket.”
That made me chuckle. “And where’d you hear that?”
I should have read the warning signs before stepping into that conversation. The knee squeeze. The kick. All red lights.
Hood’s lips tightened perceptibly. He picked up his glass. Light glinted off his wedding band. I noted that Hood was left handed. Don’t know why that struck me at the moment.
The moment right before Giselle flicked her long hair over her shoulder, exposing her bite mark, and said, “Why, Bark, of course.”
Old history, my brother and her. So, why did it bug Hood so much? And wasn’t it simply an invitation to gamble?
A flashback to the video footage--had it been just that morning? Bark’s jacket. His favorite jacket. The one Giselle had given him. At the scene of the M.W.D. scare.
She said, “I’m worried about him.”
I squinted at her. Her nose tip was red. She was drunk.
“Yes, well,” Hood flicked a hand in air--for the check. “We’re all a little worried about that.”
Frank said, “There’s plenty of time to worry about tomorrow. Tonight we’re celebrating, aren’t we?” He lifted his glass in the air and held it out. “It’s time for the best man to toast the bride and groom, don’t you think?”
Picking up my glass, I agreed. “Yes.” But what to say?
What did I wish on these two people? Happiness? That seemed...awkward for some reason. Children? That made me smile.
But Giselle flashed me a horrified look.
I guarded my thoughts, and was glad that Amber took her time in leaning forward to pick up her glass again. Hood signed the check, and reached for his own glass. He turned to me and asked, “Well, what will it be?”
I don’t know what prompted the words I spoke next. They came from somewhere in my soul. A place I hadn’t ever touched before. Maybe a place that only Bark had stirred--with his words of loyalty and peace and love for all.
“I wish fidelity upon you, both.”
We clinked crystal. The glasses were halfway to their lips before they realized what I’d said. Amber and Frank drank deeply. So did I.
Call me selfish. I was thinking about a dozen things at once all of a sudden. Him saying he was gonna do Amber later. And how I hated that idea. And the look I’d seen in Giselle’s eyes. And the way Hood had held his breath in the chapel. The way he’d kissed her after they had been pronounced man and wife.
Giselle’s eyes looked about as wide as saucers as she swiveled her upper body toward her husband’s, waiting to see what his reaction was. True to form, though, he turned it on her, and asked, “What’s the ma
tter, darling, having a little trouble with that one?”
“I don’t see you drinking up. Do I?” Very quickly, she added, “This is your game, Hood. You make the rules. I just play by them. Remember?”
He smiled, then. And I felt it, insidious as carbon monoxide, slithering like a snake amongst us all. He emptied that glass in a long draw, to the last drop, and set it on the table.
She hesitated though. And he leaned into her. We watched him look down her cleavage, sniff around her jaw, kiss her temple...whisper, “I have my own definition of fidelity.” He kissed her temple again and pulled back.
The tension was taut as a bow string in the ready position. Would she drink to my toast, or his definition?
Giselle, with a tinkling laugh, said, “I see your definition and raise you.” She drank it down, too, in one big gulp.
I tried to lighten the mood. “Whew. This is a table I can’t afford to bet at.” Then I apologized to them. “Sorry about the toast. I’m not as good with words as Barklay is, I’m afraid.” No one said anything, so I added, “Stakes here are too high.” I scooted my chair out. I needed some air. Wanted to run.
Wanted to push the definition of fidelity from my brain. I don’t know why I’d suggested monogamy. But it was obvious that Hood separated physical acts from emotion. They all got up, too.
It was evident, immediately, that Giselle was tipsy. And giggly. And completely without any sense of propriety. She slipped a hand in the crook of Frank’s arm. I saw it for what it was. She’d have tipped completely over if he hadn’t been there. And he backed up for her, sensing her need.
Hood had been crowding her from behind, I think and she jumped as if he’d goosed her, then recovered quickly by hugging up to Frank. He patted her hand, then peeled her free and handed her directly to her husband.
Giselle’s back stiffened perceptibly and she fought to get a stern look on her face, to be serious. To match Hood’s expression. I looked between them and wondered, for the umpteenth time, what’s up between you two? One minute I think you’re in love, and the next I think you can’t stand each other.
