Damaged Royals
Page 19
“Pierce Goode,” she says. He grins. She stifles a smile at the recognition that she once kissed this handsome man standing at her side. She kissed him on the dance floor in front of her friends and his friends and strangers. Well, he was basically a stranger. Is still a stranger.
“All single ladies report to the dance floor!” the MC commands again.
“That’s you.” He leans the entire length of his muscular body against her curves.
She tries to remember what happened after their long make-out session on the dance floor. She remembers her friends pulling her away. She remembers hearing gasps and giggling. She remembers him standing on the dance floor, watching her walk away with her sweat-soaked dress clinging to her body. Why did she walk away? He was cute. He tasted good. Did he try to take her back to his dorm?
“No.” She refocuses on his teasing brown eyes.
“You’re not single?”
“No. I mean, yes. I am. But, no.”
“Final call. All single ladies report to the dance floor!” the MC commands to a cheering crowd. The disco light reflects sparkles of white light onto the dance floor.
“Are you scared you won’t catch it?”
She rolls her eyes. Why do some people think that every single lady wants to catch the bouquet? Why do some people think that every single lady wants to get married? She feels anger warming her alcohol-induced gaze. She turns to face him fully. She’ll show him. She’s not some typical girl looking for love and marriage. She’s not looking for anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. She wants to hold hands with a nice guy who reads books, volunteers to build houses in Central America, and changes flat tires on highways. She also wants to meet a guy who doesn’t freak out when she tells him that she’s a virgin—technically. That’s another memory she pushes back into the attic of her mind. She doesn’t want to think of the moments she almost had sex.
Is she asking for too much?
“No. I’m scared that I will catch it.” She doesn’t back away from Pierce, who stands arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder, with her. She won’t tell him that she’s afraid that if she catches it, then she’ll be doomed to get married to the first guy she has sex with. In this day and age, the idea appalls her. She wants to have at least two sex partners before she gets engaged, one day. Then she can tell her fiancé that he’s her third partner. The number three sounds respectable. Her friends would tell her to stop being ridiculous. Today tons of people have on average ten sexual partners—or something like that. She read it in a glossy fashion magazine at JFK airport while waiting for her flight to Shanghai. So, it must be true.
“I bet you, you won’t.”
“I can catch. I just don’t want to.” She rolls her eyes. She used to play softball in middle school. He doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know that he was the first guy she ever really kissed. Her first French kiss. It was the first time she got drunk. She drank so many screwdrivers that she spent the night vomiting into the toilet bowl and hugging the cold, white porcelain base. She can still taste the pizza and the ice cream she ate that night mixed with bitter bile.
“I bet you can’t.” He extends his right hand across his chest. “I bet you dinner and drinks that you can’t.”
“If I catch it, you’re taking me out.”
“If you don’t catch it. You’re taking me out.”
She looks over his palm. She’d loved to prove him wrong, to wipe the smirk off of his face. But, winning the bet would mean that she’d have to have dinner and drinks with him. Either way she’d have to spend a few hours resisting him. She’d have to look into his sexy brown eyes and stop herself from thinking about their sweaty French kiss back in college. But, she doesn’t have to catch the bouquet. She could just let it fly by her. It may not even come her way.
She takes his hand to shake it. His palm is cool and smooth. Not the hand of a construction worker or an MMA fighter. The hand of a man who is a stranger to hard labor, a man who spends his free time yachting in Italy, skiing in Switzerland, or collecting cars at Sotheby’s. She went to China to forget about the world of jet-setting and never-ending vacationing. She wants to forget about the homes her parents left her. She doesn’t want to think about her parents. If she does, then a well of tears will pour out of her that isn’t a socially acceptable amount to cry at wedding parties. She’s not about to do the ugly-cry in front of this cute guy.
The band strikes up a suspenseful tune. Audrey shakes Pierce’s hand.
“You’re on.”
Why not? She hasn’t done anything fun since coming back to the States. She’s been missing her parents and wishing she weren’t alone on Friday nights. She’s been eating pints of cookies and cream ice cream and then jogging miles along the beautiful paths of Maui.
She turns and jogs across the parquet dance floor. The band is playing an unrecognizable song that ends in a drum roll. The bride sees her college friend running and grins at her. Whitney turns around in her beautiful white wedding gown and raises the bouquet above her head. The MC counts one—in an arc the bride swings the bouquet down in an arch to her thighs—two—in the reverse arc the bride swings the bouquet back over her head as if she is about to do a backward bend like in yoga class—three—the bride hurls the bouquet over the crowd.
The drummer is playing frantically. Women in formal dresses and high heels are turning around and running with their arms stretched up over their heads. The bouquet is flying in a high arc—as high as the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Whitney played softball in college as well alongside Audrey. She has powerful arms. The bouquet brushes the curved ceiling of the white tent. It flies high above the heads of the jostling women on the dance floor. It swoops down like a dolphin diving back down into the ocean. The force of gravity pulls the pastel purple flowers in an arc straight into Audrey’s face. She has but seconds to put her hands up and stop it. The group of girls and women racing across the dance floor nearly collide into Audrey. She grabs the flowers in her hands, crumpling some, crushing others. Women crash into Audrey hoping she’ll drop it when they bump into her. But they’re out of luck. Most of them softball players just like Audrey, and she holds onto the bouquet like a pop up in the ninth inning. Her muscle memory has caught the bouquet. Or has the bouquet caught Audrey?
She groans. The scent of lavender from the crushed petals perfumes her hands. She stumbles away from Sasha, Arabella, Nora, and all of her other college friends. They whoop and cheer. The band plays a victory tune. Then the MCs calls all of the single men to the dance floor.
Dazed, Audrey watches guys from college and other guys she doesn’t know walk to stand before the band. The groom gets on stage and grabs the mic from the MC. Grinning, he says into the mic:
“You too, Pierce!” The groom points his index finger at Pierce who’s leaning against the bar and laughing. He shakes his head. The groom says, “It’s my wedding. You have to.” The crowd claps and cheers Pierce to come forward. The band plays a lively tune. Pierce walks—saunters?—across the hardwood floor.
When he gets to Audrey, he places his right hand at the small of her back and whispers into her ear, “Nice catch,” then keeps walking to join the group of single men.
Amidst the guys hollering and the drummer drumming, Audrey can make out the tapping of Pierce’s dress shoes across the dance floor. Her heartbeat picks up. What if Pierce catches the garter belt? What if she has to sit on a wrought iron chair covered with white fabric while Pierce kneels on the floor, places her foot on his thigh, and runs his hands up her calf and thigh? Will she be able to keep from blushing? Will she be able to keep from trembling from the agony of his hands on her? Her heart rate increases. She breathes deeply just like she learned in hot yoga to re-center. She wills Pierce to miss.
As if in slow motion, the sequence of events unfold: the band plays a tune that sounds distant and old-fashioned; the single men stand in their tuxedos and arms stretched up; the weddings guests cheer and clap; the groom winks—at Pierce?—turns
around and tosses the garter belt over his shoulder. Pierce dives for the delicate piece of lingerie as if catching a diamond ring dropping from his beloved’s grasp. He snatches the undergarment out of the air just before an overly eager teenager with a face full of acne and a mouth full of braces catches it. The teen yells. The crowd erupts in cheers.
Audrey breaks out in a sweat. Why does she always sweat when she gets nervous? Why can’t she get a nervous blush or some other more attractive reaction? She swallows. Then straightens her head, pushes her shoulders back, and inhales the scent of lavender covering her hands. She decides to face the dreaded wedding tradition with dignity. She wishes she had a poker face.
The MC calls the single lady and the single gentleman to the middle of the dance floor. Friends and relatives of the wedding party form a circle around Audrey and Pierce. A chair appears. Kate helps Audrey to sit down. She crosses her legs at the ankles. Pierce kneels before her. Grinning, he says: “You’re going to have to open your legs a little wider than that for me.”
The crowd cheers at his lewd comment. He grins. Audrey wants to run. She wants to wipe the grin off his face. She wants to meet his experience with her own. But she doesn’t have any sexual history to pull from. So, she does what most of her friends tell her they do when they like a guy and don’t want to disappoint him: she fakes it. She smiles coyly. She moves one foot and slowly spreads her legs. They’re about two fist sizes apart, like in yoga.
“Is that good?” She challenges him. Her friends cheer. Her armpits sweat. Her palms sweat. She grips her knees and straightens her back.
“Yeah. That’s perfect.” He says loud enough for everyone to hear. The wedding party claps and cheers. The band plays a lively tune.
Audrey wants the moment to end. She wants him to hurry up and put the garter belt on her already. She can’t stand the anticipation of his hands on her body—even if it’s just her legs.
Locking eyes with her, Pierce picks up her right foot and removes her gold stiletto that Whitney begged her to wear. She never wears high heels, but it’s her friend’s wedding, and she wanted her guests to all be glamorous. So, Audrey complied. Now, seeing Pierce pluck the thin strap from her heel and slip the nothing-of-a-shoe from her foot nearly makes her collapse into a pool of desire on the dance floor. She cannot wet her panties. She wills her body to obey her thoughts.
She curses her body for being so turned on at the touch of a man who she can’t stop staring at. Does she get so wet because she hasn’t really had sex yet? Well, not penile penetration, anyway.
Pierce pulls the garter belt over her pointed foot and red-painted toenails.
“Red. Nice.” His grin sets loose a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her tummy. She feels their wings beating up through her torso. They tinge her cheeks red. This makes Pierce slow down. He trails his fingers up her calves—unnecessarily—as he pulls the garter belt up to her knee.
Audrey imagines him moving up her thighs and then tunneling his fingers into her. Her breath catches. She pleads with him with her eyes to hurry up. He stops.
“Come on, Pierce.” She doesn’t want to give away her arousal. She doesn’t want him to know that she wants him. She hopes that her blushing cheeks will trick him into thinking that she’s embarrassed by the spectacle in front of the crowd.
Pierce looks around at the crowd as if a street performer. With her right foot resting on his left thigh, he leans back and asks the crowd:
“What do you think? Should I use my mouth?” He laughs as the wedding guests clap and cheer.
Find out what happens with Audrey and Pierce HERE!
Author Bios
J.S. Striker lives on the west coast with her hubby and 2 Great Danes. The coast is full of magical forests, the mountains and ocean often giving her inspiration for her stories. Having worked as a social worker most of her adult life J.S. is now giving writing all her energy and loving every minute of it.
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Hazel Parker is known for her contemporary romance writing and loves her bad boys. From bikers, rugged mountain men, and all sorts of sexy alphas, Hazel will have you turning the pages for more.
She lives on Vancouver Island with her hubby and three kiddos. Most days you will find her in her office with a hot cup of coffee doing what she loves: Concocting ultra-sexy, juicy romances for her fans.
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