He rips off the headphones and begins to whisper in my ear. Dirty words he’d never say otherwise—filthy, even. The heat ratchets up again, degree by degree. I want to see him, touch him but he’s like a phantom lover. At least I can hear him, his ragged breathing, his sounds of exertion, flesh slapping flesh, my moans layered with his growls.
I’m climbing a mountain, frantically chasing an orgasm that is tantalizingly just out of my reach. Beads of sweat race down my back, slip down my neck toward my head, following the incline of my body. He slaps my backside so hard, I see white and the orgasm comes crashing upon me like a rogue wave. I hear him grunt as he slides into his own satisfaction.
I don’t think I can move ever again.
The building is a beautiful example of Art Deco architecture. Daniel told Ian it was constructed shortly after the famed Woolworth building, both in Lower Manhattan, and the design borrowed heavily from it. This one was not a skyscraper, however: it was a five-story limestone building, a former warehouse, now turned into giant lofts. The wedding is being held on the top floor, and includes the roof deck. At 62 degrees, it’s chilly for an outdoor event but Ian says it’s sure to have heaters, plus I’m wearing a silk wrap.
The cocktail hour is almost at a close when we arrive late due to our delayed flight, so we order drinks first and then look around. Daniel is nowhere to be seen but Ian spots a few people he knows and we gravitate toward them. One of them is Jackson Delacroix, the man who introduced Ian and Daniel.
“Mr. Blackmon, fancy meeting you here,” Jackson grins as he walks toward us to close the distance. “And, of course, the lovely Mrs. Blackmon-to-be. Hello, Ella.”
“Jackson,” I greet him, forcing a smile. Despite everything that’s ensued since that first fateful phone call he made to me, I still can’t seem to entirely shake the feeling that he’s an adversary.
“Glad you two made it in time for the ceremony. It’s slated to begin in,” he glances at the elegant timepiece on his wrist, “eight minutes. Think Daniel is nervous?”
With a mischievous smile on his face, Ian says nothing in response. I jump in. “I’m sure everyone is nervous when he or she marries. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“Aha, so you admit marriage is beastly.”
I smile sweetly. “It’s a revered institution… if you like living in an institution.”
“Ha! Ian, you’ve got a live one here. Yes, Ella, I think you’ve nailed it. Marriage is an institution. Glad I’m divorced.”
Tastefully suited ushers come to guide and escort the guests into the room where the ceremony is to be held. As it is nondenominational, a chapel isn’t required. The padded antique pews are arranged in a semi-circle so everyone will be afforded a view of the bride and groom and there are white candles and flowers all around the room. While the reverend stands waiting, his back to the gathered guests, everyone is swiftly seated. I watch the rear, anxious for a glimpse of the bride. I’ve never met Olivia, even when I was staying at her home, but Ian has, and he told me she is exceptionally beautiful—but I expected no less from looking at Daniel.
Speaking of Daniel, he now enters the room and every female eye is on him instantly. He looks so tall, his carriage perfectly erect, and his face devoid of any emotion. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any emotion on Daniel’s face. He is wearing a tuxedo that I wouldn’t mind seeing on Ian at our wedding: it’s silk, cut with narrow lapels, and fitted to accent his long legs and broad shoulders. In a word, or maybe two, Daniel looks spectacular.
Just behind Daniel is a tall, bearded redheaded guy who is likely his best man, followed by an elegant, middle-aged couple—I think they’re Daniel’s parents. A moment or two behind them come yet another pair: I almost can’t unglue my eyes from them to look for the bride. The man is tall and darkly gorgeous—black hair, tanned complexion, and light eyes—and the woman shines in contrast, blond and athletically beautiful. Ian leans over to whisper in my ear.
“That’s Derek Girardi, the sculptor and Olivia’s father. The woman next to him must be Olivia’s mother.”
I tear my eyes away to look at Ian. “Isn’t she his wife?”
He shakes his head. “They’re divorced. His current wife is an Ethiopian model…” he gestures with his chin, “that’s her over there, seated in the first row. Daniel tells me Girardi’s splitting with her and going back to Olivia’s mother. Interesting, eh?”
“Like a soap opera.” I look again. The man guides his companion to her seat in the front row and exits. Now everyone is seated, the room is hushed, and the strains of music waft through the room, floating on the air currents. I feel as if I’m in a dream. Everyone is beautiful here: the parents, the guests, the room itself… I want my wedding to have a similar feel.