“Oh, fuck!”
“Shhh, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Nice and slow early on, okay?”
She nods, lost to the pleasure and sensation. My finger finds her clit and rubs firm circles, allowing her to open more. “That’s it,” I praise. “You are doing so well taking my huge cock.”
Bri nods, a hint of moisture pooling on her lashes. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. It’s just?—”
“Just what?” I bite her earlobe just shy of her pain point.
“It’s… incredible!” she gasps.
Knowing she’s not in any discomfort, I pick up the pace,and Bri pushes that glorious ass back to meet every thrust. Her head wants to drop, her body overcome with new, pleasurable sensations. Our syncopated moaning and thrusting is the most beautiful sonata. “Keep those pretty eyes on me while I’m fucking you.”
Her head snaps up. “Yes, sir.”
Cupping her hip in one hand, I pinch her clit with the other. She moans again, long and low. This new octave is one I could get used to. I pump faster, sending her toward the countertop with each deep, penetrative thrust. She feels so damn good. Too good.
“You’re right there, I can feel you clenching.”
Bri nods, lost for words entirely. Her mouth gapes open, but she continues to hold my gaze per instructions. “Good fucking girl. Are you going to come for me?”
She had fucking better. I’m so close. It’s a razor's edge. Right as she begins to convulse, I loop a finger into the tampon string and pull hard. My next thrust has me spilling ropes of hot cum into her virgin ass while her pussy clenches on nothing, the temporary plug now in the sink. Her walls continue to spasm, drawing more out of me until my heavy balls are empty once more. Bri collapses onto the counter, her head resting on her folded arms. I crowd her back, the droplets of our combined perspiration intermingling on her flushed skin. Her ribcage rises and falls quickly, echoing her heartbeat thrumming along a vein in her neck. I kiss a path under her earlobe before turning her jaw to meet mine. “That was exceptional, Ms. Broe. Your ass is as delicious as I dreamed it would be.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs, a blush rising along her chest and neck.
Standing tall, I smack her ass cheek playfully to snap her out of her dick-drunk stupor.
“Shower, and then we can get some work done.”
A gentle windruffles only the tips of her curled hair and the hem of the ivory dress as she walks barefoot down the sandy aisle toward the turquoise water bordered by the corals and pinks of the diminishing sun. With her soft hand in my larger, warmer one, she giggles at the footprints left by my bare feet under rolled-up chalky chinos. We are some of the last guests to take our seats at the Kruger nuptials, also known as the White wedding of the century. The rhythmicwhop whop whopof hovering helicopter blades from the other side of the island has several guests glaring in my direction. Ihatehelicopters. My hands fly up in silent protest; they’re notmy media. The last thing I want is pictures of Bri and me nestled among the grainy telephoto shots of the bride and groom. Pictures that will end up being retouched and perfected anyway, but still.
When Helen divulged the strict dress code, I requested she repeat herself, convinced I was in the first stages of early-onset hearing loss. White on white? Who the fuck has every guest wearing white? The whole “bride in white” vibe I understand, but every guest? Every single one? It’s for aesthetically pleasing photographs, Trystan clarified, while confirming he would be nowhere near the nuptials. I must say, glancing over the rattan chairs and mass of flowers, the scene is beautiful. The white and ivory seem to rise from the pale shrimp-colored sands, every one of us a moving extension of the grains. The water is a deeper shade of Bri’s irises now that the sun is sinking, with fingers of inky navy further offshore in gentle crests. These pictures will be spectacular, I muse as the couple meet at the shoreline,gazing at each other. Too bad I’ll never get married and never, ever have children.
“Cal looks so handsome with his bride. Seeing him in the flesh makes me realize how similar his features are to yours! Do you two ever get compared to Cal Vincent?”
“You think people compare me to a singer?”
“Looks wise? Yeah, I do. Same height, almost the same build. Same hair, I think his eyes are close to yours in shade. Only his stubble is shorter than yours. Otherwise…” She squints.
Has anyone noticed similarities between Cal Vincent and me before? Of course, they have. That Bri has only just noticed the similarities between the two of us has me silent. I won’t divulge anything unless she prods a little further. Will she?
“Oh my God, her gown! She is breathtaking,” Bri whispers, hand curled in front of her face should there be any clandestine lip-reading reporters here. “I can totally see her on Trystan’s arm. She looks like his type; does he have a type? Anyway, watching your ex marry someone else would be awkward.” The way she sings out the last word with a tiny trill at the end makes my lips turn up at both her impromptu chorus and her error.
My hand, resting under my scruff-dusted chin, slides up to cloak my own lips. “Oh, Sabrina, his ex wasn’t the bride. It was thegroom.”
“You knowwhat you’re doing, right? Shouldn’t there be a crew or someone to drive? A pilot, where’s the pilot?”
“Boats and yachts have captains or skippers. You’re looking at him.”
Bri’s eyes widen like twin moons as her jaw slackens at my announcement. I’m certain we covered my love for sailingwhen I found out she was a long-distance swimmer. Perhaps I am mistaken? We’re at the marina, readying to take out a Swan 45 high-performance cruiser for a day of viewing the island from a different point of view. When I said sailing, Bri thought we would be part of a mass of tourists on some rusted, seaworthy ferry. I shot that idea down. The Swan is like my own Swan 60, a high-performance ocean racer gifted to me on my eighteenth birthday by my grandparents. More from Marin specifically, the yacht had been one she used to take me out on when I was six or seven. I was the only Mercer to share her love of ocean waves and wind propulsion. Magnus didn’t possess sea legs in any shape or form. Michael favored moregentlemanlypursuits like rowing, polo, and poker. Me, give me a face full of salt spray and an unfurling spinnaker any day of the week.
“So, if you’re the captain, where is the crew?”
She glances at the polo-shirted deckhands coiling ropes on neighboring vessels. I tug her forward, along the gangway, and step onto the bowsprit before beckoning her with an outstretched hand.
“Bri, come on, I’ve got you.”
