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Chapter 11
Mysti May
2:30 AM SATURDAY
“This tit,” Brendon says with my right tit in his hand, “is the tits, man. The bee’s knees.”
“You say that to all the girls,” I answer. Both of us are swaying just a tad, holding on to each other in a drunken dance.
“No, no, no,” Brendon says, stroking my hair. “Well, yes, I’ve said it before. But, you, you really have fucking great tits.”
We collapse onto a bench, the skirt of my lacy mini dress flying up. I look like I just stepped out of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” video. All I need are the fingerless lace gloves.
I guess technically we’re sitting on a pew. We are in a chapel, after all.
Granted, it’s a chapel on the Strip, so it’s not exactly St. Patrick’s Cathedral. But it still feels slightly naughty to make out in a place where people get married.
Where we’re getting married.
Flushed with a newfound love and an unhealthy amount of alcohol, I run my hands up and down Brendon’s bulging biceps. In a stroke of horny genius, I tore the sleeves off his tuxedo t-shirt as soon as he put it on in the souvenir shop we bought it in a few doors down.
He can go on and on about my tits, but I’m salivating over his bulges—his biceps and the huge package between his legs.
Brendon captures my mouth in a kiss that would literally curl my toes if they weren’t stuffed in these white patent leather pumps. As his kisses trail along my cheek and down my neck, I sigh and look around the room.
Only our gang could create this kind of chaos in a Vegas wedding chapel. This building has probably seen it all, but it’s no match for us when we blow into town.
Becky and Liam are making out in Elvis’ pink Cadillac while Sammi is wrangling a crate of live lobsters. Because, of course. The frazzled chapel assistant is trying to tell Sammi that live animals can’t be in here, and it looks like Sammi’s dangerously close to coming to blows with her.
“White or red?” Percy interrupts, holding a bouquet in each hand.
I bite my lower lip in indecision. It’s crazy that I’m impulsively marrying Brendon and it’s the flowers I can’t choose.
“Red, definitely red,” Brendon says.
“Red?” I ask.
“Yeah, to match your red-hot lace panties,” he says, then reaches under my dress to snap the band on them. To punctuate his argument, he playfully slaps my ass.
“Mmm,” I say, “red, it is.”
Brendon, with his hand still under my skirt, moves it around to where he’s teasing my cunt, which is getting wetter by the second.
“Are we making a huge mistake?” I ask, my head buried in his chest, enjoying the sensation of his fingers doing a little dance along my slit.
“This,” Brendon whispers into my ear, “orthis?” he asks, nodding toward the altar.
“The wedding,” I clarify. “You know, we don’t have to get married to fuck.”
Saying that especially while moving my hand to rest on the bulge in his pants is my way of giving him an out. I hope to God he doesn’t take it though.
“Is it crazy that I want our first time to be as a married couple?” Brendon asks.
“Yes,” Becky says from across the room. “But, you, dear brother, are one of the craziest people I know.”
“You’re one to talk, Becks,” Liam says from where Becky is straddling him. “We married the night we met, too.”
“Don’t do it, Mysti,” Becky says. “He used to masturbate nonstop when he was thirteen.”
