Man of the Year

by Bianca Giovanni

  “You surprised?” he chuckles.

  “Uh-huh,” I nod.

  “We don’t have to do it if you really want to wait, but I just think it’s perfect timing,” he says with a hint of vulnerability.

  “No, I want to do it,” I smile.

  “Ok, good,” he exhales with relief.

  “This is actually kind of perfect, now that I think about it,” I say, managing to construct my most articulate sentence of the past few minutes. “No guest lists, no poofy dresses and feuding family members. You might be on to something here, James Laird.”

  He hasn’t spoken to his parents in about six years and I absolutely despise my father, so tensions would have been high if we’d gone for the big, traditional wedding. I never really took those factors into consideration when he proposed to me, but I’m guessing that was in the back of his mind when he got this matrimonial wild hair this morning.

  He chuckles and kisses my forehead. “Drama free. Now all we have to do is go through the romantic process of filling out a shitload of paperwork.”

  I laugh and wrap my arms around his waist as we wait. James is going to be my husband. Today. Like, within the next few hours. It’s kind of blowing my mind.

  A short while later, we’ve obtained a marriage license and we’re on our way to one of those cheesy chapels to get officially married. I’ve learned that there are several legal steps and it’s a far cry from the spontaneous “hey, let’s just get married” scenarios you see in the movies. In fact, the marriage bureau isn’t even open 24 hours anymore, so, unless you pre-arrange your license, you can’t get hitched on a 3 a.m. whim.

  We get to the chapel and it’s delightfully cheesy. There are white columns, fake roses everywhere and cherubs painted on every flat surface. They even have an Elvis impersonator who will sing you down the isle for a small fee.

  “We’re totally doing that!” I laugh as I point to the Elvis photo on the wall.

  “You want The King to walk you down the isle?” James chuckles.

  “Dude, if I’m doing the cheesy, Vegas wedding, I’m going all-in,” I reply.

  “Then I’ll give you your dream, cheesy, Vegas wedding,” he grins. “Jeans and a t-shirt while Elvis serenades you and some guy who performs, like, 600 weddings a day reads off a list of generic vows for us to say to each other.”

  “Perfect!” I giggle.

  It sounds crazy, but this truly is delightful. I’m definitely not a big, elaborate, Kim Kardashian wedding kind of girl and I love the idea that we’re playing it small and having fun.

  I have to admit that I’m also completely excited to marry James and to have him be my actual, legal husband. It’s such a trip when I think about how long we’ve known each other and all the experiences we’ve shared together. This man has been such a huge part of my life for so long that it’s perfectly fitting to solidify it like this. This sets our commitment in stone and broadcasts our devotion to the world.

  There are four couples ahead of us in line. One of the grooms recognizes James and lets us go ahead of him in exchange for a picture. Another couple gets curious and starts talking to us, so James explains our whole history and they let us go in front of them too. People are so accommodating and friendly sometimes, especially when they’re dealing with someone as warm and charming as James.

  I’ll skip the details of the enthralling paperwork, but soon everything is prepared and we’re up.

  They lead us into a small room that looks like it used to be a bedroom. It’s got low ceilings, burgundy carpeting, columns with fake ivy wrapped around them, a few rows of pews and a mural of a forest on the wall. This is spectacularly, gloriously, fantastically corny—and it would be impossible for me to love it more than I do!

  The in-house Elvis impersonator greets us, firmly in character, and calls me “Miss Lola” when I introduce myself. He launches into “Can’t Help Falling In Love” and I’m giggling like I’ve suddenly turned into an anime character.

  He’s got this all timed out and the chorus concludes when we arrive at the end of the isle where my very-soon-to-be husband awaits me with an amused, elated grin.

  Our minister, an older, black gentleman, has us repeat the classic spiel. “Do you take this man”, “richer or poorer”, “sickness and health”, etcetera, etcetera. He’s got this down to a tee and he’s rattling it off like he could repeat it backwards and forwards.

  We get to the ring exchange and it dawns on both of us that we didn’t exactly think this part through. James doesn’t have a ring yet and mine is still on the nightstand where I left it in a huff last night.

  “You don’t have rings?” the minister stops, jolted out of his routine.

  “Not with us,” James answers.

  “Just pretend,” I instruct.

  The minister doesn’t seem very pleased with this idea, but I’m guessing he’s got about 80 other weddings to do today, so he lets us go with miming this portion and continues on with the ceremony.

  “You may kiss the bride,” he concludes.

  I throw my arms around James’ shoulders and he lifts me into the air, kissing me with gusto as he twirls me around.

  “You’re my wife now, Lo!” he excitedly beams when he sets me down.

  “We’ve completely lost our minds, but I don’t care!” I laugh hysterically.

  When we’re all done and everything’s legal, the chapel provides us with a limo to take us back to the hotel, but James insists we stop so he can get a wedding band. He explains that it’s very important to him to have that symbol so everyone can know he’s mine and only mine. I certainly can’t object to that, so I happily agree.

  We head to a trendy jeweler in one of the popular hotels and James looks over the choices behind the glass.

  “Dude, check that out,” he laughs, pointing to a giant, Super-Bowl-sized ring with a tiger’s head made out of black and orange diamonds. “Or look at that one!” he says, motioning to a black diamond ring with an Uzi across the band.

  “Who is this for, Rick Ross?!” I cackle.

  “Can I even get a simple one here? I just want something that doesn’t say ‘I make it rain at the strip club,’” he snickers. “Fuck it, let’s just go to Tiffany.”

  I bite my bottom lip hard before I burst into loud laughter. “That is not I phrase I ever thought I’d hear you say in my life!”

  James starts loudly laughing too and we draw a few looks from the staff and other customers. I take his hand and we scurry to the exit. Two punch-drunk whack jobs are clearly not welcome here. I can only imagine how our antics will go over at Tiffany!

  We’re on our best behavior when we arrive in the store. I’m guessing we look like a couple of crack heads in our shabby clothes with big bags under our eyes from lack of sleep. We’re putting up a mature, classy, respectable front, but the way that the staff looks at us makes me wonder if we’re going overboard. When a man in a suit greets us, we both sound like something out of Downton Abbey and I’m sure that we’ve cranked it up too high.

  “Can I help you?” he asks politely while sizing us up.

  “Yes indeed,” James says in his “executive” voice. I can barely contain my giggles. “We’re looking for wedding bands. My wife and I just got married, but we were, um, ill prepared and I need to purchase a ring for myself.”

  I clench my fist for distraction. I want to laugh so hard right now. God, I love when James tries to sound like a wealthy, discerning customer.

  “Right this way, sir,” the man says, leading us to a counter.

  We glance over the rings and it’s a relief to see something simple and classy after the T-Pain bling in the previous store. James hones in on a row of platinum bands with slight embellishments, like thin indentions or stacked smaller rings that resemble a flattened spring—but made out of expensive materials.

  “I like these, I gotta go with platinum,” he murmurs to me.

  “You’ve gotta go with platinum? Who are you, Lil’ Wayne or something?” I sn
icker. “Are you going to put dubs on your Honda after this?”

  He laughs loudly and puts his arm around me before he points to one that he likes. Coincidentally, or maybe because we’ve known each other for so long that we think alike, he chooses the exact one that I would have selected.

  It’s got a heavy, masculine quality to it with a thick band that will look good on his long fingers.

  As we’re making arrangements for sizing, a guy in the store recognizes James and approaches us.

  “Wow! James Langdon! What are you doing in here, bro?” the man asks. He’s wearing a suit and he looks like a banker or some kind of finance guy, but he turns into a “bro” just like most fans do when they meet James.

  The guys shake hands and James gives him a pat on the back before answering, “I just got married, so I needed to pick up a ring.”

  “No shit, man?” the guy smiles. “Well, congratulations. This must be the wife.” He turns to me and I shake his hand. “So, um, I know you’re just here shopping, but do you think I could get a picture?” he asks. “My golfing buddies would go nuts if I told them I met James Langdon.”

  “Sure, no problem,” James nods with a smile. He loves this stuff.

  I snap an iPhone picture of the two of them and the guy thanks me profusely before giving us both a congratulatory nod and making his way back to the woman who was trying to sell him a bracelet for his wife. She looks at us curiously, but the man doesn’t explain who James is. Essentially, that would be admitting that he watches a lot of porn and I don’t think he’s ready to make that declaration to the girl at the Tiffany counter.

  When we return to the hotel, James keeps staring down at his left hand with a giant grin.

  I grab my ring from the nightstand, breathing a sigh of relief when I see that it’s still there, and slip it on.

  “I want a picture of this,” he says, pulling out his iPhone and standing behind me.

  He stretches out his hand and I place mine on top, both of our rings visible to the camera.

  “Nice!” he smiles. “That’s going on Instagram.”

  I laugh and shake my head as I start to pack up our clothes. We really should check out soon and start heading back home. We’ll grab a quick lunch and be on our way so I can try to get more than four hours of sleep tonight. I get the feeling that I’ll need it now that James is swept up in marital bliss—which, knowing him, will almost certainly shift into marital lust.

  We pull up to the apartments as the sun is setting and my cheeks are sore from my permanent smile. James held my hand for the entire drive—to the point where I occasionally worried about him gripping the wheel during a turn.

  I reach for the doorknob but James puts his hand out and blocks me. I look up at him with confusion.

  “I have to carry you in,” he says with the sweetest, shyest, most adorable smile.

  I resist the urge to tease him, because this is way too cute to mock, and I nod my head.

  He opens the door and puts our bags on the couch as I wait outside grinning.

  “Ok,” he says, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me inside.

  He doesn’t stop once we pass the threshold and he kicks the door closed before marching me right into the bedroom, where he deposits me on the bed. And here comes that unchecked lust.

  I lie back on the pillows and watch him hungrily as he slowly starts to peel off his clothes. His body … I swear … his body.

  His shirt comes off first and I stare at that chest and those abs. He slides his jeans down and I continue to enjoy the show as I see the growing bulge in his boxer briefs.

  He gives me the James Laird Sex Laser Beam—which I’ve decided I’ll start referring to simply as the Laser Beam because he does it so often and so effectively—and he loses the underwear.

  I have seen the top of the mountain, and it is good.

  He sits on the side of the bed and I jump up to kiss him, wrapping my arms around him and holding him tight against me. I love the feel of his broad shoulders as I cling to him. He’s a wall of muscle, but he can be so tender and gentle. I love that contrast from hulking sex god to adoring sweetheart.

  His hand rests on the side of my neck for a moment before he slides it back to cradle my head. He’s not rushing this. He’s taking it slow and really savoring each moment. It’s divine!

  We recline onto the bed with him on top of me and my legs parted on either side of him as his mouth sensually claims mine.

  Ooh, this is nice.

  I brush my fingers up and down his back, enjoying the smooth, warm feel of his skin as it stretches over his defined muscles. I’ve always enjoyed the way he completely blankets me like this. It acknowledges our vast size difference and it makes me feel very safe and content to have someone so strong tending to me so lovingly.

  He kneels between my legs as he takes my hands and gently lifts me up until I’m sitting nose-to-nose with him. He looks into my eyes and very slowly, very sensually lifts my shirt off, not breaking eye contact the entire time.

  He unsnaps my bra and gently removes it before tossing it off to the side. Our eyes stay locked as his hands venture over my shoulders and down my ribs. He’s not going for my breasts, which is interesting. I happen to know that he’s quite the admirer of my bosom and I’d bet good money that my breasts are his favorite part of my body.

  Without words, he nods his head, motioning for me to lie back on the bed. When I’m back on the pillows, my beautiful, sensual, completely naked husband maintains his intense eye contact with me as he unbuttons and unzips my jeans.

  James has taken my clothes off many, many times. Sometimes he’ll frantically tear them from my body—quite literally once when he ripped a pair of my panties in half in one frenzied motion—but he usually enjoys the process of getting me naked. He told me a while ago that it’s like unwrapping a present and the anticipation of what’s inside makes it more erotic. I refuted this by saying that he was already very familiar with what was inside, but he said that knowing how great the gift would be was why he liked “unwrapping” me so much.

  Today, he’s undressing me slowly, his eyes moving over my skin with unhurried focus. The way that he scans me in such detail makes my heart flutter and my skin start to reflexively break into goosebumps.

  When he’s removed my panties, he languidly dusts his fingers over me from my collarbone to my ankles, igniting sparks over my skin.

  He nudges my knees apart and his eyes lock between my legs. He’s staring with such intensity that I start to feel shy and I know I’m only seconds away from closing up again. I’ve never had someone gaze at me with such fixation, and such passion. James likes to look at me like this, he's told me that himself, but he knows it makes me blush.

  He blinks and his eyes flick up to me. There’s a fire burning behind his pupils and I get a surge of that anticipatory excitement that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  Gripping my ankle, he rests my foot up on his shoulder and starts kissing the inside of my calf. His hands never stop moving, never stop caressing me as he trails kisses down my leg and behind my knee. He stops before he reaches the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh and repeats the process on my other leg.

  I hear Dr. Frank-n-Furter in my head. “I see you shiver with antic … pation!”

  When his eyes meet mine again, I give him a smile, one that combines the ungodly desire I have for him with the overwhelming adoration I feel when I’m near him.

  He returns it with a grin that seems to cast a glow of love and warmth over the room.

  Slowly, he lowers himself onto me and kisses me. Everything he’s doing is gentle and soft—no aggressive making out like we usually do when we’re this on fire for each other.

  He rests on his forearms so his body is flush with mine and then he shifts his hips slightly, breaching my entrance with a delicate, graceful thrust.

  Our eyes remain firmly focused on one another as if drawn by the powerful force of gravity when he begins ro
cking his pelvis.

  This is where his skill becomes blatantly obvious. With my hands on his back, I can feel the controlled wave that travels his spine, allowing him to make contact with that concentration of nerves inside me that make me whimper with pleasure.

  The tempo is slow, but the movements are determined and executed with artisan-level expertise. It’s not long before my nerves overload and I cling to him as I pant and mewl in his ear.

  I hear his breath speed up and a few strained moans escape his lips.

  When I open my eyes, I see his brow furrowed with restraint, his expression almost pained as he bites his bottom lip and fights off his own climax.

  He slows down and I can tell that he’s worried he won’t be able to control it. I don’t know why he feels the need to in the first place, but it seems like a goal for him right now.

  He inches back so he’s barely inside me and holds my hips as he kneels on the bed. This angle leaves nothing but my shoulders and the back of my head on the pillow with the rest of my body suspended in his grasp.

  From here, he lifts my hips, sliding me up and down, up and down, up and down. It feels so deep this way and my body has no choice but to explode with pleasure as another orgasm takes me.

  Again, I hear his panting pseudo-grunts as he staves it off a second time.

  He’s playing me like a harp tonight and soon he’s moved me onto my side with both my legs folded at the knee. He’s kneeling and swirling his hips to change up the angle. That does the trick for me again and I’m mewling as I shiver.

  Next he gets behind me, spooning me with his body and slowly working me up again. When I come, his arm wraps around my stomach and he holds me so I’m pressed right against his chest, feeling it expand and contract with physical exertion.

  On my knees. On my stomach. To the other side. With my ankles on his shoulders. With my knees hooked against his biceps. One leg up and one leg down. I feel like we’re running through his entire sexual playbook right now and I’m beginning to wonder how on earth he’s managed to go this long without coming. He’s showing self-control that would rival disciplined monks!