One Wild Night

by Morgan Young

  I burst out laughing. “We have absolutely no idea what we’re doing, do we?”

  “Nope.”

  His hand finds mine again and squeezes, and for some reason, instead of feeling panicked, I feel…strangely okay. More okay than I have in a very long time. Maybe doing something insane and out of control is exactly what I needed.

  Although 48 hours ago, I probably would have more willingly jumped out of a plane than…this.

  In front of us, a song begins, and the first fountains surge jets of water into the air in time to the music. They move back, and forth, and colors change in time to the music. They move in circles and patterns.

  “It’s like choreography,” Emerson murmurs.

  We watch together, side-by-side, and Emerson tilts his head toward me and kisses my shoulder. Softly. Knowingly, even though he hardly knows me. My eyelids flutter, and I turn to him, seeming to surprise him.

  “Do you want to dance?” I ask.

  He grins. “Excuse me? In these shoes?”

  I laugh out loud, and before I can turn back to the fountain, he says, “Well, fine, then, if you insist.”

  Emerson takes my hand, and spins dramatically, before twisting me into his arms. We both smile, and I slide my arms over his shoulders, his hands on the small of my back. We sway, steps from the fountain, and for a moment, it feels so nice that I tilt my head back toward the sky, which is quickly darkening into a beautiful desert night, lit by the strip.

  “You’re a very good dancer, Eliza,” he whispers to me.

  “And so are you, Mr. Banks.”

  He spins me around again as the song ends, elegantly like he might actually know some ballroom dancing. I’m impressed. I wonder if we danced together on our wedding night.

  The music stops, the lights on the fountain fade as the water comes crashing down at once. And I’m still in Emerson’s arms. In the sudden quiet, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

  I lift my eyes, and find Emerson gazing at me. Like he adores me. Like he worships me. I slide my fingers up the back of his neck and thread them through his hair.

  “You should kiss me,” he whispers, quiet and to the point. And his light brown eyes are intense, filled with longing.

  There’s another small flash, us in bed, him on top of me, looking at me just like this. And me moaning his name.

  I get on the tips of my shoes, and press my mouth to his. He kisses me back, pulling away to kiss my top lip, then my bottom. He tightens against me, and I stand even taller on my tiptoes, wanting to be closer. His tongue glides against my bottom lip, and I make a soft sound and he kisses me harder, his tongue against mine. It’s dizzying, a perfect first… almost first kiss.

  Maybe we knew what we were doing after all.

  Chapter Five

  When we finally part, Emerson is breathing heavily, and I realize I’ve messed his gorgeous hair. I step close to him again, running my fingers through it to straighten it out.

  Emerson looks me up and down as I do, and when I step back, he shakes his head. “While I’d much rather take you back to the hotel and have you for dinner, we do have reservations.”

  I ignore the warm feeling coiled in my lower stomach. “I’ll be sure to save some room for dessert,” I say, and he sucks in a breath like I’m too tempting to resist. And I like it. I’ve never had this before.

  “You’re making me crazy,” Emerson says under his breath, and takes my hand once again. We haven’t exactly saved much for the imagination, and he knows it.

  But suddenly, all I can think about is how he’ll look out of that jacket. And with that shirt unbuttoned.

  And his pants….

  I mean, I already know. But it’s not like in my panic I was enjoying the view as much as I should have. Right now, all I have is two very disjointed erotic memories. I’d like to expand on them.

  Emerson releases my hand, and he punches something into his phone. The limo pulls up a few minutes later, and takes us to a gorgeous restaurant. Emerson leads me into an elevator and up to the roof, where the tables are decorated with flowers and candles. A host leads us up to a table near the corner, overlooking the strip, and a waiter immediately joins him.

  “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Banks!” the waiter says, immediately. “May I get you some drinks?”

  Emerson flashes an apologetic smile at me. “The honeymoon package,” he says, by way of explanation.

  I wonder, for a moment, how much we spent on the honeymoon package in all of our drunken glory. But then I decide to enjoy it, and I turn to the waiter.

  “Oh, we’d love drinks. Don’t you think, darling?” I ask, playing it up.

  “Of course. Champagne, perhaps? To celebrate properly?”

  “Definitely champagne. We simply can’t do without a good glass of champagne.”

  Emerson reaches across the table. “I simply can’t do without you, my love,” he whispers, taking my hand and kissing it.

  I know he’s just playing, but there’s a touch of sadness when I realize none of this is real. In a few days, I’ll be back home. Alone.

  Emerson keeps my hand to his lips a moment too long, his eyes watching me. Almost like he can read my mind. He kisses my fingers again before letting me go.

  The waiter nods at our table. “I just love seeing couples like you two,” he says. “Gives some hope for the rest of us. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  “Champagne was a good suggestion,” I offer.

  He shrugs and leans back, taking a drink of the water already left for us at the table. “You deserve champagne,” he says. “But not too much. I’d like to remember this tomorrow.”

  “Dinner?” I ask, making him smile.

  “No, what I’m going to do to you after dinner.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I’m certain I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my life. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I slip off my shoe, and run my foot up his calf.

  The waiter comes back with champagne and pours us two glasses, and leaves it in a bucket of ice on our table, along with a plate of bruschetta, compliments of the restaurant.

  We stare at the bruschetta. Any other day, I’d be all about it. But today….

  We’re on a rooftop, in a beautiful city, and all I want to do is take him back to our hotel room.

  What is wrong with me?

  And why doesn’t it feel wrong?

  Maybe because after getting drunkenly married not that much feels so bad.

  “Are you really hungry?” I ask, sort of off-handedly, my foot drawing a line higher up his leg.

  He stares across the table, his eyes all over me. “I’m not,” he says in low voice.

  I lean forward. “Do you want to get out of here, then?” I can’t believe I’m asking this. I slide my foot up even higher, and his lips part in response. His stare grows fierce.

  “This, Eliza,” he says, leaning into the table, “is probably how we got married.” He flashes a wolfish smile, and holds out his hand for me to take. I smile in response, and together, we flee the restaurant and head back to the hotel.

  It isn’t easy not to fuck in the back of a limo when your entire body is humming with the that possibility of doing just that. But the last thing I need is a sober memory of being entirely reckless, so instead, Emerson and I look out our opposite windows, his fingers playing with mine on the seat between us.

  I can barely think straight.

  ***

  We say nothing in the elevator, although he holds my hand—his finger tracing my ring. He’s patient, teasing, and I seriously can’t wait to tear off his clothes.

  And the moment we’re in the honeymoon suite, I do nearly that. We crush together in a kiss, his breath sweet, his tongue sliding against mine. I tug on the buttons on his shirt, until they’re all undone. I run my hand down, over his stomach, and even lower, and I tease his hardness through his pants. His breathing quickens, and I bite his lower lip, gently.

  I push his shirt down his
arms, and he tears it off and casts it aside. Both hands on my backside, massaging and rubbing as he deepens our kiss, me moaning into his mouth.

  “You’re amazing,” he says, his fingers teasing the edges of my underwear.

  I desperately start undoing his pants, but he stops me, groaning. “Let me get a condom,” he says, his voice tight with desire. He leans in and kisses me again, and then, like he has to force himself, pulls away and jogs to the bathroom.

  I smile after him, half out of my mind. While he rummages around in the bathroom, I throw open the balcony doors, letting the night air into the room. We’re on the top floor, and our balcony is huge. Since we’re in a suite, we also don’t have the unfortunate issue of any rooms next to us staring over. We have this special view of Vegas all to ourselves. I stand on the balcony, and suddenly, strangely, I feel lonely.

  What was my life before this? Just my job? People that I occasionally had drinks with and didn’t see for months? And that’s what I’m really going back to, isn’t it? These couple of days might seem like the best of my life, but reality is waiting for me.

  I shiver.

  Arms encircle me from behind, and Emerson kisses my neck. Long, slow, delicious kisses that send shivers of another kind all the way through my body.

  “Turn around,” he whispers.

  I oblige, suddenly forgetting my concerns.

  He smiles at me, and licks his lips. He leans in to kiss my collarbone, delicately setting his teeth on either one. I close my eyes, and he runs his palms up my outer thighs, pushing my dress up over my hips.

  He lowers himself to his knees in front of me, and my breath catches at the thought of what he’s about to do. He smiles up at me, and leans in to place a soft kiss on my inner thigh. Another kiss on the other. And then a slow lick. That would explain some of the marks from last night.

  I smile, and hold the railing.

  Emerson glides his hands up the back of my thighs, his thumbs under the band of my panties. He slowly lowers them around my ankles, and helps me out of them. My mind is spinning with desires, my heart racing. He smiles devilishly from his knees, licking his lips again. My breath grows shallow with anticipation.

  I want him. I need him.

  He leans forward to taste me and I cry out slightly, feeling his tongue touch my clit, warm where the night air is cool. He starts with long, slow licks that make me arch my back, and then he begins short, deliberate little licks that make me want to pull away and get closer all at once.

  “More,” I moan. “Please.”

  He licks faster, and slides two fingers inside me, my knees going weak. I release the balcony and bury my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Oh, god. His fingers moving in and out of me in a gorgeous rhythm, like he knows my body so well. Knows exactly what it needs.

  I scream out, my thighs beginning to shake as I clench him, his face buried between my thighs, bringing me to crashing wave of ecstasy.

  My body is weak with release, and he says, “Mm…” and gives my shivering body one last lick before standing in front me, sweeping me into his arms and kissing my neck.

  I’m barely able to breath, my eyes still half back in my head. His hands are everywhere, possessing me. Owning me.

  “Now let’s get you out of this fucking dress,” he whispers, making me laugh. He takes my hand and leads back into the bedroom.

  But halfway there, I pull his arm. And when he turns to me, my hand is in his pants, making him take a sharp breath, his eyes hungry. I grip him, delighted with his size. How hard he is for me. I slowly stroke, making his lips part with each pull.

  I can tell he doesn’t want to stop me, but he does. Then he reaches over and takes the hem of my dress, slowly dragging it up my body and over my head. He shakes his head as he looks me over. When he meets me eyes again, I’m not imaging his pure admiration.

  “Then come and get it,” I say teasingly.

  “Oh, baby,” he says. “You have no idea.”

  Just as I start to laugh, he steps over and ushers me into his arms, off my feet.

  He sets me on the bed, and as I take off my bra, he undoes his pants. His boxers. Standing there for a moment as I stare.

  His situation is every bit as situated as I remembered.

  More, even.

  He puts his knee on the bed, between my legs, and moves to lie on top of me. He kisses me, slow and thorough, his hard cock against my stomach. I stroke him again, making him moan near my ear.

  He moves to grab the condom, and slides it on while I watch, wanting him inside me. Needing him.

  He moves between my legs again, spreading my thighs with his. Opening me up to him. He stares down at me for a moment, his hair falling over his forehead. I reach up tenderly, and brush it aside. He smiles.

  “You’re so beautiful, Eliza,” he whispers. “I’m mad about you.”

  I sway, a bit overwhelmed by the words, an “I love you” on the tip of my tongue, but then I feel the head of his cock against me, and I moan, willing him to push inside. I grip his back; I want him so badly I can barely stand it.

  “Good?” he asks, teasing me with it, rubbing it though all the slickness.

  I nod, losing my ability to talk, breathing hard.

  He slowly pushes inside, and I cover my face as I scream out, my back arching. He draws back, and pushes in again. Everything is so wet, soaking. And then suddenly, he’s fucking me, good and hard, and I’m crying out, screaming, and wrapping my legs around his waist as he thrusts, again and again. I rise up to meet him, digging my fingers into his back.

  We’re a perfect fit, and I find my voice, whispering how much I want him to take me. But instead, he rolls us and I’m on top, and he lets me take him.

  I ride him hard. I grab his hands, interlacing our fingers, and press them into the bed. He growls, wanting more, and he thrusts upward, going deep while I grind down on him. I lean in to kiss him, biting on his lip. I love the feel of him, filling me completely, stretching me.

  We roll again, Emerson back on top, and I moan with desire, and I spasm with pleasure as we come as one, Emerson spilling inside as I tighten around him, both of us locked in each other’s arms until we stop shaking.

  At that moment, Emerson collapses on the bed next to me, both of us breathing hard, exhausted.

  I roll over and study him. Tracing my fingers in the shape of a heart on his chest. We’re both completely and utterly spent and happy. When he looks over at me, I smile dreamily.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I just figured out why I married you.”

  He leans over and kisses me on the nose.

  Chapter Six

  When I wake up the next morning, the sky is still dark. As dark as the sky can be, at least, in Las Vegas.

  And Emerson is still sleeping, a perfect, dreamless sleep, a small smile on his lips.

  And I can’t breathe. My chest is tight. My heart is racing madly. Yesterday I was so incredibly happy. Why can’t I recapture that now? But instead all I can think is these are the last moments I’ll spend with Emerson before I have to go back to the real world. These are the last moments before I have to go back to being an overworked sales rep and he’ll be a fancy lawyer and we’ll have to say goodbye. We’ll probably never, ever see each other again, except maybe to sign annulment papers, and honestly, I can probably just overnight those.

  Some bandages are better ripped off. Pretending to be married, dream-living this mistake was never a good idea. And now, with real feelings involved, it’s a terrible idea.

  Very quietly, I roll over in bed, silently memorizing every little detail of Emerson’s face. His body. His eyelashes.

  Maybe it isn’t possible to fall in love with someone in a weekend, but I think I did. But staying—not leaving—just made it hurt worse to leave now. At least if I would have left right away, I would have just had a few scattered memories and I wouldn’t have had the pain of remembering the kind of person I was leaving behind.

  I take o
ff the very beautiful, very expensive ring, and set it carefully on the grand piano. I cast one more look around the honeymoon suite, one more look at my beautiful husband, and then I leave to catch a flight home.

  ***

  I was that person, the girl crying in the airport. Crying on the plane. Not sobbing—I’m not completely ridiculous, but doing simple things like grabbing a coffee made me miserable. Guilty.

  I should have said goodbye.

  But I couldn’t. It would have hurt too much. So now, I’m back in Portland, and I’m lying listlessly on my bed, staring around at my apartment. My very void of human contact apartment.

  The phone rings, and I jump up to answer it, scowling when I see it’s my boss.

  “Hello?” I say, trying not to sound impatient.

  “Oh, good,” she says, “you’re home. I hate to do this to you, Eliza. But I need to go back to that shit town. The project’s about to fall through.”

  My heart thumps. “You mean that place in Kansas?” I ask. The place where I met my husband, I don’t add.

  “That’s the one. I booked you a flight at four, but I couldn’t secure any lodging. You’ll have to do it when you get there. There’s some kind of festival going on—who knows.” She sounds annoyed, but the idea of a festival is adorable. I wish more towns had them.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m on my way.”

  My boss hangs up, and I go to my room to pack a small bag. Not even unpacking the one that’s still sitting there from Vegas. It’s been two days, and I can’t even bring myself to open it.

  So I pack a new one, and I head back to the airport.

  ***

  I get a cab from the airport, and ask the driver to take me to the nearest hotel. He laughs, and glances back at me.

  “Hotel? Miss, we only have one of those and she’s all booked up for the Firemen’s Social. But there’s a motel that ain’t too bad on the other side of town.”

  Firemen’s Social? Sounds like this small town has got some good ideas.

  “Sure,” I say, waving my hand. “The motel will be fine. Thank you.”

  He nods, and I sit back and watch the small shops and quaint houses pass. I like it here. In fact, I like it here quite a bit.