A Taste of Utopia

by L. Duarte

  It’s time to be professional and make this easy for her.

  “Sorry, my fault. I rushed you. I, uh, I’m sorry. I’m not usually this impulsive and . . . Fuck . . . Sorry . . . I mean if you want a re—” Before I complete the offer for a refund her hands flash to my lips.

  “No . . . no . . .” She shakes her head apologetically. “It’s not you. It’s me. You were perfect. Really.”

  I smile. Poor thing is trying not to bruise my ego. That’s such a refreshing concept. Most clients treat me like what they pay for. A fuck.

  But here she is, filled with worry and genuine concern for me and my shitty excuse for a performance.

  “The truth is, I um . . .” she says, but stops before the words fall from her lips.

  “What?” My brows furrow and I lean in.

  “Never mind.”

  “Do tell, Cherry Lips.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “Your painted lips, they remind me of a bowl of cherries on a lazy summer afternoon.” I let my fingers run over her lips. “But what is it? If you don’t want to, fine. I totally respect that. But if there’s something I’m doing wrong, tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

  First, because fucking her is my goddamn job and fuck me if I don’t do what it takes to perfect a job with complete customer satisfaction. Secondly and perhaps more importantly: my balls are blue.

  “Promise you won’t laugh,” she begs. Her eyes are uncertain.

  “Pinky promise.” I raise my hand to offer her my pinky. Way to pussify a man. I’m lame as hell. Not only is my dick behaving like a teenager, now my brain has joined the party.

  She giggles and I immediately forgive myself for the lame ass comment.

  With her pinky linked to mine, she sighs. “Well, I don’t know how to say this.”

  I raise our linked fingers in reassurance. “Spill it, Cherry Lips.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never done this before.” She speaks in a hurry as if afraid the words won’t get out.

  “I know.” I look at her, confused.

  “You know, is it that obvious? I mean, you seem experienced and all. But can you tell I’m a virgin?” Her cheeks turn bright red.

  “Oh.” What? In slow motion, I process her words. It’s her first time having sex. She is a virgin. “Oh. Okay.” Shit.

  It dawns on me that her friend is paying me to pop her proverbial cherry. Not only is it her first time with an escort, but it’s also her first time, period.

  Unbelievable. Where has romance gone? Why would someone pay to have a first experience?

  I shake my head, trying to organize my hazed and drunk mind. “It’s fine. We don’t have to. No one’s first time should be like this,” I finally say.

  A mixture of disappointment and relief battles on her face. “I guess I’m being ambiguous. Sorry. I’m awkward, and this isn’t a conversation I usually have with anyone.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself. You can think about it.” I forge a smile. “Perhaps another day. You can call me at any time.” Kill me for saying these words. But I am an escort, not a jerk. She apparently changed her mind. I won’t pressure her. Though I wonder if I’ll ever recover from this case of blue balls.

  “It’s just that . . .” Her chest rises up and down as she inhales deeply. “I know it’s silly and outdated. But um, my mom—I adore my mom,” she clarifies as a way of justification. “She’s my hero. And all I ever wanted was to be like her. And, um, don’t laugh. Shit, this might sound weirder when I say it than when I think it.” She’s rambling and that’s so adorable. “Well, she married a virgin. And all I ever wanted, dreamed, was to do the same. And I thought I was ready to let go of the stupid idea. Because, seriously, who has such an old-fashioned dream? I mean, this isn’t the eighteen hundreds where virginity is looked upon as a virtue or prize that a man has to register a woman under his name to conquer and stake a claim on. No longer does that tiny piece of flesh dictate the value of a woman . . .”

  Words continue to flow out of her luscious lips like water rushing out a broken dam. Our pinkies, between us, stay linked. Meanwhile, a frenzy descends upon my body. An urgent need seeps through my pores embedding in the depths of my soul.

  I watch her in wonder and awe. Stronger than the need to have sex with her is this new desire to give the woman in front of me every desire of her heart. Out goes self-preservation, self-control, and rational thinking. A primal part of me takes charge. I want two things at this moment. One is to ensure Lottie gets all she wants in life. The other is to sink into her depths and taste her innocence.

  “What I’m trying to say is: I’m a virgin. My dream is to marry a virgin. Like my mom.” Her eyes cast down as if ashamed of something so beautiful and pure.

  And I know in my heart of hearts that I’ll do anything to make this woman mine, and most importantly, to make her happy.

  “Marry me.” My palms cradle her face forcing her to look at me.

  Her guileless eyes peek up at me. Lottie is simply captivating. Her unworldly innocence is not only rare, but also fascinating.

  Her lips part, but she doesn’t utter a single word.

  “Marry me. We’re in Vegas. Before the end of the hour, we can go back into that room and consummate our marriage.” Am I serious?

  “Are you, are you serious?” She vocalizes my thoughts.

  No, just batshit crazy. “Dead serious. Say yes. Say you’ll marry me.”

  “Okay. I mean yes. Why the hell not?” I can see she’s as surprised with her answer as I am with asking her.

  Oh, well. Above and beyond the line of duty. “First we need a ring. No, we need a license,” I say, strolling across the room to snatch my phone from the dock.

  “Are they open, this time of the night? What time is it?”

  I scroll down my list of friends until I find Jeremy’s number. “Well, it’s Vegas, baby.”

  Jeremy answers on the first ring. “This better be fucking good, Seth.”

  “I’m getting married,” I tell him.

  “Fucking great! Not only are you dashing my dream of turning you into my sex slave, but also you are waking me up in the middle of the night. What the hell, dude?”

  “Congratulations would have sufficed, douche. But here’s the deal. I need a license.”

  “Come by at nine.”

  “Now.”

  “You’re fucking shitting me.”

  “No, calling in a favor.”

  “Fuck you. You know I can’t say no.”

  “You can. But I know you won’t. Meet you in front of your office in ten.”

  “Fuck. Let me wake up at least.”

  “Fine. You have twenty minutes to get your sorry ass together.”

  I hit end and shove the phone in my pocket.

  “Oh my God! I’m getting married!” Lottie squeals clenching her hand to her mouth. She gathers her ID and cell phone and hands them to me. I slip them in my pocket.

  I collect the hotel key, a bottle of champagne, and tug her hand. “Let’s rock, betrothed. We have five minutes to pick up a ring.”

  Lottie

  ABOUT HALF AN hour from when I said yes, my hand trembles as I scribble my signature on the marriage license.

  “You two are crazy.” Jeremy shakes his head, but his eyes betray him. I can see he’s amused with our insane wedding.

  This is the stuff Vegas is made of. I tell myself this as a way of pacifying my conscience. I rebuke any thought of being sensible and refuse to allow it to surface to the forefront of my mind.

  Tonight I’m following the one rule established by Chloe: No rules.

  Anything goes. And if whisking a handsome man to the nearest chapel fits the bill, so be it. I’m young, free, and I don’t have a care in the world. There. I said it. Nothing will get in the way of this new reckless version of me. Not even the smart, intelligent, sensible, rational, knows better, know-it-all me.

  “It’s official. You two lovebirds are all set. Congratulations
.” Jeremy thumps a heavy stamp over his signature.

  “Thanks for opening the joint and doing this,” Seth says, shaking hands with his friend. “I owe you one.”

  “Nah. Just call it even.”

  “Got to go, man.” Seth waves the certificate. “Wedding to attend.” He grips my hand and pulls me out of the Clark County Marriage Bureau.

  Once we make it back to the strip, Seth strolls with long and resolute steps. I take in the warm night breeze blowing from under my dress, sending a shiver running over my sensitive body. Thoughts swirl, turn, and thumb around my mind with the fierceness of a windmill right before a storm.

  My mind is teetering between sobriety and drunkenness. Neither completely one nor the other. But one thing is certain, my head buzzes with an uncharacteristic giddiness that I’ve never felt before. There’s no way in hell I’ll walk away from this liberating feeling.

  Seth comes to a halt, causing me to stumble upon him. “No cold feet?” he asks and nods to a chapel.

  I look up at him. His lips curve into a youthful smile. His turquoise eyes are sparkling with mischief, mirth, elation, and a hidden mystery that I’m bent on unraveling. Again, my conscience assures me this is insane, irresponsible even. That’s what pulls me to the edge, dissipating any and all doubts. The fun of it all is in the recklessness.

  “My feet are toasty warm,” I say.

  Seth opens the door to the chapel. We sit on padded folding chairs. An Elvis Presley officiator is marrying two women.

  They’re wearing white suits. Both of them wear a crown of white wildflowers in their hair. The shorter and seemly younger one also holds a delicate bouquet of white daisies. They look ethereally beautiful.

  After a few more words, the officiator declares them married. While the couple kisses, he beckons us to approach.

  Yep, everything is utterly unromantic.

  Seth hands the license to the notary and proceeds to pay him. The chapel provides two witnesses, which are Sonny and Cher impersonators, nonetheless.

  The girls end their kiss. We congratulate them as the officiator scans our license and IDs.

  “Thank you,” the taller one says. “Congratulations to you both as well.” With linked arms, they stroll down the aisle. The shorter one turns back, and with an elated smile stretched on her face, she asks, “Would you like the flowers?”

  “Yes. That would be lovely.” I squeal in excitement.

  “Since I won’t be tossing a bouquet, might as well.” She hands me the bunch and carefully removes the crown of flowers from her head and places the arrangement over my hair.

  “Oh, thank you! This will make it perfect.” My voice cracks with emotion. “I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.”

  “To you as well,” she responds as her bride pulls her to the door. Well, apparently we aren’t the only ones in a rush.

  I turn to face my groom. When our eyes meet, a smile tugs on the corners of his lips. His eyes study me from the stilettoes to the flowers in my hair. His fingers lightly touch the petals and then he brushes his knuckles along my heated cheeks. “You are a perfect mix of sex and purity. Goddamn, woman. You’re killing me.”

  An instant smile blooms on my face. The officiator clears his throat in an apparent attempt to speed things up.

  “We are gathered here today. . . .” He proceeds to speak the words that will unite me to this man—this stranger. However, his voice becomes only a hum in the background.

  Mesmerized, I do a leisurely examination of the man I’m marrying. If there were fairness in this world, the dictionary would provide one word to describe him. Because handsome, attractive, striking, good-looking, hot, exquisite or stunning just won’t suffice.

  As I continue to study him, I question my reasons for this insane act. Insanity, drunkenness, or just shallowness?

  Yeah, I could lie to myself until I’m blue in the face and say it’s because I’m drunk. Which I am.

  Or just say I’m shallow. Seth is, after all, a drop-dead gorgeous male.

  I can even tell myself I’m reckless, impulsive, or outright and insanely horny.

  However, there’s an underlying reason for me to have agreed to this craziness. I just don’t know it yet.

  But one thing I know. Whatever is driving me to do this, it is beyond Seth’s perfectly chiseled body, or his sharp jaws, or the little indentation in his chin, or his magnetic smile. It’s beyond the need to get laid while fulfilling the silly dream of marrying a virgin.

  I also question what drove Seth to marry me. It’s hard to understand what I see in the depths of his eyes. They have a familiarity, a darkness, a vulnerability, and a deep yearning. When he looks at me with such intensity, it kindles a sincere desire to know more. To comprehend him.

  “You all right?” he asks, pulling me back to the moment.

  I nod and smile.

  “Here,” he says, reaching for my hand. “With this ring I’m yours. Body, mind, and soul. I promise to do my best to get to know you and honor this day.” He slides the delicate wedding band that accompanies the massive princess cut diamond he had placed on my hand earlier.

  I position his band on his finger and stare at him. “With this ring I’m yours. Body, mind, and soul. I promise I’ll do my best to get to know you and honor this day.” I repeat his simple vows. First, because I can’t come up with anything. Secondly, because I like the simplicity of his words.

  It might be the epitome of silliness, but as I slip the ring on his finger, tears wet my cheeks.

  “You may kiss your bride.” Elvis duly declares.

  “Wait. We need a picture,” I say. “Do you have my cell phone?”

  Seth fishes his pocket for it and hands it to Cher. Then he looks at me. His stare is of primal possession, raw ownership. As if he’s a man who never had any possessions and was suddenly faced with something of his very own. I’m not into the whole caveman thing, but his domineering gaze makes me ache in areas that are totally new to me.

  He gathers my face in his hands, and his lips seize mine. It’s an all-consuming kiss. My heart soars free from its cage. It doesn’t fly very far because I can feel it when it lands inside Seth’s chest.

  Seth pulls away slightly, and with his forehead touching mine, he whispers against my lips, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  We retrieve the marriage certificate, my cell phone, the bottle of champagne and we dash out.

  In the lobby, Seth stops. With his thumb, he pops the cork. Bubbling liquid flows out. He raises the bottle and says, “To us.”

  “To us,” I repeat.

  He places the bottle in my mouth. As I’m pulling a gulp of the fizzy drink, he replaces the bottle with his mouth, stealing a kiss and half the liquid from inside my mouth.

  His hand slides around my waist, and he yanks me closer to him, making his erection notable against my lower tummy.

  Everything surrounding us fades away, my arms snakes around his neck, and I get lost to the flavor of champagne mixed with the stroke of his tongue against mine. It’s too much. My body hums with an aching desire.

  He pulls away. “We’ve got to get back to the hotel,” he says with a groan. “Like right now.”

  Holding hands, we dash out of the chapel and onto the strip. I have no concept of time. It feels like I’m in an alternate universe.

  After Seth takes gulps of champagne, he hands it to me. I take a long pull and give back to him. We stroll down the strip, sharing the drink, making out on corners, laughing, half-running and half-walking.

  Dozens of people surround us. Share the same road. But it feels as though there’s a magical capsule isolating us from the rest of the world.

  I’m filled with anticipation. But mostly I’m filled with an exuberant and bubbly happiness that I had never experienced before.

  And it’s beautiful. And it’s romantic. And it’s dreamy . . .

  AT THE LOBBY of the hotel, Seth hands the empty champagne bottle to one of the hotel’s concierges.
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br />   Laughing for no reason, but giddiness, we stumble inside the elevator. As luck would have it, the car is empty.

  I press my back against the wall. My heart is pounding from the running and nonsense laughter.

  Seth pushes the button to our floor and turns to face me.

  Energy zings in the air. His facial expression morphs from carefree to predatory. He paces my way, like a lion approaching a gazelle.

  My breath catches in my throat. The laughter dies in my mouth.

  He places both hands on the wall on either side of me. “You look mighty delectable laughing like this, Mrs. Phoenix.”

  My eyes flash to his mouth. He leans his head in and runs his nose along my collarbone. And oh my. That sweet spot south of me clenches and throbs.

  He lowers his hand and clasps mine. He brings it to his erection. “Look what you’re doing to me. I’ve never been so goddamn hard.”

  I inhale a sharp breath, surprised at his forwardness and terrified of his astounding size.

  He moves my hand to his lips, placing a kiss and stroking his tongue lightly at the center of my palm. The softness and warmth of his tongue sends a jolt of pleasure to my clenched muscles. Moisture dampens my panties and my legs weaken.

  A ding announces our arrival. I’m mentally preparing to force my legs into motion when the floor disappears from beneath my feet. A squeak leaves my mouth.

  “Allow me,” he says, carrying me out of the elevator.

  Somehow he expertly opens the door while holding me and crosses the threshold. He places me on the floor and retreats a few steps.

  The champagne we just drank renewed our fading buzz.

  The sight of Seth standing a few feet from me is intoxicating. My mind swirls in anticipation and my body hums with desire.

  His eyes bore through me. His perusal is slow and heated, making a tingling sensation travel from the soles of my feet to the tip of my head.

  “Hot damn, woman! You’re mine,” he says, a guttural sound escaping his throat.

  His words turn my body into molten lava. And I know I need him to take me. Claim me as his. Inside, a battle wages. My usual reserved ways are fighting a wanton woman that I had no idea lived inside me but who is now striving to break free.