Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  I've been packed, repacked and then packed again for this weekend since Monday night, but leave it to Romeo to wait until the last minute, effectively causing us to miss our dinner reservations, making me hangry and wound up tighter than a minister’s wife’s panties at a Vegas strip show.

  “Let the record show that I was doing just fine until you told me that this wedding was going to be a two hundred thousand dollar black tie affair at The Little Nell in Aspen. I looked up photos. We have to take a motherfucking private gondola three miles up the side of a mountain to get to the ceremony, Jeff. Our room alone is more than eleven hundred dollars a night! You could buy a private island in the Caribbean for that price tag.”

  Seems like a smarter investment at least.

  The online photos showed me a little piece of snowy heaven on earth. But the only way I could ever afford to visit this place is if I blew my life savings and worked a street corner for a few weeks for good measure.

  I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s not like I’m paying for any of this. The property looks immaculate. The kind of place where the three-second rule doesn’t apply when you drop food on the floor. But I already know that I’m going to be the odd man out in the game of one of these things is not like the other when we arrive. Even still, I hope it will be worth the mental anguish. I need to get away if only for a little bit in the height of frozen mountain tops. And if I have my way, my presence will go virtually undetected, and I can hide by the top shelf open bar most of the night.

  “Aww, come on. It’s not that much.” Jeff gives me a knowing look.

  “Says the man whose last name automatically qualifies him for the friends and family discount at every five-star ski lodge in North America.” A little-known fact that only came up days ago.

  I can’t even begin to wrap my brain around the thought of dropping two hundred thousand dollars on one party that’ll last maybe half the day. Jeff’s parents insisted on paying for the wedding, with his mom lamenting the fact she never had a daughter. But that kind of money is just a drop in the bucket for Colorado’s leading environmental lawyer, who singlehandedly defended the National Parks in a huge corporate lawsuit, and the woman whose family nine-figure inheritance comes from the Snowfalls chain of luxury ski resorts.

  For coming from money, it's amazing how grounded and headstrong Jeff is. “I'm not rich. My parents are. And from an early age they were clear that if Chris, Kyle, and I wanted that kind of life, we had to be the ones to work for it,” he had told me during a recent conversation.

  I'm just a teacher. His parents probably make a year’s worth of my salary in one week of work. From the stories he’s told me, they certainly don't live—or act—like their bank accounts could purchase a Major League franchise.

  “I promise it'll be okay. I love you, so I know for a fact that they are going to love you, too.”

  I try to take his word for it, but the whole meeting the parents thing is foreign territory, and damn near maddening under any circumstance. Let alone this particular scenario that requires me to be on my game for everyone.

  “That's easy for you to say. They’re your parents. They have to love you,” I sigh in defeat.

  “Besides, everyone is going to be so busy with the wedding, they'll probably forget we're even there.”

  I roll my eyes. Jeff is in the wedding, so his presence—or absence—will be quite obvious. The best I can hope for is to fly under the radar without incident.

  I sit down on the end of his bed and watch him finish packing sweater after sweater. Colorado in February seems like a risky idea for a wedding, but hopefully, Mother Nature has an unseasonal hot flash and avoids a deluge of snow. With my luck, we’ll get snowed in.

  “Okay. Let me see if I've got this right. Kyle’s your oldest brother, and he’s been dating Kayla for a while.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Chris and Erin met while volunteering at an animal shelter in downtown Denver last year, and knew each other for five months before deciding to get hitched.”

  Jeff listens to me prattle on as he moves into his bathroom to gather his toiletries. “See? You know what's up!” He returns with his arms full of face soap and shaving cream and razors and shampoo and …

  Is that premium organic moisturizer?

  No wonder his skin is so soft. Most men can get away with just one bottle of generic travel stuff: an all-in-one type cleanser that not only takes care of the hair on your head but also the hair on your feet and ass, too. But Jeff isn't most men.

  “Hardly,” I scoff. It's one thing to recall what I've been told. It's another to experience it first hand while trying to avoid their judge-y eyes. “Your family is big.”

  A tinge of jealousy washes over me at the thought of his big family. I am an only child, born to two only children, so beyond my immediate family, there wasn't ever anyone around. It made for some boring summers and lonely holidays being the sole person under the age of forty at family affairs. I guess that's why any close friends I made, I latched onto like a sibling.

  “Beyond my brothers, you'll probably meet a gaggle of cousins, many of whose names I can't keep straight, and a few overbearing aunts and uncles. But watch out for my Uncle Russ. He’s pushing sixty but claims he’s only as old as the women he dates. He likes ‘em young and pretty.”

  Ew!

  He kisses my forehead, and I make a mental note to simply steer clear of his extended family.

  “And what about your parents?”

  “What about them?” he asks without making eye contact while zipping his bag up.

  Jeff rarely mentions his parents, and I can only imagine that's for good reason. Isn't there some legal or moral parental obligation that they embarrass their children regardless of how old they are? Whenever I have kids, I'm going to be the cool mom. At least I hope to be.

  “It's just that I know absolutely nothing about them.”

  He presses his lips together in a hard line and thinks for a long moment before speaking. No doubt meticulously plucking the right words from his brain so not to scare me. “My parents are a bit … eclectic. Martha has very little interest and awareness in personal space and my dad—his name is Colin—as daft as he can sometimes be, does his best to reign her in. They're good people. Just … different. Try not to get worked up about it. I know my mom is really excited to meet you and make you feel all sorts of awkward.”

  He's joking, right?

  I laugh politely and uncomfortably all at once. He must sense my unrest because he stops what he's doing and sits down next to me on the bed. “But like I said, they’re going to love you. You've got nothing to worry about.” His eyes turn soft, and he grabs my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I really appreciate you taking off a few days to come with me. I know you don't like to leave your students but—”

  “It's really okay,” I cut him off. “We're just going over some basics for the standardized tests they're taking in a few weeks. I left thorough notes, and if they finish early, I’ve got some educational videos they can watch.” And by educational I mean some snoozefest about our Founding Fathers since the principal wouldn’t approve me showing Dangerous Minds. I don’t care what anybody says, there are a lot of valuable life lessons to be learned from that movie. “It’s nothing the substitute can't handle.”

  His face lights up, and he takes my face in his hands, studying my lips. His grip is firm, and his eyes are longing. Before I know it, he’s lowering me back onto the bed, quenching my hunger with a slow, deep kiss that slingshots an insatiable ache straight to my nether regions.

  He pulls back to sweep some of my long auburn hair from my face. “God, I love it when you talk teacher to me. It’s so hot,” he marvels just before he buries his face, kissing me between my breasts, straight through my blouse.

  “Seriously, Jeff?” My jaw drops and my eyes roll as I swat his shoulder away. “You are so weird!”

  He looks up my body and pounds me with a coy, mischievous smirk. “Oh?
And what are you going to do about that? Send me to detention?”

  We both pause a beat, me trying to determine if he’s serious about some teacher-student role playing action, and him undoubtedly trying to gauge my interest. But before I can even form a response he doubles over in laughter, rolling off of me and onto his back.

  “Oh my God, you should see your face right now, Henley.”

  I throw an arm over my eyes and silently feel relief. Because as much as I love this guy, I’m not sure I have it in me to actually do any role playing. Let alone role playing in my daily profession.

  “Come on. Let’s go forage for food so we can get to bed. Because if I have my way, I’d like to feast on you for dessert.”

  He pulls me up off his bed, and I follow him to the kitchen, noting that the most dangerous mind in my life is his.

  CRIMES AGAINST CRAMPING

  “Shhh!”

  Jeff tugs on my hand as he leads me away from the bustling ballroom. I’m not sure why he wants me to be quiet because there’s no way anyone at the reception can possibly hear us right now. I should feel guilty sneaking off before the toasts and the throwing of the bride’s bouquet, but I don’t think anyone will miss us. They’re all a bit preoccupied with dancing and the alcohol that’s flowing as freely as our inhibitions.

  My laughter echoes down the empty marble hallway, which makes me laugh even harder. In the distance, the wedding band is in the middle of their latest crowd-pleasing set. Jeff’s family didn’t notice our escape as they were too busy belting the lyrics to Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines right alongside that horrible wedding singer. Fortunately for all, enough booze has been consumed that nobody even cares when the wedding singer goes off on a three-minute tangent answering Thicke’s million dollar question of “what rhymes with hug me?” I think the real million dollar question here is who sings Blurred Lines at a wedding? That’s about as appropriate as playing Nine Inch Nails’ Closer at a Beastiality Anonymous meeting, but I digress.

  Other than the music, this wedding has been pretty incredible. I practically threw myself on top of Jeff right in the middle of the dance floor earlier in the evening. His epic, white guy dance moves were certainly not the way into my panties, but when his eyes smiled, and there was a glint of mischief, I nearly mauled him.

  But that’s not how we got here in the hallway.

  I’m not sure when I made the decision to slip away with my boyfriend for a mid-wedding celebration quickie, but when he looked at me with his ocean blue eyes and lazy drunken smile and jokingly said, “There’s something about weddings that makes me horny,” I knew it was hopeless to fight my libido. My ears perked up at the magic “H” word. It’s not the first time he’s told me that line, but it’s the first time I was drunk enough to react to them like I did roughly ninety seconds ago.

  The room was dim, my fingertips were curious, and I leaned over into his ear and whispered, “There’s something about you that makes me horny,” just before brushing my fingertips up the length of his inner thigh to discover that he was telling the truth. I am never that forward. But imagine my surprise when I learned those weren’t just words … weddings actually do make him horny. Jeff grabbed me in a flash and had me sprinting out the double doors behind him.

  Maybe it was the bottle and a half of champagne I’d downed during the happy hour that made me follow him? No, it was definitely the bottle and a half of champagne I downed during happy hour. I don’t care, though. Because this man, my boyfriend, is all I want right now. Provided we can actually find a few minutes of peace and quiet.

  That’s a lie.

  I’m probably drunk enough to entertain an audience with him.

  The first two doors Jeff tries are locked, but on the third try, he throws his weight against a door and opens a room that is pitch black. Before I know it, our lips mesh as Jeff pushes my shoulders against the door.

  He moans into my mouth. “You taste like strawberries, woman.”

  I giggle and reach for his shirt, enthusiastically unbuttoning it from the top down.

  “Don’t bother, Henley, we only have a few minutes,” he reminds me, then nips my collarbone with his teeth before flicking his tongue up my neck, retracting the path with relentless kisses.

  His hot breath against my skin causes me to writhe and my head slams against the backside of the door. “Ow!” I cry through my laughter. Noting that the copious amount of champagne has deadened my nerves.

  “Are you okay, baby?” he whispers in concern. I can barely see his face lit up by the dim glow of a red exit sign above us.

  “Yeah,” I breathe out heavily and fumble with the belt wrapped around his waist.

  “Hold on, let me find a light really quick.”

  “Fuck the lights, Jeff.” I pull his chin toward me and kiss him with an unrivaled ferocity all while unzipping his tuxedo pants, slipping my hand into his boxers and pumping my hand up and down his cock a few times. It comes back to life instantly in my palm.

  Jeff presses his forehead against mine, and a purr escapes from the back of his throat. “Shit, Henley, I want you so bad right now.”

  Jeff reaches around my body and attempts to take my dress off, which is ridiculous if I’m not even allowed to take off his shirt. “Don’t even try. It’s too much effort.” And it’s true. My navy strapless dress has a corset back, and there’s no way I can get in — or out — of it without the assistance of an army. I reach down and gather the fabric and hoist it up to my waist. Jeff slides his hands up my calves and thighs to slip my panties off.

  “What the fuck?” he slurs in surprise. If I weren’t so caught off guard by his comment, I’d probably find his tone adorable.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What the hell is this, Henley?”

  Oh, God. Shit! “Um …”

  “Are you wearing granny panties?”

  I grind my teeth in horror. “Shit. No! Those are Spanx. They were undoubtedly made by some guy as a torture device, but they do a damn good job keeping everything in place.” There goes my lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets reputation I’ll never get.

  “Mmm … I’d like to spank you right about now,” Jeff growls.

  Involuntarily, I snort at his comment. It reminds me of the time we tried dirty talking and failed miserably. We both ended up in fits of laughter.

  “Just get them off, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jeff kneels down and peels the Spanx off my ass, and I step out of them, kicking them to the side. My body instantly feels free from the tight confines of those wretched unmentionables. He makes quick work of the rest of his pants and boxers, dropping them to his ankles. He leans my body back against the door and in one fell swoop, pushes himself inside of me, filling me to the brim.

  I melt around his body.

  My head is light from all the champagne and from the dizzying spell he casts upon me. It becomes increasingly difficult to hold my body up as my legs turn weak and, instinctively, Jeff takes on more and more of my body weight in his arms as we lean back against the door.

  “It feels wrong to be having sex before the bride and groom,” I pant mid-thrust.

  “It’s not wrong. We’re celebrating love. They’d commend us for celebrating so passionately,” Jeff whispers in my ear before nipping my earlobe with his teeth.

  “To love,” I cry out and clench his body tighter. Our tongues are at war with one another as our bodies mesh together.

  “Oh my God, Henley, I’m so close. I’m so close … I’m gonna come,” he growls in my ear like he’s a freaking sports announcer calling a grand slam, game-winning play at the bottom of the ninth inning of the final World Series match up.

  Why do guys do that anyway?

  I hitch my leg tighter around his waist and sink my fingernails into his perfectly tight ass, bringing him impossibly closer to my body.

  “Oh, shit! Henley! My calf … I … I’m cramping … Oh, God … I’m coming! CRAMP!” Jeff’s
body tenses right as the overhead lights flash on, blinding us both.

  What the fuck?

  My gaze snaps to his, and I feel the color draining from my face in one fast, sobering moment. The same moment Jeff’s body shudders as he finds his release.

  “Holy fuck nuggets” he whispers, clenching his eyes shut.

  “Hey! You! You can’t be in here!” a man’s voice echoes through the space, chopped up into bits and pieces of broken English. “Stop that! Now! That is bad!”

  When I look over Jeff’s shoulder, a portly old man in a hunter green security uniform crosses the space across the empty ballroom, hastily waving his finger at us.

  “Oh, shit!” I whisper, trying to contain my laughter.

  Jeff stares at me wide-eyed and full of panic as he processes exactly what is happening here. He stands eerily still like he believes that he’s camouflaged with the door behind me and if he moves even a fraction of an inch he’ll be exposed. No pun intended. Don’t get me wrong, his ass cheeks are pale. Just not that pale. This is one of those moments where I’d give my left tit to have my childhood wish of being invisible actually come true.

  When I look over Jeff’s shoulder and see the guard glaring at me, he speaks louder. You know, just in case I didn’t hear him the first time he chided my first experience of sex in a public place.

  “You bad for doing that here! You dirty! You bad! Go! Go now!” With each syllable, he stabs his finger into the air, and even from the other side of the room, I can see his thick, caterpillar eyebrows furrow angrily.

  I give Jeff’s arm a subtle squeeze, reminding him that we’re not, in fact, invisible, and that we actually need to make a move before this five-foot cock-blocker takes a step toward us.

  Jeff kisses my lips quickly as he pulls himself out from my body and hoists his pants back up in a flash, narrowly missing catching his manhood in the zipper. I let the skirt of my dress fall to my ankles and smooth out the fabric. We slip out the door and hightail it back down the hallway to his brother’s wedding reception.

  “Holy hell. Did that really just happen?” he asks over his shoulder as he reaches back for my hand.