THAT MAN: The Wedding Story

by L'Amour, Nelle

  Katrina rounds the table and gives her equally chic mother a double-cheek kiss. “Hello, Mommy.”

  “Darling, I’m so glad you could make it, and of course, this must be Brandon.” Enid formally introduces herself and extends her hand.

  I assume we’ve never met and shake it, careful not to crush it. I help Katrina into a chair across from her mother and then I slip into the one next to hers. Enid is effervescent.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered a bottle of champagne. Cristal, only the finest. I thought we’d start off the evening with a toast.”

  Like mother, like daughter. “Sure,” I say, studying her cosmetically enhanced face. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her skin so taut it may split into puzzle pieces.

  “Wonderful.” She raises her glass and we follow suit. “To the most unforgettable wedding ever!”

  We clink our glasses and then sip the bubbly. I’m not in the mood to drink champagne, but I go with the flow. Enid guzzles hers, then refills her glass.

  “Why don’t we order first and then we’ll talk about the wedding. I have so many fabulous ideas, especially since the wedding is going to be televised.”

  I take another sip of the champagne and clear my throat. “Um, uh, excuse me, Enid. But can we talk about that? I was thinking something smaller, more inti—”

  With a sharp turn of her head, Katrina cuts me off. “Brandon, there’s absolutely nothing to discuss. Everything’s set. It’s going to be a live televised event. Period. Millions of people around the world will see it on TV and on the Internet. It’s going to make me a global name and send my ratings into the stratosphere.”

  This just doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d agree to. I may be a very public TV star, but I’m a private kind of guy. That I do know about myself. My gaze stays on Katrina. “Did we ever discuss this?”

  Throwing her head back, she lets out a haughty laugh. “Of course, darling. It was practically your idea. You were all over it. You were even the one that said, ‘Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian.’”

  I don’t even know who Kim Kardashian is. I’m growing frustrated with this amnesia thing. It’s getting old fast and causing me one problem after another. I’m really not comfortable with the idea of getting married on TV, but this is clearly not the forum to challenge it. I’m not going to get anywhere with headstrong Katrina or her outspoken mother.

  We order dinner from an apron-clad young waiter. Recognizing me immediately, his eyes light up. “Wow! You’re Brandon Taylor. Kurt Kussler rocks!” He steps back from the table and imitates me. Aiming his fingers like a gun, he says, “Get it. Got it? Good.”

  I’m getting sick of hearing this line. I’m sure this dude is an aspiring actor, and in a breath, he confirms my hunch. “Hey, listen Mr. Taylor, I hope you don’t mind. But can I give you my headshot before you leave and maybe you could show it to your producer and consider me for a guest-starring role? Even a cameo? I’m a method actor and studied at the Bella Stadler Academy. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Bella Stadler. I studied with her too and have learned I’m a big supporter. But, in the back of my mind, I feel there’s something more. It’s like a memory is trying to knock down the door. Think, Brandon, think.

  “Yes?” The waiter’s eager voice interrupts my ability to concentrate.

  “Sure,” I tell him, feeling sorry for yet another hopeful in this town, waiting tables while waiting for a break.

  The thankful waiter’s face brightens and then he takes our orders. Having just eaten that giant burger, I’m not hungry and just order a small salad. Katrina and her mother each order a platter of poached asparagus (sauce on the side) and then decide to splurge on a shared shrimp cocktail. No wonder the two of them are whippet thin.

  While we wait for the food to arrive, Enid starts in with her ideas for the wedding.

  “You know, I really wanted to do it in Venice like George and Amal, but too many of my friends have travel plans to go to Italy over the summer.”

  “George who?”

  She tuts. “George Clooney.”

  What? Forever bachelor George Clooney got married? Where have I been? I’ve really missed a lot. Enid rambles on while I bemoan my fate.

  “I, however, came up with a perfect local venue. The Four Seasons Hotel. You’ll get married in the divine garden and then we’ll have the reception in the ballroom.”

  Katrina’s face lights up, more animated than I’ve ever seen it. “Mommy, tell him the theme we’ve chosen.”

  “Theme?”

  “Of course, darling. All my events have themes. And yours will be Cinderella—a celebration of my little girl finally marrying her Prince Charming. Happily ever after at last! I’ve already ordered dozens of pumpkins to carve and fill with exotic flowers along with gilded cages that we’ll fill with little white mice as table centerpieces. And Monique is designing The. Most. Divine. Dress. Ever. Along with a pair of magnificent glass slippers. Katrina will be the envy of every woman in the world.” She laughs lightly. “Even her own mother.”

  “Oh, Mommy,” Katrina coos after taking another sip of champagne. “Tell him about the best part.”

  “The cake? It’s going to be a six-foot high buttercream recreation of the Disney Magic Kingdom Castle.”

  “No, Mommy, I mean how we’re going to get there.”

  Enid dramatically throws up her hands and rolls back her eyes. “How could I forget? The two of you will be arriving at the hotel in a custom-made pumpkin carriage drawn by four white Arabian horses. Miniature replicas are accompanying the two thousand invitations I just sent out.”

  What? The invitations are out. There may be no turning back now. I gulp.

  Enid gives me the once over. “We should talk about what you’ll be wearing, Brandon.”

  I bet I’ll be dressed in some ninny prince suit that looks like it comes straight out of the Disney store. I don’t even want to know. “When is all this happening?” I ask, evading the subject.

  Katrina chimes in. “Why in four months—at the end of May sweeps—Saturday, May twenty-third. It’s going to send the ratings of my show into orbit. America’s It Girl is going to become a universal sensation!”

  One last question. “And who’s flitting the bill for all this?”

  Smiling coyly, Katrina answers. “Well, since the budget for my show is only $20,000 per episode and poor Daddy is in jail and can’t even come to his own daughter’s wedding, you are.”

  “I am?”

  “Of course, darling. I discussed it all with our mutual business manager Scott while you were in a coma, and he agreed to everything. You’ll never miss the ten million dollars.”

  Dinner arrives. Maybe, I would have been better off staying asleep in a coma. At least past our wedding date.

  Zoey

  The only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—Get Well. I love you! <3—while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans: Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3 I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!

  I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.

  Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

  Did u say u give massages?

  I reply.

  Yes.

  He responds.

  I want one now.

  Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

  Well…???

  In my mind’s eye, I can see the an
ger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

  Do I need to fire u?

  GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.

  FINE. Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.

  “Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

  He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”

  His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!

  “No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

  “I don’t do underwear.”

  My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?

  He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”

  “Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.

  His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”

  His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”

  A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.

  He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”

  No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.

  His mouth twists. “Yeah, right.”

  I detect attitude. “By the way, how was your dinner with her mother?”

  “Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”

  Don’t ask. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”

  Five minutes later, he’s back, clad in adorable purple and white polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart beating fast, I soak in his bare-chested body. My eyes travel down his gorgeous chiseled chest and land on his crotch. His cock is just a handful away. One could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and own it.

  “Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.

  He does as requested, setting his head on the headrest attachment. His long, muscular legs reach almost to the very end of the padded table. I admire his beautiful sculpted back and his broad swimmer’s shoulders. The burning urge to run my hands over every glorious ridge and contour has my heart racing with anticipation.

  “Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”

  I tread over to his sound system and make a selection. A vintage compilation of Kenny G’s Greatest Hits. “Loving You” is first up. The sound of the saxophone is slow, smooth, and soothing. Pure perfection. On the way back to the table, I dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is just right for a sensuous massage. Or a sensuous fuck.

  “Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.

  “Yeah. More than ready.”

  “Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”

  “No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”

  Mr. Hot and Bossy. Ms. Hot and Bothered. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table before rubbing my palms to warm it.

  I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most tension. I press my strong, oiled-up hands on his taut flawless flesh and start to knead his muscles, making deep circular motions with my thumbs. My hands melt into his body.

  He curses under his breath. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I went to a special training school. I told you I’m a certified massage therapist.”

  “Mmm. What smells so good?”

  “The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.”

  As I continue to work his back, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and then lets it out with a sensual, drawn out sigh that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.

  “You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “A lot of reasons. The amnesia, the wedding, going back to work. Plus, I have some other major shit I’m dealing with. A crisis.”

  “You do have a lot stuff going on,” I agree, wondering what his personal crisis is all about. Something other than his amnesia-induced identity issue?

  Applying more pressure, I knead his knots, but they’re not loosening up. “You’re carrying a load of stress in your upper back. If it’s okay by you, I need to straddle you so I can go deeper.”

  “Be my guest.”

  As the next instrumental piece starts up, I climb onto the table and mount him, my legs straddling his narrow hips. It’s a good thing I’m wearing stretchy yoga pants. Not the most ass-flattering thing I own, but they’re comfy and functional.

  The sexy sound of the sax mingles with the soothing lavender scent of the massage oil as I press my fingers deep into his tissues and make circular motions. His skin feels like warm velvet and glistens from the sheen of the oil. My fingertips burn at the touch of his flesh. I’m working up a sweat. As I work him deeper and deeper, leaning into him and using my elbows, my breasts brush against his shimmering flesh. My nipples harden beneath my sports bra. His massage—or should I say my massage?—is arousing me, sending pulsing sensations to my sex. With every rock of my hips, the cluster of nerves between my legs rubs against him, buzzing with my hunger for him. I’m a hot, wet mess. I suppress a moan of my own while he groans.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He sounds like a man on the verge of a major orgasm. His low, sexy rumble rouses me further, creating a tremor of excitement in my core. Making my way down his chiseled back, I have the sudden impulse to drag my tongue along the curve of his spine and taste him, then press my lips against his delicious skin and kiss him everywhere. My body is burning with lust. It takes all I have to concentrate on the massage.

  “I feel so much better,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

  And I feel flush with fever. Delirious with desire. I’ve gotten out all his knots, but now I’m the one who’s tense, twisted, and on edge. Touching him has made me want to touch myself. And quell the pulsing ache between my thighs.

  “Should I turn over?”

  “Not yet,” I breathe out, trying to compose myself. “I want to massage your feet.”

  I unstraddle him—far from a graceful move—and stagger to the end of the massage table. My heated body is still aflutter. “Bend your right leg.”

  He complies wordlessly. After squirting more of the massage oil on my palms, I take his foot into my hands. Painfully aware of my body’s sensations, I admire the length and shape of it—so elegant and manly, and the skin is soft, not calloused. I dig my thumbs deep into the sole, pressing hard against various pressure points.

  He hisses.

  Good. He’s releasing stress. I rub and tug each of his beautiful toes. The truth: I’d rather be sucking them while bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm with one of my talented hands.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs while I squeeze his little toe.

  Silently, I repeat my motions with his other foot. His moans and groans grow louder, and he cusses again under his breath. Foot massage, formally called reflexology, is very powerful. It’s called reflexolo
gy because the nerves in your foot connect to all the nerves in your body. What you feel in your feet can be felt elsewhere. There’s even one spot that connects to your genitals. Women, in particular, have reported achieving orgasms when that trigger spot is massaged.

  I ask him to flip over. With a groan, he twists onto his back.

  Kenny G’s moving rendition of the Titanic theme song filters into my ears and my eyes widen. Make that pop out of their sockets. Holy smoke! His eyes closed, he’s got a Titanic erection. I underestimated it. It’s fucking monstrous! And it’s straining against his boxers, begging to burst through the slit. My breath catches in my throat; my heart beats like a jackrabbit’s. My pussy pulses madly. I’ve seen plenty of hard-ons, but nothing like this. I have a decision to make—let it sail or let it sink. I opt for neither.

  The melody of the haunting song plays on. I’ve forgotten how much this song affects me. Auntie Jo and Pops took me to see the epic movie with Jeffrey opening day for my tenth birthday. Little did they know it would end with a drowning. Like Mama’s. In the ocean no less. I bawled my eyes out and made myself sick. So sick I had to stay home from school the next day. The unsung lyrics play in my head:

  Every night in my dream

  I see you, I feel you.

  A surge of emotion overwhelms me. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of Mama. I think of him.

  My eyes stay locked on his colossal cock. I want to touch it. Hold it. Stroke it. Possess it. Fill the deep need that’s stealing my breath.

  Unable to control myself, my hand descends toward his mega erection. The heat of it, radiating right through the fabric of his boxers, draws me like a moth to a flame. I touch down lightly on it for a heart-stopping second. It stirs, and a soft, throaty “mmm” exits his lips. At the sound of the rumble, my hand jumps off as if it’s been singed. A twinge of guilt is followed by a twitch of his dick.

  “Brandon, we’re done.” I barely manage the words. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling is strangling me while the erotic sensations are debilitating me. I’m shaking all over, from my head to my toes. I can’t go on like this.