by C. M. Lally
I reach down and grip his hard-on, rubbing it through the cloth barrier between us. He shoves his shorts down and kicks them off to the floor. He’s not wearing any briefs; his penis springs free and I catch it in my hands rubbing and stroking it several times before caressing his balls. I need him in my mouth. I shimmy down the bed underneath him and place his dick in my mouth. He moans in pleasure as I suck on the crown. There is nothing sexier than a man that moans to the thrill of sex.
I run my tongue along the large vein that runs under his dick and take him into my mouth again, stroking his shaft as he thrusts into my mouth. I swallow as he presses back into my throat and he moans again, more deeply this time. His fingers pull on my nipples and I need to feel his mouth on me again. His dick pops out of my mouth, as he rolls us over carefully, paying close attention to my ankle. He helps me to my knees, trailing kisses down my back. His hands reach forward and rub my clit, swirling his wet fingertips over my swollen clit.
A packet rips behind me, and I turn my head watching him roll a condom onto his thick length. I’ve always found it sexy watching a man hold his own dick. Whether they are stroking it, adjusting it, or rolling on protection, it makes me wetter watching it.
He slaps his penis on my ass before sliding it into my pussy. I come on the spot. He grips my waist and thrusts several minutes before my legs start to shake. His fingers tweak my nipples and glide down my belly to pull my clit again. He places his fingers in my mouth to suck on, as he slides his hands back down to my clit again.
His fingers press and squeeze my labial lips, making them tighter against his dick as he thrusts in and out. “Jesus Cristo!”, I scream out in Portuguese, he feels amazing. My knees buckle and he wraps his arm around my waist holding me up and tighter to him. His fingertips trail down the center of my back and I come again screaming “Oh, Frank” as he approaches the sensitive skin around my anus. He rubs it gently while I climax.
A few moments later, he grunts loudly, gripping my waist tightly as he pounds into me while he comes. I reach back to touch his face and he presses his forehead against my back panting, then nuzzles into my neck again smelling what’s left of the honeysuckle. I feel his smile on my skin. “Olivia, you are amazing,” he whispers and kisses my cheek.
Chapter 17 – Frank
I roll over onto my stomach and catch a small ray of sunshine peeking through the corner of the blinds right into my eye. I squint and wish it away, eventually tossing a pillow at it. That makes it worse by opening up an even larger hole that now shines on my entire face. Burying my head in my arms, I remember that Isabella is in my bed, and I roll over to face her.
She’s gone. Sitting up and looking around the room, her clothes are not on the floor, but the bathroom light is on and the door is shut. I lay back down, waiting for her to finish her business. God damn, she was amazing last night. She felt like forever, and the walls around my heart cracked. Every inch of her was exquisite and soft, perfectly giving and taking in unison.
The last thing on my mind was making love to her. She surprised me. I closed the bar early to check on her when my calls weren’t answered. I wanted to apologize and I tried to give her time, but worry won out. I offered the last patron one free future bar bill if they’d leave right then. When I stood in the doorway to the den, I could tell she was sleeping so I grabbed a quick shower.
There aren’t any noises coming from the bathroom, so I get up to check on her. Tapping the door quietly, “Isabella, are you alright?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. I tap again without any reply. My hand twists the doorknob and it opens to an empty room.
I run through the house, yelling her name. The only reply is the echo of her name off the walls. Her crutches and purse are gone, along with the keys to her car. I don’t even have to check the driveway to know for sure. What the fuck happened?
I would fucking run to San Francisco if I thought I’d get a straight answer, and not some mixed bag of bullshit. She’s a stubborn one. Is this her thing? Is this what she does?
Fuuuck!
At least the cracks around my heart are just that, cracks and not giant fissures. I can cement them up again, and Bella’s actions certainly help. I make my way to the kitchen, stumbling through making some coffee. I pour it into my mug and see coffee grinds floating. Shit. What a fucking Monday this is starting out to be. Starting again, I clean the carafe and grinds from the machine before going through the familiar motions of making coffee. Hopefully right this time.
Maybe something came up and she had to go— some type of bride emergency. It happens. I’ve seen “Bridezilla”. Those bitches are crazy, and I can only imagine how they drive their wedding planner insane. She’ll probably call later to explain what happened when she can.
In the meantime, I have an alcohol delivery coming and I want to see about painting the restrooms before Aran’s wedding. They are quite shameful according to my sister and Jenna, and they should be better than that. After all, we have celebrities coming and that scares the shit out of me.
My usual quick day at work drags by today. Every hour feels like three or four. I keep checking my phone to make sure the volume is up or that I didn’t somehow miss her call or text, but nothing. My notifications are completely blank today.
I talk myself into messaging her several times, but when I pull her name up I chicken out, not wanting to bother her in an emergency. She has consumed my fucking thoughts today to the point where I was very short and rude to my sister over the paint swatches that she chose. I don’t give a shit what color she chooses for male and female for fuck’s sake, but for some reason, I told her to fucking choose and be done with it. Yeah, I’m an ass. I’ll call her tomorrow and apologize.
JEMFire comes in for band practice around 7:30 pm and helps me to pass the time. We sit and have a brief conversation about song choice since she likes to indulge me and keep me happy with a few heavy metal tracks. I secretly think she enjoys jumping around the stage and completely letting herself get lost in the song, but I won’t ever admit that out loud.
By the time they pack everything away and leave at 9:00 pm, my good mood is shot and my temper flares with every little thing that goes wrong. General server and bartender issues have me on Defcon five alert, and I’m ready to blow up at someone with one push of a mental button.
Why the hell hasn’t she called?
By 11:30 pm, I can’t take it anymore. I toss the spare keys to Derek and say, “Close down this motherfucker. I’m going home. And ask Cheryl to mop the fucking floor. For some reason, she likes to do that shit.” He nods in my direction but doesn’t say a word. Everyone is tiptoeing around my mood today and that’s why I give up. I can normally roll with the punches, but not.fucking.today.
Is she regretting our night together? She could be an adult and call me. We can work through this. The saying that ‘communication is a two-way street’ pops into my head and I shove it back with the hardest push I can manage. She left me, so shouldn’t she be the one to call first? I could call and play stupid. Well, there wouldn’t be much playing stupid to it, since I really don’t know why she left.
I plop down into the recliner and turn on the news. It doesn’t hold my attention, but just as I am about to turn the channel, a report comes on about an unidentified woman in a car wreck. I blast the volume to make sure I hear every word. At the end of the report is a number to call, and I dial the number faster than they finish saying it on air.
“Hello, District 27 Dispatch,” a very bored lady says on the other end of the line.
“Hello, I’m calling about the unidentified woman in the car wreck on Route 242,” I explain.
“Please hold,” she says before transferring me to another line. An automated waitlist begins running tell me that my call will be answered in approximately three minutes. How fucking frustrating when I’m already half out of my mind with worry.
“Missing persons, may I help you?” a man finally asks gruffly. It sounds like no one wants to be at work tod
ay.
“Yes, I’m calling about the Jane Doe in the car wreck today on Route 242. I just need to know if she was of Hispanic/Latino descent,” I say clearly, trying not to let my emotions get the better of me. Because right now, I could smash this phone against the wall.
“Hold, please. Let me see if we have that information,” he mumbles before the hold music starts. The entire sentence was strung together as one long word.
“Jesus Christ if I get put on hold one more time, I’m gonna lose it,” I yell out loud to no one. I hit the speaker on my phone and set it down before I throw it across the room.
After a few minutes, he comes back to the line. “Sir. Sir, are you there?” he asks.
I pick up my phone and reply, “Yes,” into the end with the speaker.
“We don’t have that information. Ethnicity isn’t noted,” he says.
“Well, do you have hair color? Or body function status?” I ask exasperated. I take a deep breathe, knowing I’m at my wits end here.
“What do you mean body function status?” he asks.
“Is her left ankle wrapped up like it’s injured? Were there crutches in the car?” I question, practically hollering into the microphone.
“Let me see,” he says. I can hear him breathing as he reads the report. He clears his throat several times, and I hear him take a drink of something. His fingers are tapping on a keyboard and a mouse clicks somewhere near the phone.
“Sir, I don’t see anything like that noted here, but it does say her hair color is a rainbow. I guess that means dyed multiple colors. Oh here, in parentheses it says pink, blue, green and purple,” he reads.
“Oh, thank god,” I exclaim. “It’s not her. Thank you.” I hang up feeling relieved but also pissed off. Now I know for sure— she’s ignoring me intentionally.
Who the fuck does that?
Chapter 18 – Isabella
Sixteen days. They’ve been the longest sixteen days of my life. My usual wedding and final checklists have kept me busy, but my mind keeps pushing him forward through the hectic and even the chaotic moments of my week. He’s just there, constantly burning a hole in my mind.
I am lost. I can’t even find the joy that I usually find in the weddings. Every task is just that, another task that needs to be performed, but this time it’s without any of the emotion behind it. I’m drained and empty on the subject matter, having fallen in love with him. I know it because I don’t recognize my restlessness and unwillingness to forgive him.
Aran called a few days back to confirm some things for the guest list. We got together to review her invitations that arrived and had a good laugh about my ankle. Although I didn’t tell her who I was with at the time, just that I was hiking. She explained how she and Kyle met with a special emphasis on her own ankle story. We declared ourselves ankle injury sisters. It’s nice to have a sister to confide in and laugh with. Their love story simply confirms that love, in the beginning, is tough, but communication is key to help it prevail.
Frank is unwilling to communicate. Too many years have passed for him to set his demons free. Instead, he lets them eat tiny little holes in his soul so that it can’t hold any love at all. I poured my heart out in the letter that I left on the piano, and he hasn’t responded.
There have been so many men in my life that I don’t think I could count them all. Not one of them has left a distinguishing mark on me like he has. His troubled lonely soul calls to me. I don’t want to fix him, just understand him and maybe help tame the sadness that emanates from him.
Frank is a manly man’s gentleman, knowing exactly what he wants and he isn’t willing to bargain for less, but he uses finesse to get what he wants. He isn’t too pushy or overbearing, but simply uses his mind and negotiating skills to make people see his plan is the right one. It’s been sixteen days, and I don’t get anything from him to explain what happened. I guess I’m not worth bargaining for.
My alarm goes off and I snooze it for a few more minutes. I have a wedding to get through, and I’m happy for the distraction to my thoughts. My ankle strain is healed, but today will be the true test— I’m going to wear my heels for the first time. I just pray I remain upright and don’t wobble or fall on anyone.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand and I look to see who it is, but it’s an unknown number. I swipe across the screen. I should let it go to voicemail, but I hate checking it.
“Hello, Isabella Asante,” I say.
“Oh, Hi, Isabella. I expected to get your voicemail this early. I’m sorry if I woke you. This is Jenna Bailey, Aran’s sister-in-law and matron of honor,” she says. “I apologize for calling so early but I have to make phone calls before my children’s screaming and incessant questions start for the day.”
“It’s no problem. I’ve been up. I have a wedding to run today,” I respond.
“Oh, okay. Well, I wanted to double check with you since I haven’t heard from you. I sent out an invitation to Aran’s bridal shower for next Sunday at the Beer and Brood, but you haven’t confirmed attendance. She will be very upset if you don’t come,” she confides. “She loves you like a sister and adores your friendship. Please say you are coming.”
I sit up further on the bed, fully awake at this point. The Beer and Brood. Why does it have to be there? I sigh heavily. Because it’s Knightsen and small towns are just that, wrung dry of usable facilities for parties so they recycle. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember getting it. My assistant could have it, but yes, I’ll be there. What time is it scheduled for?” I ask.
“Uncle Frank gave us the back deck from 3:00 - 5:00 pm as a private party. Is that okay?” she asks earnestly.
“Absolutely, I’ll be there. No worries,” I promise.
“Yay, just come in through the back deck entrance. There’s no need to walk all the way through the bar,” she instructs.
“Perfect. I’ll see you all then,” I say before hanging up. The price of friendship will be the ruination of my heart.
My alarm rings again, reminding me that I am pushing time and letting it get away from me. I throw back the covers to start my day, but first things first...I need coffee.
Thank God today’s wedding is in the city. I love to travel for my weddings, but it can be exhausting. Hopefully, parking is the only trouble I run into today. Downtown San Francisco and parking for several hundred guests at a time do not play nicely together, especially on a Saturday in the middle of summer and peak tourism.
Today’s event is the Tomzir wedding, and both the wedding and reception are being held at The Bentley Reserve, the historic Federal Reserve Building. It’s a beautifully unique building with great lighting and always makes for a gorgeous wedding. The event coordinator for The Bentley, Melissa Frazier, and I have successfully hosted several weddings together, and we get along very well. Today should be fairly easy— from my lips to God’s ears.
We set the guest and bridal party chairs last night, as well as the altar area for the officiant, bride, and groom. I love the color schematic for this wedding: copper, peach, and ivory. It matches the interior of The Bentley perfectly.
I text Melissa that I’m outside parking and within minutes, she meets me on the front steps.
“Are you excited about another Mel and Bell collaboration?’ she squeals, hugging me and chuckling at her joke.
“Yeah,” I reply, beaming my smile at her and readjusting my bags hanging from my shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “That sounded dull. You didn’t convince me like you normally do. Have you lost your fire for this crazy business?”
“Nah, I didn’t lose it. It was more like some man stole it,” I grumble.
“Ooh. That sounds like an interesting story that I’d love to hear,” she teases. “I knew you’d get bit by the love bug some day.” She hugs me again, and wraps her arm around my shoulder, escorting me inside the building.
We both pull the heavy doors open and enter the main banking hall. I drop my bags off my shoulders an
d stand in awe. The morning sun is filtering through the skylight windows, casting yellow rays on the citrine-colored marbled walls. It’s breathtaking.
“C’mon. We have work to do,” Melissa pulls on my arm bringing me out of my admiration for this old building. I gather my bags again and walk to her office. She hangs my suit in the closet and we begin the final stages of preparation for the Tomzir’s wedding.
Within a few hours, every vendor has completed their tasks, and the bridal party and groomsmen have arrived. Both are getting comfortable in separate boardrooms on opposite sides of the banking hall. Melissa and I get ready and then sneak up to the Mezzanine where the caterers are preparing the bar and cocktails. This is where the guests will come before the main reception occurs, and while the banking hall is being transformed for eating and dancing.
The bartender fixes us two white wine spritzers, and we take a seat overlooking the Embarcadero. It’s a gorgeous day for a wedding.
“So have you had this man arrested for stealing your joy?” she asks very seriously, making me laugh.
“No, the ball is in his court. It’s his turn to serve, while I wait patiently,” I lie. Patiently is not how this is playing out. I’m ready to throw a temper tantrum any three-year-old could take lessons from.
“And that’s the hardest part, I know,” she confides, sipping her drink. “I don’t understand men. The vast majority of women feel, then think, and maybe act depending on their personality. While men either think, act and then feel or others act, think and never feel, or at least never communicate their feelings if they have them.”
“Right. Don’t they know the feelings come first?” I ask in return. “I can’t be with someone if I don’t have feelings for them. There has to be at least a connection and that usually starts with a feeling.”