1. Warren
1
WARREN
My god, I really hate weddings.
It’s not the ‘promising eternal love’ that I can’t stand, though I suppose it would be on brand for a man like me to hate weddings for some stereotypical reason. Like maybe if I were someone who genuinely enjoyed playing the field and sowing my oats all over town. Or even if I was a commitment-phobe with deep-seated mommy issues, then my disdain for weddings would be more palatable, or at the very least, more understandable.
But those things don’t ring true for me. I’m not the guy who swears he’ll never settle down while making tacky ball-and-chain jokes during cocktail hour. My dislike for this specific kind of affair is simple.
Weddings are a masterclass in reminding a person that they are utterly alone, and every other person in the room knows it, too .
Even if you bring a date, it's impossible to ignore the 'when are you going to settle down?' or the 'hey, the right person is just around the corner!' placating from well-meaning acquaintances and strangers alike. It's not like I can blurt out “I’m not dating anyone because the only person who’s piqued my interest for far too long is twenty years younger than me and so far out of my league, we don't even exist in the same universe!”
These days, I only RSVP ‘yes’ to someone’s wedding when decorum and common human decency requires it. Unfortunately for me, common human decency stepped up and overrode my desire to sit on my couch and watch competitive baking shows. A long-time colleague and friend of mine—someone who, just a few short years ago actually was the stereotypical, perpetually single rich bachelor—was married tonight under the setting San Francisco sun. I was determined to be a stoic crab during the ceremony, but when James Adler turned to see his bride coming down the aisle and ran to meet her halfway with a searing kiss, my emotional walls came crumbling down. I've known the man for nearly a decade and seeing that emotionally closed off person turn into a sack of goo for the woman he loves had me sniffling and trying to play it off like I'd caught a bit of dust in my eye.
Even now, when the dinner plates have been cleared, and the reception has begun in earnest, I can't help the smile on my face as I watch the two lovebirds sing a dorky version of Elvis karaoke on the stage at the edge of the dance floor. I've been to a lot of weddings, and exactly none of them have had karaoke as an entertainment option.
As the groom's sister and sister-in-law sing an out of tune version of Sophie B. Hawkins' “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover”, two blondes in rose-colored dresses slide up to the bar. Xander the bartender is busy shaking a martini, so the shorter woman with the wild curly hair reaches over the bar top and helps herself to a bottle of champagne. I go perfectly still, like if I don’t make a move, she won’t be able to see me standing here.
"I'm just saying, it's a little old school and not in a cool, retro way," she says as she pops the cork on the bottle of Cristal and winks at Xander. He blushes, clearly charmed by this woman who bypassed his job in her pursuit of booze. I can't say I blame him. Her aura is nothing short of enchanting.
"No one said you have to go up there and sing, Keeks," her friend says as she takes the bottle and tilts it to her lips.
"Oh no, not singing would be against The Pussy Posse Code of Conduct. If one of us publicly humiliates ourselves, we must all publicly humiliate ourselves. It's part of the blood oath you all signed when I started the group chat."
The women laugh as they walk away, and I stand like a stunned trapped animal. I’m unable to move, to think, to fucking breathe. I've found myself in close proximity with that little loud woman a few times before, and every time she’s the same effect on me. One look at Kira McKenna's bouncy blonde curls, her mysterious, stormy gray eyes, and those curvy hips and toned legs that go one for miles and I'm no better than a frightened mouse in front of a hungry tomcat.
This is simply ridiculous. I am not a shy person. I am suave. I am debonair. I once asked Jennifer Aniston out on a date in Cannes, for fuck’s sake.
She said no, but that’s neither here nor there.
There is no reason for me to find myself tongue-tied in front of a gorgeous woman.
And yet, each time I’ve found myself in Kira’s presence, I’m frozen. So instead of letting on that I’m an awestruck fool, I act indifferent and hope that no one catches on to the glances I sneak in her direction.
Feigning a lack of interest in Kira McKenna is a skill that I have honed to near expert-like precision over the last few months, because avoidance is a lot easier than admitting the truth to myself.
That truth being that I'm a sick, sick man with a teenage-like crush on a woman nearly twenty years my junior. I’ve never been that person. I’m not the old man in the corner leering at the youngest women in the room. I’m not the guy who casts aside a partner just to trade up to a younger model. I’ve always been attracted to maturity, intelligence, and a person’s ability to hold a conversation with me. That’s not to say someone younger than me couldn’t also fit those parameters, but youth isn’t something I’ve ever sought out .
Setting aside the fact that I’m old enough to be her father, I haven’t been able to allow myself to enter her orbit. How can I be trusted to introduce myself to her when I can't promise that the first words out of my mouth wouldn't be 'You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. I have daydreams about running my fingers through your hair. You look like you taste like candy and if you wanted to sit on my face, I'd gladly let you smother me to death.'
I sit back and observe Kira McKenna from a distance. I watch her cross the dance floor to the stage, lighting up the space with her dazzling figure and sparkling energy. She tips the bottle of Cristal to her lips, and I suck in a breath. A myriad of filthy thoughts threaten to take over my brain as she sets the bottle off to the side, leaving a ring of bright pink lipstick on the glass. Taking the microphone in hand, she spins in a circle. The skirt of her dress catches the breeze, floating up and giving everyone in the crowd a peek at her tight, sculpted quads. She slips her feet out of her high heels and kicks them off the edge of the stage as the band plays the opening notes of one of my favorite eighties pop songs.
Kira parts her lips to belt the opening lyric and I hum in appreciation. Even though her singing voice leaves something to be desired, there is no denying my attraction. She puts Aphrodite to shame.
I chuckle into my highball glass as wedding guests whoop and cheer at Kira's cheeky lyrical updates to the classic Bangles tune. I laugh out loud when she switches up my favorite line.
“I was kissing Travis Kelce by a crystal blue Italian stream.”
She continues the song with a gusto usually reserved for Broadway hopefuls at their first auditions, and I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her. Kira has an exuberant aura surrounding her as she sings, dances, and air guitars her way through the bridge. She shimmies and a strap slides down one of her gorgeous, smooth shoulders that somehow look powerful and delicate at the same time. Shoulders that I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time dreaming about running my hands over. The slip of the strap causes her dress to shift just slightly, and the sexy neckline dips closer and closer to indecent. Kira, of course, makes the near-wardrobe malfunction look tasteful and flirty. She turns slightly, pulling the strap back into place while winking and blowing a kiss to her audience. The woman's confidence is palpable and sexy as hell. She holds the last note like Celine Dion doing an encore in Vegas and then flips her wild hair over as she gives the crowd an over-the-top courtesy. I drain the remaining scotch from my glass and turn back to the bar, knowing full well that the three-minute performance will play on a loop in my head as I try to sleep tonight.
Xander slides water in front of me, fulfilling my request to switch up my scotch for water between each drink. I wonder if it's too soon to think about the cake and how I will most definitely be taking some home to eat in bed later.
Then I feel a ball of energy vibrating at my side.
"Are you going to wait for me to serve you this time?" Xander asks. I furrow my brow before I realize the question wasn't posed to me.
"That depends, Xandy. Are you gonna pay more attention to me? You're making a girl feel desperate over here."
"You are trouble, woman." Xander chuckles as he pours champagne into a crystal flute. I look to see the object of all my inappropriate affections leaning against the bar at my side, chin in hand and a shit-eating grin on her face. Kira winks as she takes the drink, then turns and leans back against the bar before taking a sip. I slide a finger over the rim of my glass as my nerves fire on all cylinders.
I have three options here. I can stand here quietly continuing my self-appointed role of leaning against the bar to keep it standing and hoping like hell Kira doesn’t try to make small talk. I can just walk away. It wouldn’t be rude. It’s not like I’d be leaving a conversation. We’d just be two strangers passing in the night, and I can find another perch somewhere under this tent to covertly watch her out of the corner of my eye. Or, I could put on my big boy pants and say hello to the woman sipping champagne next to me, completely unaware of my wandering eye and the mental gymnastics I’ve been performing in my head since the first time I spotted her .
I take a deep breath and give myself a mental pep talk. I can do this. I can turn around and say hello.I am a grown man. I manage billion-dollar deals before breakfast. I know damn well how to hold a conversation with someone, even when that someone is a person I am wildly attracted to. I am Warren Robert mother fucking Yates and I do not get flustered around pretty women.
I turn and mimic her position, leaning against the bar with one elbow and a glass in my other hand. There's only a handful of inches separating us, but Kira doesn't glance at me. Alright, looks like I’m going to have to use my words.
I whistle low under my breath and then speak.
"So, Travis Kelce, huh?” I ask, and the moment Kira turns those stormy gray eyes on me, I feel my body melting like an ice cream cone. Fuck, if just the privilege of her attention has this effect on me, I can’t imagine the putty her touch would turn me into. She smirks and turns her body so that she’s facing me ever so slightly.
“What can I say? I have a thing for beefy, athletic types,” she answers with a cocky shrug of her shoulder.
“Is that so?” I ask, bringing my fresh scotch to my lips.
“No, not at all. I was a cheerleader growing up, plus my dad and my brother both play pro football. I’ve spent enough time around athletes to know that, as a group, they make me gag. Travis is the only exception. Oh, and his brother, too. ”
Her tone is playful and inviting, and it gives me a boost of confidence that I wasn’t expecting. It seems now that the bandage has been torn off, maybe the cogs in my brain have finally stopped turning and I can simply chat with Kira.
“Interesting. From what I’ve heard, Mr. Kelce’s type is athletic blondes,” I reach out and touch her hair, surprising myself with the move. A moment ago, I was considering bolting across the room to avoid making eye contact with this woman, and now I’ve got one of her soft, honey blonde curls wrapped around my index finger. It feels like silk, and I have to hold in an honest to god whimper. “But typically, ones who can carry a tune.”
She swats my hand away, but I can see the smile she’s trying to suppress behind her annoyed grimace.
“That’s infuriating, you know.”
“What’s infuriating?” I ask, and she gestures up and down my body.
“That. All of that paired with that damn adorable accent that makes your oh-so-rude-insult sound like a whispered sweet nothing.”
“Would you like me to whisper my insults in your ear next time?” I tease. Long gone are the nerves that prevented me from approaching her in the past. Instead, they’re replaced by the indescribable high of Kira McKenna calling me adorable.
Well, she called my accent adorable. But a win is a win .
“Something tells me if there was ever a next time –” she purrs, emphasizing the words with a waggle of her eyebrows, “You wouldn’t be able to contain yourself to a whisper.”
A growl rumbles low in my chest, and I’m tempted. My god, I am so fucking tempted to skip the small talk and beg her to come home with me tonight. It’s been so long since I’ve had a torrid, one-night affair that even the mere insinuation of something naughty has my cock taking notice. If I were a better man, I’d never admit to having fantasized about bedding the woman in front of me. But I’m not a better man. I’ve had plenty of fantasies, and she’s right. In my imagination, she’s left me ravished time and time again. In real life? I wouldn’t stand a chance.
I don’t have it in me to refute her claim. I haven’t forgotten that until two minutes ago, I was a complete mess. This bout of cocky, self-assured confidence could be nothing more than fool’s gold.For now, I’m content to just exist in Kira McKenna’s orbit, happily accepting any scraps she’s generous enough to toss my way.
“You’re a cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” I ask, and she laughs, shaking her head.
“Oh, SSF, you have no idea.”
“SSF? You want to tell me what that stands for?”
“Probably not.” She sets her half-empty flute of champagne down on the bar and holds up a hand for me to shake. “McKenna. Kira McKenna.”
She winks, amused with her own James Bond impression. I take her hand in mine, giving it a firm shake and cataloging the velvety smooth skin of her palm in my memory bank. It’s certainly a feeling I’ll want to remember, to recall when I’m alone in my bed with only my thoughts and the memory of her skin on mine to keep me warm.
“Yates. Warren Yates.”
“Warren. Nice name, I like it.”
She drops my hand, and I want to grab it back. But this time, I’d like to interlock my fingers with hers.
“And I like yours. Can I buy you a free drink, Kira?” I ask, gesturing to her nearly empty champagne. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at the flesh that’s been painted the prettiest shade of pink. Her eyes dart from the glass in her hand, to the dance floor, then back at me. She looks contemplative, like I asked her to recite Pi to a hundred digits instead of continuing our flirty back and forth. My nerves return, bubbling in my core like a pot of simmering water and I’m about to retract my offer of sharing a drink with her when she shakes her head and smiles.
“Why the hell not, Ren?”
Ren.
No one has ever called me Ren before. I didn’t even think ‘Warren’ was the kind of name a person could shorten into a nickname. It’s just Warren. Nothing special.
But fuck. Just like that, I’m Ren. This woman has marked me. Shortened my name, made it her own. ‘ Ren’ sounds so sweet on Kira’s tongue. I briefly let myself think it would taste even better. I clear my throat, shaking away the incessant butterflies flapping away in my core.
Lifting a finger, I signal for Xander. He swings by to top off Kira’s champagne and I request a finger of Macallan.
“So, Kira McKenna, how do you know the bride and groom?” I ask, though I know the answer. I figured it out the first time I saw her at the housewarming turned engagement party James hosted at his penthouse back in autumn. Xander places our drinks on the bar top, and Kira tips her glass to me. I meet her halfway, clinking the flute with my tumbler before lifting it to my lips.
“Georgie is my best friend. Well, one of them anyway. There’s four of us in The Pussy Posse–Georgie, Dottie, Rachel and me. Georgie is our newest recruit, but she fits us like a glove. I’m only slightly bitter that James came along and stole her heart away, but I love seeing her happy.” She sighs dreamily as she gazes towards the dance floor, where James kisses his bride like there’s no one else in the room.
“Okay, I have a feeling I’m going to regret asking this, but what the hell is a–” I stutter, waving a hand between us instead of repeating the deliciously vulgar word. “What you just said. Is that anything like SSF?”
She laughs with her entire body. Her head shakes, her chest trembles. Her mouth drops open, showing off pearly white teeth. The loud cackle cuts through the air, overpowering the sounds of the band and the party. Her laugh is full and loud. It's carefree. It is single-handedly the best sound I have ever heard.
“They’re similar, for sure,” she says through her giggles. “I believe that people and things need codenames. Preferably ridiculous ones that you might not want to repeat in polite company. Something silly enough that people outside of the know would be embarrassed to repeat it. SSF is my codename for you, Ren.”
“And your codename for your girlfriends is the–” I cough, choking on the naughty word. “Pussy Posse?”
I feel my cheeks go pink, and Kira cuts me with a devious little smirk.
“Oh, you poor man. It just killed you to say the p-word, didn’t it? Do you prefer to keep the taboo nicknames for female genitalia in the bedroom, Ren? Or would I find you to be just as shy in there, too?” She reaches out and toys with a button on my shirt as she calls me out. My head spins. Her light touch, the suggestion of the bedroom, the suggestion that she might join me in said bedroom? It’s turning me topsy-turvy with lust. I shudder, and I know she clocks it because her smirk grows into a wicked grin.
I can’t let her get the upper hand so easily, though. Clearing my throat, I channel all my sexual prowess and lean in, brushing my lips against her ear.
“If you got me into the bedroom, you’d find I am anything but shy. You might also find that I have no problems uttering all sorts of naughty words, in the right setting.”
This time, Kira is left shuddering. Her chest flushes the same shade of pink as her dress. Seeing the effect my words have on her body sends a thrill running through my own. I lift my scotch to my lips, sipping as though I am completely unaffected by her.
Kira blinks as though she’s bringing herself back to the moment. It’s as if I’d momentarily sent her soaring somewhere else.
I’d love to send her soaring somewhere, that’s for sure.
The music speeds up to something punchy, a cover of some pop song I can’t quite recognize without lyrics. Kira hitches a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing towards the dance floor.
“Come dance with me.”
Kira walks backward, crooking her finger in a ‘come hither’ movement. It’s not a question. It’s not even a demand, really. It’s a simple statement–come dance with me–said like she knows I’ll follow her.
She’s right, I will.
“As you wish, Miss McKenna,” I say as I set my nearly full glass down on the bar top and follow her to the center of the floor. We find ourselves in the center of the throngs of partygoers, and Kira throws her handsoverheadd, wriggling her hips to the beat of the music .
“Show me what you got, SSF!” She says, twirling and tossing her hair from side to side. Now, I’m not much of a fast song kind of dancer. I can waltz like nobody’s business, but I was never a club-going kind of person. I haven’t perfected the art of the fist pump or the bump and grind. Thankfully, this tune is one that lends itself to a little shimmy of the hips, which I can manage perfectly well. Timing the gyrations of my pelvis to Kira’s more skilled steps, I allow myself to fall into the flow of it.
“SSF, Ren. You play it fast and loose with the nicknames, don’t you?”
“What can I say? Assigning nicknames is one of my many superpowers,” she winks then turns her back to me, giving me a perfect view of that pink dress hugging the curve of her ass. The hemline hits right at mid-thigh, and when she jumps to the bridge of the song, I’m mesmerized by the way her muscled legs flex and strain against the fabric.
There is most definitely something positive to be said for a woman who looks like she’s strong enough to crush your skull between her thighs.
I join in, jumping in time to the music, and then I really get into it. I jump and I jiggle, I wiggle, and I thrust. I whip my head around, allowing my hair to fall out of place. Beads of sweat form on my forehead, and I slide my navy blue sports coat off my shoulders and fling it to the edge of the dance floor. I know I must look ridiculous, the oldest man in a group of young people getting their groove on to Taylor Swift, but I don’t care. How could I when Kira’s grey eyes sparkle as she watches me get into the groove.
The band draws out the closing notes of the tune, and Kira playfully pushes at my chest.
“You’ve got some moves, Ren!” She exclaims, and I preen like a peacock. Especially because her hand is still on my chest, fingers splayed out like she’s mapping me. The band picks up, this time opting for a slower, more melodic tune. This time, my ears immediately pick up on the swoony Ed Sheeran cover. The guy’s work is a staple at any wedding reception worth its salt.
“You’ve been watching me.” Kira says, leaning in slightly. The heat of her palm on my chest sears me through my dress shirt, and I want more of it. I want to know what every inch of her feels like pressed against me. I cover her hand with mine. Her eyes slowly work their way down, landing on the spot where my heart beats under our joined hands.
“I have,” I say softly as I curl my fingers around hers. There’s no point in lying. I watch as her tongue peeks out between her lips, swiping over the bottom one before she looks back up to me.
A beat passes, and then another, and just when I think she’s going to refute me, she nods once.
“I’ve been watching you too, Ren.”
Ren.
My new favorite word.
And with that, I step back, putting a foot of distance between us so that I can spin Kira around once before pulling her close for a slow dance. One hand finds purchase on the small of her back and the other intertwines with one of hers. Her free hand travels up to my shoulder, then to my neck, and she trails her fingertips along my hairline. We fall into a simple rhythm. I lead; she follows. I dip her and she goes willingly, her honey blonde hair cascading behind her like a waterfall I’m desperate to sink into.
I squeeze her palm in mine, and she squeezes back. Ed Sheeran’s tune fades out and is replaced by an Elton John song played by the pianist, and Kira doesn’t stop dancing. We don’t talk. I look at her, truly taking my fill now that I’m not the man watching from the corner, but the man who has her attention. Up close, I can see the light dusting of freckles that adorn the bridge of her nose, accenting the tiny diamond stud resting on the left side. There’s a tiny scar above her eye, almost hidden under her dark brown eyebrow. I want to ask her where she got it, if she fell off her bicycle or maybe in a scrap with a schoolyard bully.
And her eyes. They’re not just grey. They’re a cascade of colors, like the morning sky at dawn. Stormy around the edges with crystals of blue and green, a promise of the day to come. They’re captivating. Two mesmerizing pools as dark and mysterious as the San Francisco fog, and right now, they’re focused only on me.
The urge to lean in is strong. I want to bring my face closer to hers. Want to inhale the scent of her skin. Want to taste the bow of her upper lip.
“Do you like what you see?” she asks, breaking the simmering tension of silence that we’ve found ourselves in. I nearly laugh at the absurdity of the question. Do I like what I see? I’m enchanted by it. Haven’t been able to think of much else other than the curve of her hips or the crinkles by the corners of her eyes in weeks. I’m a fucking awestruck fool.
“What do you think, Kira?” I murmur, inching my lips closer and closer to hers. I want to take them, taste them, claim them, but I won’t until I get her consent. I’m sure it’s coming. There’s electricity here. I knew there would be, if only I could pull myself from my lurking corner and talk to her. An undeniable chemistry pulses between us, and I know she must feel it. Her eyes are falling closed, her hand presses to my chest, her lips are so close to mine, I swear I can feel the atoms vibrating between us.I tilt my head, closing the distance between us and putting an end to the sweet, sweet agony of not knowing what she tastes like. Just as my mouth brushes hers, I feel her smile against my lips. Slowly, she pulls back from me. I lose her mouth but gain her fingers slipping between the buttons of my dress shirt, lightly caressing my bare skin. I’ve never been so happy to have not worn an undershirt.
“Hmm, I think you might be a bit enchanted by me, SSF.”
“You’re a pest,” I hum, neither confirming nor denying her completely true accusation. “Am I meant to guess what SSF stands for? Why haven’t you told me?”
“Because that would be too easy. You think just because you’ve got the whole ‘sexy silver fox’ thing going on I’m going to just bend to your will like a good little girl?” She gives me a sly smirk, and I shiver.
“SSF…sexy silver fox, hmm? That’s a bit of a misnomer, don’t you think? I’ve only got a few streaks of grey.” My eyes glance upwards, as if trying to spot the hair on my head.
“That’s true. But ‘Sexy Business Guy In The Tight Pants Who Looks And Sounds Like A Dead Ringer For Mr. Sheffield From The Nanny’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, and I didn’t know your name until a few minutes ago.”
I chuckle, and Kira’s cheeks turn a beautiful rosy color.
“You make a good point. Besides, I think if I keep spending time with you it won’t be long till my entire head is white as a ghost,” I lean in, brushing my lips against the shell of her ear as I whisper to her.
“I tend to have that effect on people. How do you feel about sneaking away for a bit, Ren?” She purrs, caressing my chest with her long, pink nails. I pull back to see her grey eyes have gone stormy, almost black as they roam over my face.
I swallow hard. Her intent is clear as day, and the speed at which my cock thickens behind my zipper makes me lightheaded .
I shouldn’t do this. I’m twenty years older than her. We’re in the middle of our mutual friend’s wedding reception. There are a million reasons I should say no.
But then Kira leans forward and presses her lips to mine again, more insistent this time. I taste champagne and the sweet flavor of her lip gloss, and the thin band of myself restraint snaps.
“Lead the way, love.”