32. Adrian
CHAPTER 32
ADRIAN
What’s this pose called? Downward Facing Doggie Style? Hard as a Mountain? Cock Tease Dolphin?
I have no idea, but there is a very real chance I’m going to end up with the worst case of blue balls ever recorded by a groom on his wedding day. Yet the torture-by-arousal continues for what feels like hours. Finally, when Yoda is about to explode, Kevin says that he has all the pictures he needs.
Perfect. Is there time for me to swing by the honeymoon suite and take an ice bath?
Nope. The wedding planner rushes in, panting, and informs us that we’re late for our preparations for the grand entrance.
I grab Jane’s hand as we’re shepherded out of the room, and then we “prepare,” which was a euphemism for hearing a boring lecture and waiting. Finally, the DJ announces that Mr. and Mrs. Westfield are about to walk together for the first time, and we enter to loud cheers and smiles all around.
As we’re seated at our honorary spots—made to look like thrones, of course—I see Jane’s jaw drop. Ah. She’s noticed. It took some string pulling, but there they are—a few of the actors from the cast of Bridgerton , dressed in their outfits from the show.
Before Jane can recover, the DJ speaks up.
“And now, the newlyweds will have their first dance… the waltz.”
Blushing, Jane beams at me.
I stand up and extend my hand to her. Soon, much to Yoda’s discomfort, we begin to waltz.
“Did I mention this is like a fairytale wedding?” Jane whispers into my ear after a spin turn.
“Maybe once,” I whisper back, and it takes all my willpower not to nibble on her dainty earlobe.
“Well, it is,” she says. “When I get married for real, I’m not even going to bother with a ceremony because there’s no way it will compare. I’ll just head over to City Hall and call it a day.”
I hate the idea of her getting married to someone who isn’t me. What’s wrong with me? Whatever it is, it’s a major problem because on top of being jealous, I whisper, “The secret paparazzi are taking pictures. Would you mind another kiss for the cameras?”
What am I doing? I have no evidence that the paparazzi are actually taking pictures right now. It’s almost as if I’m trying to?—
Jane moistens her lips, blushes, and nods.
Fuck.
I lean in.
Jane rises on tiptoes.
The crowd goes silent.
We kiss. Just like the prior two times, it’s transcendent. Better than any sex I’ve had.
My time perception goes out the window. I have no idea how long I kiss her, exploring every silky crevice of her mouth, tasting the softness of her lips, inhaling her sweet-scented breath. It’s not until the waltz music stops and everyone claps thunderously that I snap out of the trance and rip myself away from Jane.
“Oh my,” Jane gasps. “I need a drink.”
“Great idea.” I lead her back to our thrones, pop a champagne bottle, and pour us each a flute.
“And now,” the DJ announces, “the best man will give a speech.”
Best man? I wonder who has the balls to claim?—
Of course.
Michael leaps to his feet.
I gulp down my flute, pour another, and repeat the process.
“I’d like to tell a story about how thoughtful Adrian is,” Michael says.
Fuck. Not this story again. I down another glass of champagne and refill Jane’s flute. Maybe if she’s buzzed, she won’t pay close attention to what’s coming.
“Back in our school days, we visited his room a lot,” Michael continues. “Which is how I found what I have since called The Notebook—though please don’t confuse it with the vomit-inducing movie by the same name. In The Notebook, Adrian kept careful records of the things the girls he dated liked and disliked.” He pulls out his phone. “I still have photos of the choiciest pages, and I’d like to share them with everyone, but especially Jane.”
As Michael proceeds, Jane leans in and whispers, “Is any of it true?”
I nod ruefully. “It’s the inventor in me, I guess. I always want the best way to get things done. The most efficient. The?—”
Loud laughter drowns my next words.
Of course. Michael has got to the point in the journal where I wrote my careful ruminations on the subject of anal sex.
To my huge relief, Warren snatches the microphone away from Michael.
“This man is an impostor,” Warren says. “I’m actually Adrian’s best man, which is why I have an even better story to tell.”
Fuck. What could he?—
Ah. He tells them about the time he challenged me to invent something original (omitting the part about us being stoned), and how I answered the challenge by working out a process to make fabric from the casein in cheese.
Jane raises an eyebrow.
“It’s true,” I say. “In fact, I made a t-shirt from a particularly stinky cheese and gave it to Warren as a gift.”
Jane laughs as Warren concludes the story with, “So now, if evil cows from space devour all the cotton in the world, thanks to Adrian, we can still wear socks.”
Before he can tell another anecdote, Bernard grabs the microphone, announces himself the true best man, and tells everyone that I was the inventor of the baby-mop onesie—a garment your toddler can wear as they crawl that cleans the floor at the same time.
“He plans to have Piper wear it.” He gestures at where my daughter is sitting on Georgiana’s lap. “But I say he’ll end up spending more money on the bills for her therapy than he could ever save on a cleaning lady.”
Jane furrows her brows.
“He made that up,” I say. “But I did once attach regular mops to his tracksuit when he was so drunk that he was crawling.”
She grins. “Drunk Idiot Mop Onesie?.”
Before Bernard can start telling another story, someone cuts the sound to the microphone.
Fucking finally.
“Let us all thank the best men,” the DJ says, imbuing the words with elephant-heavy sarcasm. “Now, please, go dance before it’s time to enjoy your favorite wedding breakfast dishes.”
Jane sighs. “Wedding breakfast is what they called the reception back in Victorian times.”
Hmm. If wedding breakfast isn’t literally a breakfast, Jane might mind some of the surprise dishes I’ve added to the main course, such as Eggs Benedict and French Toast.
The music starts playing, and it’s a club-like remix of the theme from Bridgerton .
“Want to dance?” Jane shyly asks.
Refuse this offer I cannot, which means suffer Yoda will.
Downing my champagne, I get on my feet and extend a hand to Jane. “My lady.”
She takes my hand. “Now that we’re married, we’re allowed to be less formal. Especially in private.”
“Great,” I say as I lead her to the middle of the dance floor. “I can finally call you Jelly Bean. Or would you prefer Janilla? Maybe J-Bone?”
“In that case, your nom de plume shall be Applesauce,” she says. “Or Rio. Or Adieu. Or Audrey. Or just Drey. Maybe even Dr. Drey?”
I twirl her. “You win. You’ll just be my Jane.”
“I like that.” Her cheeks turn pink. “And you’ll be my Adrian.”
Seriously, Yoda? That gets you going too?
As soon as the remix stops, a song by Céline Dion comes on, so we slow dance to that. Because I don’t have any excuse to kiss Jane at this point, I fight the weird urge to do so.
“Hungry?” I ask Jane a couple of songs later.
She bites one of her delectable lips. “Ravenous.”
Returning to the table, we sample the menu and find it all delicious.
Jane’s family comes over, with Piper still sitting on Georgiana’s hip and the bodyguard/nanny on their tail.
I kiss her cherubic cheek. Piper’s, that is.
“Can the little one spend the night with me?” Georgiana asks.
I nod. “So long as you’re willing to sleep in her nursery.”
Jane’s grandmother frowns. “At your place?”
“Correct.”
“Isn’t that where the wedding night is to take place?” Jane’s grandmother asks, her frown deepening.
“We have a honeymoon suite,” Jane says proudly. “In this hotel.”
“The honeymoon suite.” Jane’s grandmother gives me a disturbingly lascivious wink. “I hope it has a swing.”
She means a sex swing, right? Jane must think so too, because her cheeks deepen in color.
“A swing?” Mary asks curiously. “Why would the suite have?—”
“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Georgiana says sternly, then leads her mother away, none too gently.
"But seriously,” Mary demands. “What’s the swing for?”
Jane gulps down a champagne flute. “I’ll explain when you’re much, much older.”
“Eww, don’t,” Mary says. “I don’t want swings ruined for me, ever.”
As my little sister-in-law departs, the DJ announces that the cake is ready to be cut, so Jane and I head over to do the honors.
As per the tradition, I wrap my hand over Jane’s—and, not surprisingly, I want to forego eating the cake and eat something that promises to be even more sweet.
Jane’s pussy, in case that wasn’t clear.
But I can’t. For reasons. Good ones—even if I can’t exactly recall what they are.
With the cake officially cut, I lead Jane back to the table, and we all attack the dessert.
I’m almost done with my cake when Jane’s family comes back with Piper and her bodyguard.
“This was so much fun,” Georgiana says. “But it’s getting late, and the little one has been fussing.”
“She has?” I walk up to Piper and kiss her forehead. Though there’s a baby grin on her face now, I know she could fuss again at any moment, so I bid Georgiana and everyone a hearty goodbye. As soon as they leave, my fellow musketeers stop by and inform us that they’re heading out too.
“Your bedtime already?” I can’t help but snark at them.
“Burlesque show,” Warren says. “Unless you’re about to put one on here?”
I roll my eyes.
“Why do you care anyway?” Bernard asks me. “All you should be thinking of is the consummation of this marriage.”
Jane turns beet red.
“Unless you already did it,” Michael chimes in. “After the picture taking?”
Did I say beet? Make that red wine.
“Have fun at the alleged Burlesque show,” I tell them and switch my attention to the next person who is about to say goodbye.
Very soon, the party is over, with the likely journalist spies as the only people remaining.
Well, then, here’s something for them to write about.
Standing up, I shout, “Okay, everyone! We’re headed to the honeymoon suite.”
With that, I pick up Jane in a bridal carry, and as people clap, I triumphantly stride out of the room.