Ambrosia (A Flowering Novella) (14 page)

“Shit.” Jack laughs. “We’re in trouble.”

“I told you we would be,” I remind him.

I text my mom that we just needed some air and we went for a walk and we’re on our way back now. Apparently, she wants the nighttime pictures. I didn’t know that was a thing, but she’s agitated that we haven’t taken them.

When we get back, I wipe all the leftover sand from the seats. Dave and Alana are dropping us off at the hotel and then we’re taking a shuttle to the airport. “You left the luggage in the trunk?” I ask Jack, realizing I don’t know if we’re ready to go.

“Yes, princess. Everything is packed.”

“I have a bag in my parents’ car, too,” I tell him. “For tonight.”

“Okay, we’ll take care of it.”

The moment is gone and we are back to the lists and the obligations. As I get ready to leave the car, Jack pulls on my arm and brings me back into the passenger seat. “Just another minute?” he asks.

“We can’t,” I say. “My mom is already in a panic.”

“Well, at least we’ll have a lot of pictures,” he teases.

“Right. I feel like I’m not going to remember much from today. Except the last half hour or so.”

He turns off the car and gets out and we walk back into the castle, where my mom is pacing. Before we approach her and the photographer, I stop Jack and kiss him quickly, whispering, “I really can’t wait to scream your name tonight.”

I
t’s a good thing we just had sex, because after that comment, I can feel the excitement growing, but I contain it before we have a shit ton of pictures of me with an erect dick. I feel like that wouldn’t really be what Mrs. Drummond was thinking.

“Where have you been?” she asks us, but fortunately, she doesn’t give us time to respond before leading us back outside for pictures. We spend almost an hour taking pictures and then we’re back under strict instructions.

“You have fifteen minutes to socialize and maybe dance. Then, I need you to get ready to leave. I’ll have your father talk to... Dave, is it?” I nod to confirm and she continues. “He’ll get your bag in the car. We’ll pack up the gifts and your father will pick you up at the airport when you get back from Paris and bring them. I have the thank you cards ready and labeled, so you just need to complete them when you get back. Also...”

She goes on and I stop listening. I just stare at Lily, nodding up and down to her mom’s requests. I’m glad we’re leaving soon. Yes, her comment did something, but as much as I’ve teased her, I also want to spend time with her. Just her, enjoying her, and trying to remember some of this. I know I won’t remember much. I know years will pass and I’ll try and we’ll have the pictures, but it’s not the same as standing next to her, my bride and my wife. I want to capture this moment forever.

By the time we are ready to say goodbye, I feel like I haven’t even seen Alana or Dave. Almost everyone else here is part of Lily’s family or her parents’ friends. We didn’t care. We don’t have a lot of people we’re close to, except the people in the wedding party and their significant others. I say bye to them all, except Alana and Dave, who wait by the doorway. The DJ plays a slow song so we can dance our way out, I guess, but Lily just hugs me and drags me by the hand outside with Alana and Dave in tow.

“First,” she says in the backseat on our way to the hotel, “pajamas. My feet are killing me.”

I don’t say a word, but she’s not getting comfortable or sleeping or doing anything for a while. She’ll find out soon enough.

“Are you guys staying in the same hotel?” I ask Dave and Alana.

“No, we’re headed home. When you guys get back, we’ll talk more, but we’re going to see about buying a house with what I’ve got saved up, get that marriage license, and have some kids, I guess. You know – the typical.”

Nothing about any of us is typical, but I’m happy for them. And for me and Lily. Lily, who locks herself in the bathroom as soon as we get to the suite to change and shower, which is beyond disappointing.

I take off my tux and watch TV while she’s in the bathroom. I register the water turning off, but it’s quiet for a bit until she opens the door.

“Hi,” she says. She stands in the doorway in a short, silky white nightshirt and she has her hair up in a ponytail, still wet. I can smell her shampoo from the bed – strawberries, of course.

“So, I was wondering...” She walks closer and I turn off the TV, watching the silk brush her perfect legs as she moves. “What exactly does one do on her wedding night?”

I stand up. “Hold on,” I say and go to open the door. “Come here.”

She looks at me with the questions on her face, but she does what I ask. I grab her, step out into the hall, and then carry her back into the room. “Step one,” I tell her. Bringing her to the bed, I lay her down, lifting the nightshirt. She’s not wearing anything underneath. I step out of my boxers, but I don’t touch her yet. I just take her in, all of her so perfect and so mine.

“You are so fucking amazing.”

She unbuttons the nightshirt and I lie above her, kissing her from her toes to her ankles, up her calves and along her knees and up her thighs. I pause for a moment, blowing a little air onto her, but not touching her and she shivers. Tracing the places my lips just touched, I run my hands along her, staying away from the area between her legs. I kiss and touch along her stomach, her breasts, her collarbone. She doesn’t move, but she does say my name, and I kiss her, deeply and slowly, tasting her and letting the smell of strawberries remind me of every step it took to get here. That cup of coffee, the night in the bar, New Year’s, the hospital – all of the ups and downs along the way, but tonight, it’s all about now.

“I can’t believe you’re my wife. My
wife
,” I repeat, testing the word. It still feels unfamiliar.

“I love you, Jack. Let me show you,” she pleads.

“I think you said something about screaming my name,” I remind her.

“My husband’s name,” she says and smiles. “I was lying earlier. I’m not tired. I want you. I want this. Please?”

I am more than happy to say yes, but she cuts off the word with her mouth.

J
ack moves inside of me slowly and I am exhausted, despite what I said, but he feels so good. I stare up at him, at his chest moving with his breathing, at his hair falling into his eyes as he thrusts, and at that spot by his hips that is just too sexy not to stare at. He slips in and out, filling me, but it’s different than it’s ever been. I don’t know how one day or one word can make such a difference, but it does. As he moves on top of me and looks down at me, with his eyes glowing, I smile.

“Scream for me, Lily,” he says. “Let me make you come. It’s just us. No one else is here. You can let go.”

Months of stress, of planning, have brought us to tonight and that is exactly what I want. I want to let go, to be present. So much of today felt like I was observing and this is something I want to experience. I watch him, trying to memorize how he moves and how he feels. He touches me everywhere, sending my nerves into chaos. He’s trying to draw it out, to make me give in to him.

“I have an idea,” I suggest.

I adjust and we move so he’s sitting on the end of the bed and I’m on his lap, with my legs wrapped around him. From this angle, he reaches deep into me and I lean back, taking more of him in and feeling him throbbing. He holds me up and I lean further, until I am nearly parallel with the floor. His hands are strong and he makes me feel safe, so I lie back, floating, and I tighten my legs around his waist.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. I love your voice.”

“Do you want me to tell you how good you feel?” I ask.

“If you’d like,” he says, sighing, delaying his own pleasure to make sure I come.

“I need this, Jack. I feel like I don’t want to lose myself yet, because I want to feel you like this all night. I can feel you throughout my body. How do
I
feel?”

“Oh, fuck. Don’t you know, princess? You are incredible. Please... stop thinking about me. Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need. I just want to see your face when I make you come.”

“Okay,” I say, and I stop holding back. I bounce up and down, faster on top of him, trusting him not to let me fall, and he grows bigger, filling me more. I dig my heels into his back as it starts.

“Lily,” he moans.

I sit up and push him back, beginning to ride him in earnest. He reaches up, cupping my breasts and letting me move faster on top of him, demanding my orgasm. I squeeze my thighs closed until I can’t feel anything but him. He holds my hips and I start to lose control, making sure it doesn’t stop, that his pace isn’t slowed, that the finish isn’t anything less than complete.

As the orgasm builds, I look down at him and his eyes are dark and focused. I lift him up and let him roll me over, so he can take from me, and he holds my legs apart, reaching deep. I know it’s happening, as does he. Because he is in control now, I can’t slow it and it nearly destroys me. I feel it in every nerve, every limb. All the pressure, all the checklists, all of everything was so worth it to be married to Jack – and I breathe in, holding it while it takes over my body.

“Fuck, Jack. Jack!” I scream, as promised, and my body shudders. Jack doesn’t slow or stop and it happens again and again. It’s raw and dirty and sweet and sexy and it’s the first real full mind-blowing orgasm I have as his wife, although I know that it will not be my last. After, I feel like I am melting below him as he has his own.

Jack stands and cleans himself off and brings over a towel to help me. Then he dresses me back in my nightshirt and kisses me, holding me close and pressing the silky fabric to my body. I look over to where my wedding dress is draped over a settee and smile as I fall asleep in his arms. Everything is finally complete.

T
wo weeks in Paris is relaxing, although we get up early almost every day and stay out late. We try to see everything, including a few day trips up to Normandy and to Monet’s house at Giverny. I convince Lily to go to Disney one afternoon, because it seems apropos for my princess. The best afternoon we have, though, is today – at the Musée d’Orsay.

We take plenty of pictures of Renoir’s work for Alana, whom I text while we are standing by one of his paintings. We’ve been enjoying nonstop art and culture and sightseeing, but the Orsay is different. Converted from a train station, it is wide open in the center, with small galleries on both sides. Each room is more impressive than the last.

“It seems a little unfair, doesn’t it?” I ask Lily.

“What does?”

“This one building, in this one city, gets to have all this.” I gesture to the room around me, which is full of works by Monet.

“This entire city is amazing,” she agrees.

“I like this traveling thing. We should do more of it.”

We keep walking through the museum and come into a room featuring works by Van Gogh. “I really admire him,” I tell her, amazed that I am standing this close to something so important.

“Yeah? I didn’t know that. How did I not know that?” Lily asks.

“Well, it’s not like we had a checklist of our favorite things.” I look at her. “Don’t ask your mom. She might have one.”

“No kidding. So why Van Gogh?”

“I don’t know. I kind of hate admitting it, really, because he’s so popular. I feel like everyone assumes I’m pretentious or not a real art person or whatever. I mean, I guess I’m not really an art person, but it’s more who he was than even the paintings themselves. Did you know he only sold one painting in his lifetime, yet he painted almost a thousand?”

“I know. It’s sad. He...” She stops and bites her lip.

“He killed himself. I know.”

“Sorry. I guess I worry you’d admire that.”

“I don’t. Well, not really. I get why. His letters to his brother are heartbreaking and I can feel the pain in them, but I wish the world had been a place where he was valued during his lifetime.”

“I can’t imagine dying that way,” Lily says. “Thinking you failed, and then he became this...”

“Exactly. I don’t know. It’s a sad story. I tend to find myself relating to those.”

She nods. “But... ours ended happy. So they don’t always end sad. Not for everyone.”

“Yeah,” I agree, although I feel sad for the rest of the time in the museum. It’s not a depressed sad or even a negative sad. It’s just a sadness at things in the world that seem so out of order.

It passes, though, outside, because it’s really hard to be sad in Paris. At least on a warm day in June as you walk with your new wife along the Seine. We stop at a few of the booksellers, but neither of us is otherwise interested in shopping. Our whole trip has been just being here, at feeling the way the city embraces love. It’s a very easy city to be in love in.

“What time is the show tonight?” Lily asks.

“Eleven, I think. Want to head back soon to shower and change?”

“In a while. We only have a few more days and I want to get everything I can from them.”

“Me, too.”

We’re going to the Moulin Rouge tonight, even though I know it’s nothing like the movie. Lily’s excited, mostly to get dressed up and hit Pigalle. That’s the only shopping she seems to be planning. I guess there are worse things than being married to a girl who seems to buy only books and sex toys.

“Do you think we’ll come back?” I ask her.

“I walked over that medallion at Notre Dame,” she reminds me. “So we have to.”

We stroll along the river for a while, watching the cruise boats go by. “I have a big question,” I say. “But I’m sort of afraid to ask it.”

“Just ask.”

“Remember when we talked about kids? About a family? It was a few years ago and I know people change their minds, but I’m still... I don’t think I can, Lily. But I’ve been worrying about it lately. I think it was all the questions at the wedding, like it’s required, as if we’re only here because that’s the next step. I know Dave and Alana are already planning for it, but... what if it’s just us? I mean, you and me, forever?”

“I think that would be perfect, Jack. I really don’t care. I just want you. Maybe I’m selfish or something, but if my entire life included only you, it would be fuller than I ever dreamed it would be.”