Underneath my hand, I can feel the stiff construct of the underwear Daphne’s wearing. That touch sends me back to the morning when she stood in front of me with her back exposed and her gown gaping like an invitation. I take a deep breath and try to think of crime scenes. We’re taking wedding photos not conducting a porn shoot. Although…if we were to do a porn shoot, not that I want anyone looking at Daphne’s naked body, but a camera in the bedroom? Hell, fucking, yes.
I’d want audio, too, so I could replay the sounds of Daphne’s soft whimpers as I play with her tits and her long moans as I drag my cock along her hot, tight sex. She’d be juicy. I know it. And wild. She has a temper. She once threw a law book across the room after reading something in it she didn’t like. She’d fight me for control and it would be glorious. It didn’t even matter who won because in the end, as long as my dick was in her juicy pussy, I’d be in heaven.
Said dick pulses in excitement, surging against the zipper. I snake my tongue out and wet my dry lips wishing I was tasting her.
Dammit, boy, get your fantasies under control.
I’m thirty, not thirteen. I don’t get turned on my holding a girl’s hand. I’ve got more control than that. I keep repeating this mantra so my palm doesn’t slip from Daphne’s waist to cup her ass because, swear to God, it would take zero effort to pull up the stiff fabric, slide my fingers between her legs and finger her pussy until her knees give out.
The photographer finally calls a halt to my torment and I force myself to back off. My dick’s hard as a steel pike so I whip off my jacket and fist it in front of my crotch. I glance at Daphne who has a tight expression plastered across her face. Shit. Is she mad that my dick was trying to tunnel a path through her panties? How do I even ask her? Say, babe, sorry about my non-stop erection, but wedding photos are really my kink. No big deal, right?
I clear my throat. “Everything okay?” comes out as if I chewed on gravel the entire shoot.
She gives a terse nod.
Fuck. I really screwed up here. “Hey, I’m sorr—”
“Let’s go!” Wendy interrupts, grabbing Daphne’s arm. “We need to start the ceremony.”
“Thanks for all your help, Jack. I really appreciate you filling in for me when I was in a tight spot,” Daphne yells over her shoulder as she is being dragged away.
“You’re welcome!” I call after the women.
Daphne’s sarcastic thank you doesn’t shame Wendy into extending any appreciation, but her man shuffles over to me and extends a hand.
“Thanks, man. You did us a solid,” Greg, the groom, holds out his hand. “Wendy’s just stressed.”
Wendy’s rudeness toward me doesn’t matter. It’s the way she treats her sister that chaps my ass and I don’t hesitate to tell this to Greg. “Wendy needs to watch the way she talks to Daphne. It’s not cool.”
The ol’ boy’s back stiffens, like a perp who believes he’s above the law. “You can’t talk to me about my fiancée like that.”
“Sure can. Daphne’s worth a dozen of—” I stop myself because insulting Wendy isn’t exactly consistent with my message here. Switching gears, I say, “Daphne’s worth a dozen of me, and I don’t think you’d say the shit that Wendy spouted off to my face.”
Greg sniffs. “This isn’t the jail house. You can’t order us around like common criminals.”
“That’s fine, but the next time Wendy says crap like that be prepared for me to crop dust her with a half ton of shit in return.”
“It’s not like she’s saying anything that isn’t the truth,” pipes up one of the groomsmen. Trent, I think his name was. They all kind of look the same with their pale faces sporting one of those trendy closely clipped beards. That they’re all dressed in the same penguin suit doesn’t help to distinguish them. It’s hard to tell them apart. Except for Trent. After I punched him in the nose, he looked real different.
Trent drops to the ground with a satisfying thud. I shake out my fist and give a gaping Greg a nod. “I’ll be inside the chapel waiting for the ceremony to start.”
“You-I don’t think-wait,” he calls.
I keep walking and ignore the shouts of outrage mingled with the moans of pain from Trent who’s lying on the grass with his hands cupped around his face.
“Something happen out there, son?” asks the priest when I step into the chapel.
“Nope. I punched a guy in the mouth, but I spared the groom because I know he needs to say his vows before the rest of us can be released from this prison. No offense, Father.”