“Sex isn’t the most important thing,” Wendy finished in a sing-song voice. “If you’d ever found a guy who knew what he was doing…”
Julie rolled her eyes. She’d slept with more than one guy before Brian—three to be exact—and the results had never been the transcendent thrill her girlfriends all described. It had never worried her all that much.
Wendy wouldn’t let up. “And sex aside, what about trust, companionship, all that stuff? Admit it, Julie, the only reason you got involved with Brian in the first place was because it was the path of least resistance and a way to guarantee your dad’s approval.” Julie groaned, unable to deny the truth. “That’s so pathetic. I’m so pathetic.”
“You said it, not me,” Wendy said under her breath. Julie stuck her tongue out and ran her hands PrivateParty
through her hair, grimacing as her fingers were impeded by the thick coating of hairspray. “Ugh, I need to take a shower. You make us some drinks.”
She heard tiny bottles clinking as she stepped under the spray, and vigorously scrubbed away every bit of makeup, hairspray, wine, and cake, trying to erase this day from her life in the process. She was so tired of being polite, done with biting her tongue for the sake of appearances. Her backbone was twenty-six years overdue in making an appearance.
She emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, hairspray and makeup free. She looked at the glass Wendy offered and shook her head.
Wendy’s brow knit in confusion. “It’s chardonnay, like you always drink.”
“Give me that,” Julie said, snatching a mini bottle of tequila off the side table.
“Uh, Jules, are you sure you want to drink that?”
“Chardonnay is for spineless debutantes. As of today, I am a strong independent woman.” She uncapped the tiny bottle of Cuervo with a flourish. “I’d like to propose a toast to the new and improved Julie Driscoll. A new Julie who does what she wants, when she wants, and doesn’t take shit from anyone.
Especially her low-life, asshole husband who can’t wait to cut the cake before having his first affair.” She raised the bottle and tossed back the contents in a single gulp.
Her new tough girl persona was ruined as she collapsed into a fit of coughing and gagging. “Yuck. This stuff is terrible without the margarita mix.” She reached for the wine to wash away the gasoline-like aftertaste. “Maybe I better work up to tequila.”
Her eyes lit on a bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling in a bucket along with two Baccarat crystal champagne flutes. “How romantic,” she said snidely, grabbing the bottle in one hand and the glasses in the other.
Julie settled herself on the bed next to Wendy and made short work of the cork, spilling bubbly onto the carpet. She handed Wendy a glass of champagne.
“Let’s try this again. A toast, to the new Julie Driscoll, former doormat, now bitch on wheels.” She took a big swallow of champagne. The bubbles tickled their way down her throat and immediately warmed her belly.
Wendy’s grin swallowed up the bottom half of her face. “It’s about time!”
“I
know
. You’ve been telling me for years that I need to get away from my parents, get my own life, and get rid of Brian. I think this whole fiasco is the Universe’s way of telling me it’s time. It’s a whole new PrivateParty
world of possibilities, starting right now.”
“Here, here.” Wendy took a big gulp of her champagne, and Julie quickly refilled their glasses.
As the alcohol warmed her belly Julie got more enthusiastic about her new life. “I want to find someone wild, someone completely unsuitable.”
“You should sleep with his brother,” Wendy said, a champagne flush on her high cheekbones. “Six foot three, wide, muscular shoulders. I can only imagine what’s hiding under that tux. And did you see his hands? Promising, very promising. I tell you, a good revenge fuck would really piss off Brian.”
“I can’t go after Chris.” But even as the words left her mouth, Julie’s brain was awash in images of Chris naked, over her, under her, moving inside her. “Besides, even if I wanted to, I’m totally not his type.”
Wendy rolled her eyes, motioning Julie to unzip her so she could trade her bridesmaid dress for one of the suite’s complimentary robes. “Bullshit. The only reason guys don’t make a move on you is because of your butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth Little Miss Muffet routine. Believe me, given the slightest encouragement, there are plenty of guys who would love the opportunity to muss you up.” She polished off her champagne and mixed herself a vodka tonic from the minibar. “Chris Dennison is no exception.” Julie clicked on the TV. Her inability to “work it” was a favorite, much discussed subject over the years, and it wasn’t one she wanted to have now. Despite Wendy’s vociferous arguments to the contrary, deep down, Julie didn’t believe that she had a whole lot to work.
She was attractive enough, she supposed. But at 5’4”, with her wavy blonde hair, big blue eyes, and modestly curved body, her looks were much more Sandra Dee than Marilyn Monroe. She might as well have had “future soccer mom” stamped on her forehead. Not exactly the type to inspire lust. And it had never really bothered before.
Okay, so it had bothered her the year she and Chris had overlapped at Berkeley, when she was the naïve freshman and he the overprotective senior. Since he’d been raised by his mother, Julie had only seen him a handful of times before in her life. She vaguely remembered the big, good-looking guy who was nice enough to her on those occasions. But when she’d run into him her first week on campus, twenty-two-year-old Chris had suddenly inspired all kinds of sexual feelings and fantasies the likes of which Julie had never known before. Or since.
“I’m like his adorable kid sister,” she said glumly. “I always have been.” She couldn’t help smiling at the memory of Chris looming over many an unfortunate frat boy who sought to get her drunk on keg beer and trash barrel punch.
“I haven’t seen him since he took off after that blowup with his father and Brian right after I graduated PrivateParty
from Berkeley. God, he looks good.” Julie had barely thought of Chris in the five years since he’d left.
Or rather, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of him, maybe because deep down she knew she’d find herself in exactly this situation. With her brain full of lustful images, her body itchy, tight, and throbbing in places it had no business throbbing, with no hope of relief from the gorgeous hunk of male flesh whose fault it all was.
An hour and a half later, Julie flicked through the channels for the hundredth time as she finished the last of the champagne. Wendy snored against the pillows, a half-empty bag of peanut butter M&Ms clutched in her fist.
Damn Wendy and her talk about revenge fucking and throwing herself at Chris. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, tangled in his 600-thread count sheets, all muscles and tawny skin.
Lust pooled in her belly, mingled with indignation, as she took in every feature of the bridal suite. This was supposed to be her wedding night, damn it. She was supposed to be rolling around this bed and frolicking in the Jacuzzi with the man she had married.
Oddly, the thought wasn’t so much painful as it was embarrassing. Now that the initial shock had worn off, she realized her anger was due to her pride talking, not to her heartbreak over Brian. She’d wanted to marry him, at least she thought she had. Still, she’d always known that their marriage had been one of compatibility rather than passion. And she’d been okay with that. But until today, she hadn’t realized how little regard Brian actually had for her, that he would be willing to do something like this on their wedding day.
Looking back at the way she’d acted like such a doormat, was it really any wonder Brian thought he could walk all over her? But that was all about to change, starting now.
Maybe Wendy had a point. Maybe she really did just need to drop the Miss Goody Two-Shoes act and let men know that simmering under her apple pie looks was a sex goddess waiting to be released. There was only one way to find out.
She went to the dresser and pulled out a small pile of tissue paper, extracting the ivory silk La Perla negligee she had chosen for tonight. As she slipped it on, the cool silk soothed her heated skin. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and reached once again for the purple robe, then grabbed the intimacy pack so thoughtfully provided by the staff at the Winston.
The old Julie would never do anything like what she had planned. But the new Julie had been promised sex tonight, and she’d be damned if she didn’t get it.
PrivateParty
3
C
hris stared into the minibar, pondering his next selection. He had to give it to his dad and Grant, they sure knew how to stock a minibar. He could stay drunk for a week if he wanted.
Which was probably what he would do if he didn’t have to leave at the butt crack of dawn tomorrow morning to get back to Holley Cay.
He selected a single serving bottle of Jack Daniel’s and cut it with the other half of the Coke left over from the rum and Coke he’d just polished off. He winced at the cost of the liquor on the minibar price sheet. Foolish, he knew, to hole up in his room drinking ridiculously priced liquor when he could be enjoying an open bar downstairs.
But he couldn’t face it. He’d done his duty, showed up, acted the best man, acted like he was happy to see little Julie Driscoll tie herself to a stupid schmuck like Brian. Then he got the hell out of there as soon as he had choked out his canned, completely insincere toast.
Chris had no illusions about his older brother and what kind of husband he would make. Brian was exactly like their dad—slick, scheming, always needing to be in power. It served them well in business, but it was hell on the women in their lives. Dad was already on his fourth marriage, and he was probably cheating on her. David Dennison couldn’t give up the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the conquest.
And Chris had no doubt that Brian was the same.
His grip tightened around his drink as he settled onto the plump pillows that graced the room’s queen-size bed. He didn’t know why he was so upset. It wasn’t as though he’d spent the last five years pining for her. Much. But it had been nine months since he’d received the engagement announcement. Nine PrivateParty
months to let go of any illusions he might still have of one day enjoying everything sweet Julie had to offer.
Nevertheless, images of her tormented him. Julie in her red gingham bikini the summer she’d turned sixteen. Plump little breasts pressing against the tight fabric, nipples beading hard against the cold water.
Julie at the country club, looking all perfectly preppy in her sweater sets and pearls. She’d always been such a lady, even when she was a teenager, annoying him with her prissiness while inspiring lurid fantasies about peeling off her white cotton panties and showing her how fun being bad could be.
And finally the worst image of all. Julie, standing at the altar beside his brother, looking as fragile as a china doll as she pledged her life to Brian.
He sucked down the rest of his drink, as though it could drown out the voices in his head that berated him for not making a move on Julie when he’d had the chance. Oh no, somehow at the age of twenty-two he’d developed a noble streak when it came to her, knowing instinctively that getting involved with her would only hurt them both. So instead of indulging in his long running fantasy of teaching virginal Julie all about the joys of sex, he’d instead devoted himself to being her protector rather than her lover.
And while he was in the Caribbean killing himself to establish Holley Cay as a world-class luxury resort, his scumbag of a half brother had made his move.
A knock startled him out of his ruminations. A look through the peephole revealed the last person he would have expected. Julie Driscoll—make that Dennison, her features distorted by the fishbowl effect of the peephole—was pounding determinedly on his hotel door on what was supposed to be her wedding night.
He unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. Or maybe he’d mixed that last rum and Coke from the minibar a little too strong, had passed out, and was dreaming. This certainly wasn’t the first time Julie had invaded his dreams, but most of the time she was wearing something a little more provocative than her ratty purple grandma robe she had back in college.
She must be real, because if this were a dream, that robe would be on the ground and he’d be halfway inside her by now.
That didn’t stop the blood rushing to his groin. That year they’d overlapped at Berkeley he’d arrived at her dorm room more times than he could count to find her fresh out of the shower wrapped in that robe.
Thoughts of peeling back the soft worn fabric so he could run his tongue all over smooth, damp skin had made a mockery of his vow to keep his hands off her.
His cock thickened against his shorts, and he reminded himself savagely that she was a married woman, and to his brother to boot. Something must be really wrong for her to be here, and he had no business getting a boner when he needed all of his blood to remain in his brain.
PrivateParty
“Is something wrong with Brian?” he asked when she didn’t say anything. She was just staring, mouth slightly open. He could almost feel the heat of her gaze against his skin as it traveled, first across his chest, then down his flat abdomen, and lower, until her eyebrows quirked with interest.
Chris glanced down, face heating as he realized he wore nothing but his boxer briefs, and the bulge in the fly was growing as she stared.
Dragging her gaze back up to his face, Julie said, “Can I come in?” Chris stepped back to let her in, and somewhere in the back of his minibar fogged brain a warning went off. Women didn’t typically visit other men’s rooms at two in the morning on their wedding nights.
She perched herself on the edge of the bed and clicked on the bedside lamp. The light cast her in a soft glow, illuminating her pale gold hair and baby smooth skin. She looked about fourteen years old with her big blue eyes and soft pink lips. She was staring again, her expression anything but innocent.