Kissing cousins
A.M. Gray
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 A.M. Gray
Cover by V.Webster
Cover image belongs to V.Webster
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Kissing Cousins.
She sits with her date at the reception. She is part of the bridal party, but she has asked for a moment to have a coffee with the date she has barely had time to talk to, so far. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought a date.
She catches a glimpse of the groom. He is working the tables. Greeting people and thanking others, but slowly making his way across the room. She sips her coffee and prays he is not making his way to her. She listens to her date with only half her attention. The groom approaches.
“Do you mind if I just borrow her for fifteen minutes,” he asks. He already had his hand wrapped around her upper arm; lifting her off the bench. He has an easy charm; everyone normally does what he wants and today is his day. He is irresistible. She has never been able to say ‘no’ to him, not since she was twelve.
“Of course,” her date smiles warmly. “I will wait for you at the bar.”
He walks her quickly out the doors of the reception room and down a corridor at the side of the function rooms. She almost stumbles in her shoes. He keeps hold of her arm as if she might try to escape. He opens the door of the disabled toilet and pushes her inside.
He locks the door and puts his back against it.
They stand facing each other.
“No,” she says. It is the first time she has ever said it to him.
He steps closer to her.
“Are you insane?” she hisses at him. They keep their voices low.
He doesn’t answer her.
“It’s your wedding day.”
“I know.”
“You’re married… you got married… four hours ago.”
“I know… please.”
She may never have said ‘no’ to him before, but he has never said ‘please’; it is that, that undoes her.
“This is the last time.” She has said that before.
He knows better than to mess up her makeup or her hair.
He doesn’t even kiss her, although she can tell that he wants to.
He crouches down and reaches up under her dress, sliding her panties down her legs. His fingers work their way into her. She leans back against the wall and lets him do what he wants. He knows her so well; knows exactly how to touch her to make her wet in minutes.
He doesn’t say a word as he readies himself and sinks into her for the last time. And this time is definitely the last time. All the other last times were not really, but this is it; the line in the sand. No more. He is married now.
This cannot keep happening.
She has said that before too.
She holds her dress out of the way; no tell-tale stains or crushing. Her other hand is in the hair at the back of his neck. She allows her fingers to stroke the back of his neck.
She just manages to stay on her feet when she comes; he always did make her world spin.
He finishes and presses his forehead against hers. He almost says something, but stops himself. He kisses the mole on her chest. He always kisses that mole.
They clean up. She sits on the toilet and watches him tuck himself away and wash his hands. She can see his face in the mirror. He looks… blank.
She knows his game face will be on by the time he gets back to the reception.
He looks at her in the mirror, watching him.
“Lock the door,” he says as she flushes the toilet and he leaves.
She does.
She looks at herself in the mirror. She takes a deep breath. She looks perfect. The dress is beautiful. It suits her perfectly. It is ideal for her colouring.
“You can totally wear this dress again,” the bride had told her. Who chooses autumn shades for their bridesmaids? They are all in greens, browns and muted oranges. They will look fabulous in the photos. So much nicer than bright cerise or teal. The bride is in champagne. She knows he must have asked for her to be a bridesmaid. She didn’t know the bride before.
She will never wear the dress again.
She hates the dress because she can’t hate the bride.
She is so nice; it makes it worse.
They are Catholic; there is no divorce in this family. She knows that, she is family.
She is his cousin.
Kissing cousins.
She is not sure how she will manage to watch him with the bride for the rest of her life. At every christening, wedding, funeral, or family celebration.
She cannot cry; she will ruin the makeup for the final photos.
Dear God; the photos. A permanent reminder of their last fuck. Do you remember that day? Is that what he will think, whenever he sees his wedding photo? Is she the one that got away? Is that what he will think?
She hardly got away from him. He always chases her down and catches her; he has been doing it since she was twelve for god’s sake. From the first time, when he kissed her and put his hand under her dress in the snooker room. He could talk her into anything.
He was always her weakness… always… his charm, his good looks and his easy way. No one got under her skin or into her pants as fast as he did. He was like her Achilles heel or whatever the underwear version was; her Achilles thong? He could talk himself into her pants; he has been doing it since he was fourteen and she was twelve.
He was her first everything.
Deflowering her in the pool house on a pile of burgundy towels in front of the sauna. She had just turned sixteen; it was her birthday present he said.
She shook her head; she was losing it.
She had said ‘no’; it was a start. She had said a lot of things to him over the years but none of them had ever been ‘no’. ‘We’ll get caught’… ‘We can’t do it here’ … that was what she usually said.
‘No’ was a start. Wasn't it?
She was his weakness too. He always came back to her. He would show up at her apartment after every one of his break ups. Sometimes he didn’t need to be broken up. Just needed her. She had paid for cabs when he was drunk and broke. Patted him on the back, fed him coffee, had thrown him in the shower and taken him into her bed. Fucking her was always part of his breakup healing process.
Her flatmate was the only one who knows everything. She frowns at her but says nothing when he is around.
She inhales deeply; she has to go back out there.
She unlocks the door and walks out, back to her coffee. And her date.
As she walks she realises her stocking is loose. She sits, pulls up her dress and adjusts her thigh high. Her face is blank; she is on autopilot. She can do this… she has to do this. She will not cry.
There are two cups on the table. Her date is gone. She sits and stares at the coffee cups. Another ruined relationship she can put down to him. Maybe she can crawl, apologise to her disgruntled man later, or call him tomorrow if he has left. He has ruined every single one of her attempts at dating. Not that he means to, they are just not him. They can never be him. No one else compares. They don’t kiss like him… fuck like him … smell like him.
She is ruined for life and she knows it.
She should just get married to someone half-decent and move on. She will never have Mr Right, she should settle for less… Mr Half-okay?
Her date has come back from the bar and looks down at her as she adjusts her stocking. She doesn’t see him.
“The coffee is cold,” he says. “Did you want another one… or something stronger?”
“Something stronger, yes please. Can I have vodka?” She rarely drinks hard liquor but she needs it today.
Her date brings it for her. He has another coffee for himself; he is driving after all.
“Can we go?” she asks him.
“Not yet, family photos,” he tells her.
She looks at him. He is more than half-okay. She doesn’t know what made her ask him to the wedding. She didn't want to come alone, she supposes. This is only their third date and it is rare to bring a newish date to a family wedding.
She is collected for the family group shots in the corner of the function room. Her date watches her; he is holding her bag.
She stares fixedly into the camera; she will not look at the groom. She pastes a smile on her face.
She thinks she might vomit.
Her date approaches her.
“Are you okay?” he asks solicitously. He presses the back of his fingers to her cheek.
She wants to tell him everything. They haven’t slept together yet, but she likes this guy.
“Do you have an Achilles heel?” she asks him. “I have an Achilles thong.” She sounds vaguely hysterical. He laughs with her even though he doesn't understand the joke. The groom gives her a sharp glance.
“She’s not well, I’m taking her home,” her date announces, as if there is no other option.
She is off balance. The bride says that of course she must go, she looks so unwell. She kisses her, hugs her as if she is an old friend and she thanks her for helping to make her day perfect.
She really can’t hate her.
She will not look at him. She does not speak to him. They are done.
She leaves with her date.
She can wreck her makeup now.
She cries in the car as if she just left a funeral, not a wedding.
Her date is unsurprised by her tears.
He takes her to his place. She tells him everything.
He pats her on the back, feeds her coffee and more vodka, throws her in the shower and takes her into his bed.
Fucking him was part of her breakup healing process.
He was way more than half-okay.
~~~~~
About the Author
I feel I should be witty and informative about how many children and household pets I have. But really, the chickens lay eggs and I am yet to see what use the teenagers are. They eat the eggs, I suppose. I love writing. I also read a lot and play my music loud... really loud. I started writing fanfiction as mrstrentreznor and discovered that my head had many more stories in it than the ones that I chose to correct. I choose to share them with you now.
Connect with me online:
Twitter: [http://twitter.com/mtr_amg]
Smashwords: [http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AMGray]
Discover other titles by A.M. Gray at Smashwords.
Dream Man: [https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/128005
Alejandro & Maela: [https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/127229]
The man in the White Linen Suit: [https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/128294]