His Plus One

1.

Samantha turned around in the mirror, assessing the outfit she had put together.  As far as weddings went, this one was bound to be just like all the others: full of glitz, full of glam, and full of free drinks.  At least, she certainly hoped so.  As a consultant at a bridal salon -- her manager pronounced it
say-lon
in some attempt to sound more cultured and exotic than it really was -- she spent 50 hours of her life every week surrounded by white poofy dresses, people asking questions are crinoline and demanding more tulle, and bitchy bridesmaids who were so clearly jealous that they weren’t the star of the show.  Every day, all day, Samantha thought about weddings, and every day, all day, she hated them. 

Still, when the invitation to her boyfriend Tom’s college pal’s wedding arrived, she dutifully agreed to go as his plus one.  If working in the wedding industry had taught her one thing, it was that people were crazy for weddings, and it wasn’t always the good
excited over the moon
type of crazy.  This was batshit
princess
foaming at the mouth over the difference between cream and ivory dress colors
crazy.  That brand of crazy had happened three times just that Friday. 

Now, standing in front of her mirror early that Saturday morning, Samantha was satisfied that at least if she had to spend her precious one weekend off of the month from the wedding industry at a wedding, she was going to look impeccable.  She had gone to the salon -- hair salon, not the bridal salon, a welcome departure in and of itself -- and had instructed the stylist to make her look, in her words, “memorably sexy”, to which the stylist had definitely adhered.  Her shoulder-length hair was now the perfect ombre, not too obvious so it didn’t look like she was trying to be on point in the style world, but good-looking enough to make it obvious she cared about how she looked, and she cared about being current with her look.  Working in the bridal salon had taught her that as soon as you stopped caring how you looked or whether you were still current with your taste, it was all downhill.  Next thing you know you’d be asking for a wedding dress made of denim overalls.  No, you had to stay focused when it came to your personal style. 

Paired with the new ombre look was a pair of earrings that at a first glance might be simple, but when one looked closer, they were revealed to be miniature lapis lazuli night skies complete with tiny constellations made of the tiniest diamonds, sparkling without being, again, too gauche.  To try too hard with one’s jewelry was to be gauche -- better to wear the best without flaunting it.  The real thing ended up looking much more refined than a knock-off ever could.

Finally, Samantha had decided upon a violet dress and peep-toe heels that highlighted her curves.  The dress had a low back, falling off in a sharp dip of delicate lace, allowing her to show off her shoulder blades while just barely being appropriate for a wedding. 
Live a little, look good
was her motto --  and backs were much easier to get away with showing off than one’s breasts.  When it came to looking good, Samantha knew the line and just where she could peep-toe that line with practiced perfection. 

“Are you ready to hit the road?” Tom asked, leaning his head into the large bedroom where Samantha assessed herself in the mirror.  “You know Marcus and Lark -- they’re bound to be chomping at the bit half an hour before the wedding is supposed to start!”

Samantha nodded, but the truth of the matter was that she didn’t know Marcus and Lark.  Not that well, anyway.  She’d met Marcus once at a bar when she was out with Tom, and had noticed his tall stature even when he was sitting down -- she had noticed, too, his cute stubble, and the way his mouth turned up at the corners ever so slightly when he regaled them with the story of how he had proposed to his then-girlfriend Lark.  Apparently he’d tried numerous ways at all sorts of locations they just happened to visit, but would lose his nerve at the last minute each time, and finally ended up surprising her in the kitchen of their apartment.

“We ate really well that night at Casa Everett,” Marcus had winked. 

“Where’s that?” Samantha had asked, politely following along in the conversation even though truthfully, she wasn’t particularly interested.  Maybe if she knew Lark...but as it stood, she was really only interested in Marcus, and she wasn’t so stupid as to think that was a good idea, even if he did have wonderful hazel eyes and had ordered the same drink she did almost at the time same when they had first arrived.  Samantha couldn’t help it if she admired what she considered to be good taste -- that good taste being
her
taste, specifically.

“Our kitchen,” Marcus said, as though he thought maybe she hadn’t heard the story the first time, but Samantha shook her head.

“No, not where you proposed, I mean Casa Everett.  I haven’t heard of it.  Is it new?”

“My last name is Everett,” Marcus patiently explained, shooting a look to Tom.  “Way to introduce us, Tom.”

Tom had simply shrugged. 

Now, standing in the bedroom, waiting for Samantha to finish getting ready, she knew not much more about Marcus Everett than she had the night she’d met him that first night at the bar.  And she knew even less about this Lark. 
Well, at any rate,
she thought,
at least I’ll look good and there’s an open bar.

“Coming,” she sang, and together they were on their way.

2.

The large beach house mentioned on the invitation for the wedding was really more like a massive beach mansion.  Samantha hadn’t pegged Marcus to be particularly flush with cash when she’d first met him, but now, standing on the large wraparound porch, feasting her eyes on the miles of sand and sun and waves lapping at the shore that was practically at the front door of the mansion, she had to admit that she may have underestimated him.  What was more, it seemed as though the beach house -- mansion -- was owned by someone in the family. 

Tom let the heavy ornate lion’s head knocker fall back against the enormous wooden door.  It was Marcus who answered, grinning broadly as he ushered the couple into the house -- mansion -- with a beckoning wave of his hand.  In the other, Samantha realized he held a beer. 
Good
, she thought to herself. 
Where there’s one, there are bound to be more!
  And she like that Marcus didn’t seem particularly uptight on his wedding day, hiding himself away or being ordered around.  Instead, he casually leaned against the bar in the sunlit kitchen, the early afternoon light catching his hair and making his hazel eyes bright.

“I’ll go get the bags,” Tom said after a few moments spent picking at the cheese platter that sat on the island.  That left just Marcus and Samantha standing together in the kitchen. 

“Beer?  No, wait, you drink mojitos, don’t you?” Marcus asked, then corrected himself immediately.  “Mojito?” 

Samantha adjusted her necklace self-consciously, aware that she might be flushing a little.  He had remembered.  “Not exclusively, no.  Just when I’m feeling indecisive.  But yes, I’ll have one please,” she said, horrified by how awkward her reply sounded.  She was normally quite adept at this sort of small talk, but something about Marcus just completely unnerved her.  She had been in the presence of many grooms before -- that is, the poor saps some brides dragged to dress fittings with them for only god knows why -- and hadn’t ever felt awkward around off-limits territory like that, but as Marcus worked on her drink at the island, she couldn’t help but watch at the way the sunlight dappled the slight waves in his hair, and at the way his fingers muddled the mint in the bottom of her glass, and the way he gently plucked a final branch from the small plant that sat at the end of the bar, sliding in whole into the drink before approaching her with it. 

“At least when you’re indecisive you’re easy,” he said.  “Some girls, they don’t know what drink they want, so they revert to some drink that’s got fifteen steps and twenty ingredients.”

“You don’t mean your wife-to-be do you?” Samantha gasped with mock horror. 

“Lark’s a sweet girl, but her drink preferences are a bit...”

“High maintenance?” Samantha offered.

Marcus chuckled.  “I was going to say specific, but I guess you could call it high maintenance.”

Samantha eyed the direction of the front door, waiting to hear Tom come back, but then remembered that they were staying in one of the small cottages close to the beach house, and not the beach house itself -- most of the guests were housed in the cottages, and would be coming and going from the home base of the mansion throughout the wedding weekend. 

She couldn’t help herself, and let the question fly from her mouth before she could stop herself.  “Don’t you ever wish for something a little simpler?  Some...
one
maybe?”

Samantha watched as his hazel eyes grew slightly larger.  She shouldn’t have said it.  She just knew it.  She was a terrible guest and had stepped over that line that normally she was so very good at toeing.  The rest of this wedding weekend was going to be awful.  She took a long sip of her mojito, readying herself to make an embarrassed exit in search of Tom, but when she looked up over the rim of her glass for an instant, she realized that the look she had at first thought to be shock on his face was, in actuality, a look of interest.  Marcus was looking at her with those hazel eyes not with wary disbelief, but with lips slightly pursed, as though contemplating whether she was serious or not.

Well.

Samantha swallowed, then licked her lips, tasting the ruby-red lipstick she had applied earlier.

“Because I hear there’s someone at your wedding -- in your kitchen -- who’s very easy and knows what she wants.”

It sounded bad.  It sounded so wrong.  And yet...

Marcus set his drink down on the island.  Samantha didn’t expect his hands to be so strong, for some reason she wasn’t sure why it hadn’t been obvious to her that they would be, considering his height and the way his arms were thick beneath the sleeves of his dress shirt -- but they were strong and firm as they touched her forearm.  He guided her out of the room, and she set her mojito down on the island as they passed by it together.  Out of the room they went, at which point he let his arm fall from hers, probably, she reasoned, so that if they were seen, nobody would think anything of them being together.  After all, as the groom and host, he was surely expected to be all over the mansion at any given time, with any given number of people.  She could be anyone to him -- a cousin, a childhood friend.  That she was simply a Plus One would not be apparent to anyone at a glance.  It was all so decadently deviant.  A thrill raced through her body.

Marcus and Samantha wound around the seemingly endless corridors of the beach mansion.  The hallways were painted calming colors, all tranquil turquoises and sea-glass, and flowers were everywhere in bright splashes of yellow and pink.  Above one arched doorway was strung a curling, entwined vine of what looked to be small miniature rose blooms of the palest, most delicate pink.  It was here that Marcus stopped, and Samantha pulled to a halt behind him.  He turned to look down at her.  Even in her cute peep-toe heels, she was almost a foot shorter than he was. 

It was wrong.  Wrong, dirty, sinful.  She knew it was desperately bad, even as he leaned his body into hers, his fingertips smelling of the mint from the drink he had mixed for her, all sweet and cool.  It was wrong, but how wrong could it be if he was so easy to pull into this?  What kind of groom
was
he, that he would cheat on his bride-to-be at the mere mention of the idea?  Samantha let out a small gasp as his fingers found her breast, his weight full and heavy against hers as he pushed her against the door-frame.  The scent of sweet roses filled her senses, roses and mint and Marcus, a faint scent of aftershave, the shampoo he must have used that morning, and the faint scent of celebratory wedding cigar all rolling into one.  She could feel her pussy already getting wet and she breathed heavily, letting her hands find his hair and pull his head towards her, towards her ruby-red mouth.