Page 91 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Goddamn do you do it for me.’ Lily’s heels were tight against his back; her gaze was locked on his. ‘There. Like that.’
She reached down to touch herself, her eyes widening as she found her own rhythm – one that she moved to until her tightly wound desire unravelled.
‘Holy fuck,’ she whispered, over and over, so breathless that she seemed to be hyperventilating. Her fingers dug hard into his arms, then his shoulders, leaving shallow crescents from the pressure. Mort had only the one tattoo – a tiny Milton quote – but if he were to get another, he knew exactly what it would be: the outline of her frenzied nails against his skin.
The gentle waves of her orgasm against him pulled him towards his, and moments later he joined her, tumbling over the edge of pleasure into something bright and perfect and then peaceful. He collapsed against her, positioning himself slightly to her left so that he could bury his face in her neck, stroke the sweaty perfection of her hair.
Mort sighed contentedly, then rolled over slightly so that he could regard her. The soft light of the Moroccan lamp painted her almost as beautifully as his mind’s eye did, and he wanted nothing more than to shout to the night sky that she was themost stunning creature to have ever graced the world, and that she washis– well, not his, because he’d never presume something like that, but she was here, in this moment, with him, as opposed to with anyone else on earth.
Lily cuddled into the curve of his bicep, squirming so that she had adequate neck support from the cushioned floor. ‘You mock the cushions, but I couldn’t do this on a regular bed without getting a crick in my neck.’
‘Next time we’ll have sex in a foam pit,’ promised Mort, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. In fact, all of her curls were wayward right now, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. He like dishevelled Lily; it reminded him of the Lily from the day of the switcheroo, when they’d both hid out beneath her awning, drenched from the magical rain that had brought their businesses – and them – together.
‘Next time, huh?’ Lily considered this. ‘Well, I do have a circus wedding coming up. Just so long as you disinfect it first. Those things are vectors for norovirus.’
‘Of course. As much as I love having sex with you, even a moderate norovirus risk is unacceptable.’
Lily chuckled. ‘Fair.’
‘In fact, I’d choose celibacy over a moderate cold.’
She bit his bicep lightly. ‘Oh, shut up.’
Mort did.
After a moment, Lily propped herself up on one elbow. ‘This issomething, right? Us. All of this.’
It’s everything, Mort wanted to say.It’s everything, and that terrifies me more than you could imagine.
But he could feel the words sticking in his throat. All he managed was a nod.
‘I think,’ he managed finally, ‘that the switcheroo knew what it was doing when it brought us together.’
‘Hmm,’ said Lily thoughtfully. ‘I like that.’
She lay back down. Between the night-time wind rustling around the tent, the distant twanging of the folk band still intrepidly earning their overtime, and Lily’s calm, measured breathing, he felt himself drifting off to sleep.
But it was not to be.
‘Mort, are you in there?’
A blue-rinsed head adorned with a familiar pair of cat’s-eye glasses and painfully dangly earrings poked through the tent door. At least Reba had the good form to pretend to cover her eyes.
‘We’ve got a body,’ came Reba’s sing-song voice. ‘I know, it’s like my wedding night all over again. But with less weed.’
Mort sighed. Could the town of Mirage-by-the-Sea, which prided itself on its healthy ocean air and active lifestyle, go a single day without someone heading off into the unseen realm?
‘Oh wow, speaking of bodies.’ Reba gave Lily a cheerful wave. ‘Told you the debauchery boxes would come in handy, didn’t I? There’ll be plenty of time to bump uglies later. For now, there’s a corpse out there with your name on it. Not literally. I know you’re not a serial killer. Although you never know. I knew this lovely Australian gent back in Brooklyn – turned out he’d been chopping up people in a coffee roaster. Anyway, it’s one of the marketing team. Happens all the time with these corporate types. Too much cocaine, too much stress, a minor fist fight and bam, you’ve got a brain bleed. I’ll wait out here, shall I?’
She did, but she didn’t stop talking.
Mort threw his trousers on. He had to get moving before Reba inspired some additional violence.
Tell it to the Big Guy Up North
Lily
It was hard to top a wedding involving a runaway bride, some hot sex and a late-night death, but the Christmas in July wedding was apparently going to do its best. The off-season holly jolly festivities kicked off with a text message bearing the worst two words in the history of the English language:Santa’s sick. Followed by two of the worst emojis in the emoji language: the green puking face and the poop.
