Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

16

Elliot

THREE YEARS, THREE MONTHS, THREE WEEKS, AND FOUR DAYS AGO

The problem with saying “see you at the Gordon wedding” was that it left me in the same position as before our almost mouth-murder incident. I still should be calling. I still should be taking her on a real date (preferably someplace they haven’t even heard the word peanut). I still should be trying to tell her that playing grab-ass in my back room is nice and all, but I’d like to escalate this.

Because I do. Want to.

Sometimes I feel like she blew into my life like a hurricane and barely left me a second to catch my bearings, but in reality, I’ve known her for almost half a year now. And she’s been running in my circles for a few years before that. My dad even knew her—which is a strange thing to think about as I’m trying to narrow down my exact feelings for her. She knows a piece of me that’s gone. When I think about spending more time with her, about escalating—there’s something oddly right about Dad having met her.

So I put on my (very well washed) jeans that she called “skinny,” I pull on a different plaid shirt, and head to the Gordon wedding like it’s a second date. I remind myself that I accidentally got my expectations up the last time, so don’t count on this being different, and don’t get frustrated if it’s the same.

The Gordons are having a church ceremony, so right off the bat, I tell myself there won’t be any flirting in a church.

But as I’m unloading the garlands to string along the pews, she catches sight of me, and even from the distance to the altar, I see her eyes drip over my clothes, my body. She smiles in a way that tells me she knows exactly why I dressed like this, which immediately makes me feel too eager and like I should go home and change.

When I bring in the garland to drape over the easel for the front of the church, small warm fingers touch my wrist. She’s at my side, so close I can smell her hair.

“Looks great. Can I get your opinion on something?” She cocks her head toward the right, and I nod and follow her. She leads me to one of the corner alcoves and asks over her shoulder, “You haven’t had any donuts today, by chance, have you?” She pushes her hair behind her ear and glances back at me.

“Nope,” I respond a bit shamefully.

“No PB&J for breakfast?”

I roll my eyes at her. “No.”

She spins on her tall heel and says “Great” before wrapping her elbows around my neck and planting her lips on mine.

I hum in shock. My eyes are still open, and I search around us, realizing she’s taken me somewhere secluded. In this church.

Her tongue teases my lips, and I lay gentle fingers on her waist as I open my mouth to her. Her hands fist in my hair, and she angles my head to kiss me deeper. My hands flex on her hips.

I pull back as far as she’ll let me and say, “Is this weird? Are you Catholic? You’re not like … getting hot because we’re in a church, right?”

She laughs against my lips. “I grew up Catholic, but over the years I figure my mom and I side pretty well with that British church. The one created for divorces.”

“Um, I wouldn’t say it was created—”

She kisses me again, and I allow myself to just feel her body pressing against me. Before my brain can chant church, church, church at me, she pulls back.

“I have stuff to do, but I wanted to say hi.” She smiles so prettily, and her fingertips graze the back of my neck so softly, my body starts to react. “Is your cousin all set at the reception venue?”

Mind struggling to catch up, I say, “Yeah, Ben’s there with the centerpieces. I’ll check on them once I transfer the ceremony floral.”

“You should stay during the reception,” she says softly, imploringly. “I promise I won’t send you looking for batteries.”

Her lashes flutter as she looks up at me, and that’s all I really need. “Yeah. When I’m done setting up, I’ll stick around.”

She kisses my cheek, straightens her dress, and walks out of the alcove with that sway to her hips that I’ve grown to adore.

And that’s how I find myself standing uselessly, getting in the way of the catering in this historically preserved mansion in Midtown. My job is done. Floral has been transferred, and Ben has been excused. And I’m just shuffling my feet, waiting for the couple’s entrance. In a normal situation, I would go home now and come back for cleanup. But I’m learning that nothing with Ama is normal.

It’s not long before Ama smiles at me and makes her way over. She squeezes the elbow of the photographer—Mar—and jerks her head in my direction. When Mar looks over at me with a coy smirk, I pretend to examine the pattern on the ceiling.

Ama walks by me, brushing her fingers over my hip, and after a moment, I follow. Surprisingly, she leads me into the kitchen.

“Do you want an app?” She grabs a canapé and gestures to the tray. “They just started dinner, so these are going to be tossed. Or eaten by me.” She turns and grabs one from a far tray, and I’m struck wondering at how cool, calm, and collected she is.

Maybe she regularly hooks up at weddings. Maybe she sneaks her boyfriends in the side door all the time, and no one needs to ask further questions about where she disappears to during the reception.

All that is swirling around my head as I decline an appetizer, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

“Do you want champagne?” She gestures to the trays being filled.

“Um, no. Do you usually drink during the reception?” I ask.

She flashes me a smile and brings another canapé to her lips. “I stay sober. I was just offering you a glass. You look … tense.” Her fingers bring the crostini to her wide, soft mouth, and I know she wants me to stare and imagine filthy things.

I’m ten steps ahead of her.

I grab her hand and lead her out of the kitchen, into the hallway bustling with servers. There’s a small holding room for the bride and groom to wait in before they’re announced. I’ve done weddings here enough to know where it is. I don’t look back at her, but I know she’s moving quickly to keep up.

The room is empty, and as soon as we’re inside, I shut the door and push her against it. She’s already smiling as my mouth slants over hers. I feel like she’s been in charge this whole time. From the moment she asked about the tattoo on my forearm. Even before that, she’s been calling the shots.

I brace my hands around her face, my thumbs on her cheekbones and my fingertips sliding into her hair. She moans into my mouth, and I’ve hardly done anything to warrant it. My tongue slides against hers, pulling whimpers from her throat as my hips press forward against her stomach. Her hands are on my upper arms, and I feel a flash of arousal knowing that she’s just barely hanging on for the ride.

“When do you have to be back?” I murmur against her mouth. Before she can answer, I drop kisses down her jaw, angling her neck open so I can feel her pulse against my lips.

“I told Mar to call me if there’s an issue. But the DJ is good, so there shouldn’t be an issue.”

I tilt her face back to mine, kissing her bruisingly. My hands drop to her hips, and though her dress is tight to her body, I creep it upward, curling my fingers in the fabric and gently tugging.

The light in here is dim, just what’s filtering in from outside, but when I pull back to look at her, her lipstick isn’t even smudged.

“What the fuck is on your lips?”

She blinks quickly, and then reaches up as if I’ve told her she has a mustache.

“No, I mean …” I sigh. “Is that some designer shit? Is that why it doesn’t get messed up when I’m kissing you?”

“It’s Hazel Renee,” she says simply. As if that answers it.

“I don’t give a fuck who it is. I want you to look debauched when I’m debauching you.”

I’m irrationally angry about this, but she stares at me like I just turned into a puppy with a bow tie. She kisses me again, and I aim to mess up her hair if I can’t ruin her lipstick.

I push her into the wall, one hand tugging at her hair, the other slipping her dress higher up her hips.

“Show me one of the tattoos,” she whispers.

“I’d rather do this,” I say, running my fingers over the front of her underwear.

She whines but grabs my collar. “I want to see them. Show me one.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Well,” she says with a wry smile, “only one of us has orgasmed? So I’d say it was a polite gesture from the guilty party …”

My cheeks burn, and I drop my head on her shoulder. She laughs, her fingers running through my hair.

“Fine.” I step back from her and tug my shirt upward. The only light is from the glittering patio lamps, but she still glues her eyes on my right side as soon as my ribs are visible.

“Cry violet,” she says softly. I’m surprised she remembered. “Extinct.”

Her eyes flutter up to mine as she reaches forward, asking permission. I nod. Her fingers are warm as they dance over my stomach. She catches the purple petals, circling around the yellow center. “When do I get to see another one?”

I wet my lips. “You’ll have to take me to dinner first.”

She laughs, and I’m shocked I’m doing this well. I take her hand and lead her to the loveseat that I’m positive several newly married couples have put to good use. I tug her down to sit next to me, and before she can get comfortable, I turn her jaw and kiss her again. Reaching across my body, I slip my fingers over her thighs, pushing her dress up again. Just before I move her underwear to the side, I pull back to look in her eyes. She nods and grabs my neck, pulling me toward her.

The lace moves aside easily. And I think I groan at the feeling of her folds against my fingertips. I can’t be sure. My head gets a little lost. She’s wet and hot, and I slip through her like butter. She pants against my mouth as I drag my fingers over her, finding her clit with much more finesse than I’m accustomed to.

She hums, our mouths so close to each other that I feel like I’m swallowing her sounds.

“Tell me where another one is.” Her voice is reedy and high.

“I’ll show you all of them if you come with my fingers inside of you.”

Her head drops on the back of the loveseat, and she sighs as I press more firmly. I’m watching her chest rise and fall, and I wish her dress wasn’t so tight, or else I could just move aside the fabric and watch her tits pebble and darken.

“Tell me? One more?” she whines.

“You like my tattoos?” I say, leaning in to run my teeth over her jaw.

“Yes. Yes.”

I slip one finger down to her entrance, circling it gently, and she moans, grabbing my shoulder.

“Why, Ama?”

Breath puffs out of her lips, almost a laugh. “I love the way you say my name.”

“How do I say it?”

“Like Emma. Like you’re too fucking lazy to say Ama.”

I push my finger inside of her tight, wet heat, and she chokes off, scratching my neck.

“Why do you want to know about my tattoos?” I ask, dipping in and out of her, watching her throat work and her eyes squeeze closed.

“Oh god, Elliot. I’m gonna come.”

“Tell me why you want to know.” I twist my hand until I can circle her clit with my thumb. She gasps, and I can feel her muscles fluttering around me.

“B-because I want to know you. I want to know what you like, what you hate—even if it’s me.” I start pressing a second finger inside slowly. “Fuck fuck fuck—I want to love what you love, even if it’s extinct.”

She’s saying the most insane things—things that only get whispered to you in dreams. The kinds of things you’d kill other men for. I press my mouth against her jaw, sucking at her skin, hoping there are bruises on her when they cut the cake.

She drags me to her lips, and I pump my fingers into her quickly, swirling her clit. She comes quicker than any woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to pleasure, and while that number isn’t high, it’s still astonishing to watch her back bow and her hand slap over her mouth.

I think if she never talks to me again, I could probably survive off the feeling of her fluttering around my fingers, the choked gasp behind her hand, the impossible grip of her fingers on my collar.

To my credit, I keep moving in and around her until she finally takes a shuddering breath and grabs my wrist. I pull out of her gently, and wait for her to catch her breath.

She looks at me with glassy eyes, and I think even though her lipstick is still perfect, she looks perfectly debauched.

“Show me,” she pants. “I came on your fingers. Show me.”

I bark a laugh, and she smiles. “There’s one on my back and two on my legs.”

She bites back something that sounds like a groan, and before I can question it, she’s swinging her leg over mine, straddling my lap. My cock is straining against my zipper as is, but her legs on either side of mine may drive me mad.

She starts unbuttoning my shirt while kissing me, and mutters against my mouth, “Back, this time.”

I help her with the final buttons, and quickly it’s down my shoulders. She stretches up to her knees to curve over my back, and I feel her fingers running over my left shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Kadupul.”

“Tell me about it?”

From this position, her chest is pressed right against my jaw, so I take the opportunity to drag my mouth over the skin above her neckline. I feel her shiver.

“It’s from Sri Lanka, and it’s the most expensive flower in the world, because it’s literally priceless. Never been bought.”

“What else?” she asks. I feel her hands running down my stomach. When she tugs at my belt, I try not to choke.

“It only blooms at night, and dies before the sun comes up.”

She hums and starts nipping at my neck. My zipper is pulled down.

“You had to wear these fucking jeans again.” She laughs against my skin. I help her tug them open and down my hips.

My hands are on her waist, so I don’t even know what she’s intending until she pulls me out of my underwear. I feel the lace against my cock, and my head drops back.

“Ama. Are you sure?”

“I have an IUD,” she says, as if that answers it. Her lashes flutter at me. “How long do you think you can talk about flowers while I bounce on your cock?”

I feel the tip of me push against her heat. My eyes glaze over. “Not very long, actually. I think I’ll probably get … easily distracted.”

She shifts her hips, and I watch her tongue flick out across her perfect mouth. She leans forward to kiss me as her body takes me in. I pant against her mouth, and she sucks at my lower lip. I’m only a bit in when she curses.

“What’s wrong?” I grip her hips.

“Fucking god, Elliot,” she whimpers. “I forgot how big you are.”

I have to stare at the ceiling and count to ten to not lose it right then. She pumps herself on me, taking more each time. I try to keep still, but then I hear a zipper and the flutter of fabric. Her dress slides off her shoulders.

Now it’s my turn to curse. I grab her rib cage, tugging one bra cup down and quickly pulling her nipple between my lips. She gasps, and her hips start moving. I’m not fully inside, but I don’t care because she’s rutting against me like she’s going to come again.

I drag my fingers over her other breast, tweaking and pulling. The moan that falls out of her mouth is sinful, and maybe loud enough for the other side of the door. I don’t think either of us cares.

She’s got her face buried against my temple, and I can hear her breath ragged and shallow in my ear. She’s muttering little affirmations of yes and please and Elliot.

I switch to sucking on her other breast and let my hands dig under her dress. The lace of her underwear is rubbing against my cock, and I push it even further aside so I can circle her clit.

“Oh fuck!”

My lips release her breast to shush her, but her body is riding me, panting and moaning. I press hard on her clit, swirling different patterns, and I hear her gasp, her hips locking up. I’m so fucking close, but I have to hold it together so I can feel her come on my cock.

Her hands scrabble at my back, and when I realize her fingers are pressing into my kadupul tattoo, I groan. My hips jerk upward.

She yells, and at first I wonder if I hurt her, but then I realize I’m fully inside, her thighs are against mine. Her breath is hot on my ear as she whines out curse words. And then her walls are fluttering again.

She’s coming again, just because I filled her up.

My forehead presses against her shoulder, and my hips can’t stop moving. I’m flying in a tailspin as she clenches over and over, her fingers digging scars into the ink. My hips jerk up into her, and with every pump she hiccups a beautiful half moan.

I look up at her face just before I come inside of her, and I see her perfect mouth in an o, her eyes closed, and her jaw dropped.

“Amaryllis.”

Her lashes flutter open, and she’s staring into me as I release, hot and bright. Everything is starlight for millennia.

I’m panting, dropping back against the couch. As my heartbeat hammers and finally starts to slow, I look at her. Her dress is shoved down and rucked up. Her lips are still perfectly glossed, but there’s a raggedness about her eyes and hair that makes me proud.

I reach up and fill my hand with her breast, memorizing the weight of it. She shudders, and I lean forward to kiss her again—just as she dismounts from me.

She tugs her panties back into place, rearranges her dress, and zips it back up. I’m sitting with my dick out and my chest panting.

“I have to go check in out there,” she says with a quick smile. I nod, thinking I’ll probably just sleep here until she says it’s time to go home with her. “This was great. Are you good?”

I blink at her, realizing there is no going home with her. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll see myself out.”

“I’ll see you next weekend.” Maybe I’m imagining the tightness of her smile.

I nod and memorize her, in case this didn’t go as well as I thought.

When she slips out the door, I’m trying to remember her exact words: I want to know you. I want to know what you like, what you hate.

I button and zip my pants. I check to make sure there’s no trace of us.

I want to love what you love, even if it’s extinct.

I focus on the words rather than the hasty exit, the way she didn’t let me kiss her afterward. I go to my truck until it’s time to break down the reception, turning the engine on and blasting something asinine just to blow her words out of my head.