Page 117 of Mexico Can Choke On It
If not for the delicious ache between my thighs and suspicious red marks circling my wrists—are rope burns my new favorite accessory?—I’d swear last night was another ridiculously hot Sterling sex dream.
But it wasn’t.
The orgasm count was real—I lost track after five. The emotional mess I made of myself? Also very real. I told him I wanted him—like a hormonal idiot—with words and everything.
Now I’m sweating my ass off in Casa Cashmere’s pretentious art salon, my houndstooth Valentino mini dress trapping heat like it’s mad at me. Still, I’m doing my best to resemble a functioning adult.
Unlike Echo—the Human Psychedelic Trip—who is channeling his inner cult leader for a crowd of bored billionaires. His man bun glistens, and his linen pants are soaked in either passion or humidity—I don’t want to know which. He’s a true showman, grunting loudly and flailing his paintbrush with passion.
His latest creation:the wedding portrait.
Bryce isn’t here.
No text. No “lastnight was fun” follow-up. Not even a tragic little emoji. Just… poof. Gone. He might as well have left a hundred-dollar bill on my nightstand.
Ugh. I need to think about something else.
The morning sun cuts through the stained-glass skylight overhead, filling the room in a dazzling array of colors. On a raised platform built for ego and aesthetics, Gavin and Fiona pose with confidence.
My brother is the picture of masculine elegance in his charcoal suit. Beside him, Fiona predictably drips in diamonds, her emerald couture gown a cascading waterfall of silk and sparkle. There’s no mistaking it—she’s glowing from all the attention.
They look annoyingly perfect. And theyassumethat is the pose Echo is painting.
He is not.
From my strategic corner position, I’ve got front-row seats to Echo’sinterpretationof wedded bliss.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.This isn’t distinguished artwork. This is what happens when Michelangelo gets horny and traumatizes future generations.
Canvas-Fiona is nude. Notsortanude. Notstrategically draped.No. She is full-on, Renaissance-reclining-on-a-cloud nude. One arm lifted like she’s summoning the spirits of lust, the other cradling a breast to an audience of peeping Tom cherubs.
And my brother?
Homeboy has wings.
Massive, iridescent, Victoria’s-Secret-model-type wings, spread behind him like he’s leading the armies of heaven into war. Instead of a sword, he’s clutching Fiona as if she’s the last virgin in the apocalypse. Awhisper of fabric hovers over his junk—the only thing standing between this painting and an NC-17 rating.
Gavin has no idea.
The poor man thinks he’s getting a legacy portrait. Something classy. Something his future children will stand under in monogrammed pajamas while sipping hot cocoa at Christmas.
I’m struggling so hard not to laugh that I might swallow my own tongue.
“Each brushstroke celebrates the mystic union of spirit and flesh!” Echo proclaims, sweeping his brush dramatically over Gavin’s painted nipples. “The divine consummation of soulmates reborn in celestial bliss!”
My brother adjusts his pose slightly, appearing pleased as punch. “We wanted something that captures our enduring love.”
Oh, it’s capturing something all right.
I should tell him that he’s the unwilling star of Biblical erotica.
I absolutely will not.
This is my reward for waking up in a post-orgasm shame spiral while my sex partner-turned-ghost haunts me with his absence.
Reluctantly, I return to my laptop.Petra Brinkman: Wedding Assistant.That’s my role here. NotSpiraling Girl Who Had Scream-Your-Throat-Out Sex with the Groom’s Best Friend.
I force a reset. Time to get my head in the game. Finish this job for Gavin, secure the college funds, and then go save the world as a kickass pro bono lawyer. I repeat it, a silent promise, even as my brain’s rebelling and returning to Bryce.Damn it.
