I've never been to the wedding of people I didn't know before, but after watching Natalie and William during the ceremony, I want to be their friend.  I love them.  They are so beautiful and cute and they managed to loosen up a hundred and fifty uptight Brits and New Yorkers with their sweet joy.  Even though they're around my age, I feel protective of them, in the way that I feel protective of Harry and Sally, The Princess Bride and Westley, and Diane Court and Lloyd Dobler.

To my great horror, during the ceremony, when I started to imagine myself up there with John Cusack/Lloyd Dobler, my brain played a terrible trick on me. John Cusack suddenly morphed into Scott Braddock, and my imagined self, in her slip dress, looked happier than she usually does. I physically jerked back in my seat. Scott, who had his arm around me, furrowed his brow. “You okay?” he mouthed. I nodded. He squeezed my shoulder. I realized I was crying.

I’ve never imagined myself marrying anyone other than Lloyd Dobler before. I’m not sure which is more of a fantasy—the movie character or the amazing version of Scott that I would actually marry.

We are now seated at a round dining table, in what looks and feels like an enormous greenhouse.

As well as chandeliers and greenery, there are about a hundred glowing floating flameless candles in the air above the dining tables—at least it looks like they’re floating—and sometimes I pretend that I’m at Hogwarts instead of surrounded by stuffy New York finance people. Thankfully, the guests at our table are lovely. Next to me are a gorgeous couple named Avery and Luke. Avery used to be Natalie’s boss and William was Luke’s assistant. They’re engaged, and Luke’s English accent is insanely sexy. I make a mental note to write a part for Tom Hiddleston in my next rom com script.

Avery asks what kind of screenplays I write. Scott tells them I write “amazing hilarious romantic comedies.” She says, “Oh I love that, good for you!” and I can tell that she’s not a fan of the genre.

“Avery is big fan of romantic comedy films,” Luke says, patting her hand.

She gives him a look. There’s some kind of inside joke there. “Luke is a massive Hugh Grant fan,” Avery says. “They’re practically the same person.”

Ahhh, happy couples with their inside jokes and their looks and their hand-patting. Scott is caught up in a lively conversation with the man next to him, who is a close friend of the Braddock family. He keeps managing to side step any talk of politics by encouraging the man to tell stories about hanging out with New York novelist Jay McInerney in the Eighties and Nineties. He reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh every so often. It’s nice.

Dickhead—I mean—Carter Braddock makes his way over to our table to introduce himself and chat with everyone except me and Scott. He is a smooth talker, but surely everyone can see through him. Like literally-he is so superficial he is practically transparent.

I wait for a break in Scott’s conversation with the family friend and lean over towards him. “Are we staying to dance, or can we leave soon?”

“Trust me,” he says. “The dancing at these New York weddings is about as festive as jury duty.”

“Roger that.”

He leans in closer to whisper in my ear. “Plus, if we don’t get back to the room soon I’ll have to fuck you under the table.”

“Oooh. Does it have to be either/or?”

He laughs. Until Carter slaps his hand down on his shoulder.

“Bro.”

What kind of brother calls his actual brother “bro?” Gross.

Scott clears his throat. “Bro.”

“You two kids having a nice night? You need any tips on what to talk about with people who can talk about things besides Hollywood?”

I can tell he’s trying to be funny. I know it’s expected of New Yorkers to make fun of people who willingly live in Los Angeles. I wait for Scott to say something awesome, like: “Sure. Why don’t you teach me how to blow smoke up rich people’s asses while simultaneously talking out of your own ass?” But he says nothing, and Carter just keeps going.

“I wasn’t kidding, bro, I want to help you out. I mean, I want to help Mom and Dad to not have to worry about you so much. The trust fund is supposed to be a launch pad, not a safety net.”

“I’ve made money, Carter.”

“What—two years ago?”

I reach out to hold Scott’s hand, under the table. I hate how his brother is talking to him, and my instinct is to tear him a new one, but I don’t want to embarrass Scott in front of his extended family, at a wedding. Again.

“That’s not a career,” Carter continues. “Look, you’ve made your point. You got your arty degree, you’ve had your fun on the other coast. Enough.”

I intertwine my fingers with his, because holding his hand doesn’t seem like it’s enough right now. If it gets any uglier, I’m going to give him a very classy, tasteful, secret handjob.

“I’m not done yet,” Scott finally pipes up. “Erin and I just finished writing a script together. She’s really talented.”

“Oh great. So if it actually sells you’ll only get half the money, after taxes and agent and lawyer commissions. Fantastic business model.”

Scott squeezes my fingers with his own and smiles, shaking his head. I can see that he decided many years ago that there’s no point trying to change his brother’s mind or explain the valuable contribution that writers make to society. That’s a shame.

“Oh hey wait!” Carter is about to say something to me, something that he thinks is brilliantly hilarious, I can tell. “Wait—are you Aaron Sorkin? Creator of The West Wing?”

“And I wrote the Facebook movie!” I say, meeting his obnoxious stare head-on. Wow. Hilarious. Guess I was wrong about which one of you is the funny Braddock. “I also wrote Moneyball, Steve Jobs, and A Few Good Men, wherein I coined the popular phrase: ‘You can’t handle the truth!’”

“I didn’t realize what a big deal you are.”

“She is a big deal,” Scott says, firmly. He turns his head towards me. “We should say goodnight to the newlyweds and head out. It was wonderful to meet you,” he says to Avery and Luke. “Loved seeing you all again,” he says to everyone except Carter.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Carter says, with a tone that would be more appropriate if he’d said “I hope you get hit by a truck.”

I don’t even remember saying goodbye to the adorable newlyweds or Scott’s parents or the walk back to the hotel.

When we get into the elevator, we don’t wait for the doors to begin closing before kissing. He holds me in his arms. My feet are off the ground. I can’t even tell if he’s lifting me up or if I’m floating. My lips are just so drawn to his mouth.

No one has ever been so tender while kissing me this deeply before.

When we enter the hotel room, he doesn’t turn on any lights.

Everything has slowed down, except my pulse.

All I hear is the sound of our breathing. I put my hand on his chest, to see if his heart is beating as fast as mine is. It is. He puts his hand over mine and then lifts it to his mouth, kissing the palm of my hand, the inside of my wrist, gifting kisses all the way up my arm and then breathing in my perfumed neck like he’s drawing his last breath.

“You always smell so good. What is it?”

“Me.”

He cups my face in his hands and kisses me gently on the mouth. He kisses my forehead. He turns me around and unzips my dress, letting it drop to the floor. He stays behind me, presses against me, holds my breasts, kisses my neck.

His voice is husky and low. “I think we should take things slow tonight.”

I laugh.

“I’m not kidding.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to make this last. I’m going to kiss you. I’m going to kiss you all over. Every inch of your beautiful naked body. I’m gonna move my hands over your skin.”

I clear my throat. “That sounds good. What about that thing you said earlier about how you couldn’t wait to fuck me? That sounded good too.”

He suddenly lifts me up, carries me in his arms, over to the bed, and gently places me down on it. I lay there looking up at him, in my bra and panties. He pulls off my shoes, removes his bowtie, unbuttons his shirt. “I’ll kiss you and touch you for as long as you can take it. And when you want me to fuck—I will.”

“Deal.” I sit up to unzip his pants. I can’t wait for him to do any and all of those things. When his pants fall to the floor, he reaches around to unhook my bra, tossing it aside.

He leans down into me, so I lay back. He slowly removes my panties, and I feel so unsettled, lying here, completely naked, while he gazes down at me.

“You are so beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

I shrug and wriggle around, silently willing him to ravish me.

He is kissing my neck, warm tongue swirling, lips sucking, teeth lightly biting. “Erin Duffy, you are beautiful and I want you to know it.” One of his hands is on the small of my back, while the other strokes my breast, my abdomen, my hips, the curve of my bottom, my thighs, gliding across my skin so lightly, surveying the landscape of my body with a tenderness that is unnerving—even for New York Me—but also so sensual.

He kisses all around my breasts, my stomach, while I lie here trembling in anticipation but also in fear because this feels so intimate and real. No one has ever taken in my body like this before. I feel like I’m losing my intimacy virginity, and I don’t know if I’m ready for this sort of thing. Or maybe I’m not ready for this sort of thing with Scott Braddock.

“You can’t stop thinking, can you?” Scott sounds a little bemused, but mostly disappointed.

“I just…” I just can’t handle the truth. “I want you inside me.”

“Is that what you want?” He licks me once, between my legs. It sends a shockwave through my entire body.

“Yes.”

“You just want me to fuck you.” He sounds angry and judgmental. Shouldn’t he be thrilled?

I open my eyes and glare at him. “I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Good.” I close my eyes and he disappears from the bed for a moment. Did I make a mistake? Am I pushing him away? What kind of idiot refuses the opportunity to have a man make sweet love to her?

My thoughts are silenced when I feel the weight of him on top of me and he slides into me, feeling somehow bigger and stiffer than ever before. I gasp, feeling the hot sting, but welcoming the contact again, finally.

This friction between us is what my body and mind craves. Is it so terrible that my heart is taking its time learning to crave anything more? Isn’t that something to be proud of?

He inhales sharply through his teeth, then holds his breath, pressing into me, slowly building up to a rhythm, his body flat against mine.

I hike my feet up, rest them on the backs of his thighs, and wriggle around, subtly changing angles. We are usually so much more athletic in our encounters, but he is so deep inside of me this time, fearlessly reaching a hidden part of me that needs to be reached. This time, it’s not like he’s giving me an orgasm—-thrusting it at me—it’s like he’s offering to let me take it.

The dull pressure at the center spreads through me slowly, alternately pulling me inwards and towards him. It feels like I’m drowning and being rescued by him at the same time. I let out a sigh—of relief. Yes, my body is saying, yes, this is how it’s supposed to feel, keep going.

Instinctively, our hips begin to rock faster.

“Erin,” he whispers.

“Shhh.” I hold his face and I kiss him, sucking on his tongue until I have to cry out because I am so overwhelmed. I say his name. Over and over and over.

This must be what ecstasy feels like.

My eyes are wide open. I look up at the ceiling, holding him tight when he comes. The sounds he makes are so beautiful—masculine and vulnerable—and I continue to hold him while my orgasms go on and on and on. Not fireworks, but warm waves of energy, and he holds onto me, absorbing all of it, and feeling pretty damn good about masterfully giving me what I didn’t even know I wanted, I’m sure.