Chapter 8

Becky

4:15 AM THURSDAY

So, here I am in the kitchen of the bridal suite, gagging on Elvis’ cock.

Let’s be real for a second: I’m drunk off my ass on tequila and high on the bliss of a good time. And I’m being really fucking sloppy, slobbering all over his thick, massive uncut dick. I’m slurping it up like I’m a UCLA co-ed, and his cock is a fresh bowl of instant ramen. There’s a reason they’re called the good old days, you know.

“Mm. That’s right, you fucking slag,” he says, winding his fingers in my hair and curling one side of his upper lip. “Slob on this knob like you bloody well mean it.”

He’s got the sexiest British accent. This man is dirty fucking English, and sucking his cock makes me feel all kinds of God Save the Queen.

“Bloody hell, Becky,’ he growls in pleasure, rough-fucking my throat while I swallow him up. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

I blink up at him through watery eyes that sting from my smeared mascara. He’s got a blonde mane of hair like a lion, plus scruffy bad boy stubble along his rugged, handsome jaw. His Elvis sideburns need some work—it looks like they’ve been glued on lopsidedly, and even as I stare up at him, he reaches up and rips them off, one by one.

If I’m being totally honest, I’m like, 90% sure this man isn’t really Elvis.

I can see my reflection in his aviator shades. Part of me wishes he would take them off so I can stare up into his eyes, which I vaguely remember as being the prettiest color of blue. The other part of me fucking loves watching myself gagging and slobbering and choking on this tasty fucking cock.

I look happy.

I look like I’m having a fucking ball.

Balls. It’s like a stroke of genius hits me, and suddenly I’m working his slick, slobbery cock in both of my fists—it takes two just to handle the thing—while I lap at his balls, burying my nose in his golden curls and bathing them with my tongue.

God. He smells amazing—like, actually insanely good. I’ve never wanted to rub a man’s genitals all over my face before, y’know?

But between his sexy fucking accent, his thick, muscled thighs, his huge manhood, and his incredible smell—not to mention how super wasted I am right now—well, I just want his scent all over me. Like I want everyone who gets within a few fucking inches of this man—especially fucking Dan—to know that I totally fucking belong to him right now.

“Oh my god,” I say, beaming up at Elvis and giggling like an idiot. “I’m so drunk right now.”

“Ah, love,” Elvis coos sympathetically. He helps me to my feet and holds my jaw in his big, rough Elvis hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with those crazy birds of yours.”

Birds. That’s what he calls women.

I giggle at the thought of Mysti May as a long-necked goose, Percy as a plump chicken, and Sammi as a tequila-fueled falcon. All the while, he plays with my hair, untangling the waves on either side of my face and fixing the cheap tulle bridal veil that I have pinned in my hair.

“I really do mean it, darling,” Elvis says, looking wistful. “You’re as gorgeous as they come.”

“Oh, I’ll come alright,” I grin back maniacally.

Only, like, I’m drunk past the point of volume control, so it comes out like I forgot to turn off caps lock: “OH, I’ll COME ALRIGHT!”

Dramatically, I sweep my arm across the kitchen island, knocking glasses and bottles and what looks an awful lot like a small mountain of cocaine onto the floor. The white powder billows up around our bodies as I pop up onto the counter, hitch my lacy white skirt up, and spread my legs with a sensual drunkenness.

“C’mere, you hunk-a-hunk-of burnin’ love,” I slur, beckoning him forward with a come-hither twitch of my finger.

“Do you feel your temperature rising?” he teases, dragging his teeth over his lower lip.

I grin at him, taking him in in all of his sexy, jump-suited glory. He’s wearing a white and gold bedazzled Elvis jumpsuit with a red scarf and a silk-lined cape—only the jumpsuit is undone all the way to his crotch, and his big, thick cock is rising out of it with rock-hard determination.

In my party girl past life, I’ve seen Fat Elvis. I’ve seen Drunk Elvis. And I’ve seen Elvis flipping burgers at an In-N-Out at 3 a.m.

But Sexy Elvis? Sexy Elvis—working his cock in his fist while he’s slowly moving towards me, licking his lips—is definitely my favorite Elvis of all.

“Higher and higher,” I say, completing the lyric in a desperate little pout. “In fact…it’s burning through to my soul.”

Elvis slides his mirrored aviators down his sexy, crooked nose and raises his eyebrows at me.

“Tell me what you want, you little tart.”

I giggle as we smile at each other like we’re fucking teenagers in love.

“Fuck me, Elvis!” I shout, and then he’s kissing me. Long and hard and passionate, the way I’ve always secretly needed to be kissed.

Dan always kissed me like he was afraid I might bite.

When I bite Sexy Elvis, he only purrs and kisses me harder.

“Oh, I’ll fuck you, darling. But…” He slips two fingers between the soft, smooth lips of my pussy and drags them upward, like he’s ensuring that I’m too wet to function—which I am. “Let’s give your muff a little burning love of its own first.”

“Will your kisses lift me higher?” I giggle, but Sexy Elvis doesn’t answer, because Sexy Elvis has his face buried between my legs, and his mouth is suddenly too occupied for words.

Sexy Elvis eats pussy like a fucking champ. Sexy Elvis eats cunt like I’m a peanut butter and banana sandwich and he’s, well, Elvis himself.

My breath goes ragged in an instant.

Drunken orgasms—I love drunken orgasms. I love how they feel. I love how they make my whole body go to jiggly jelly in an instant. I love how being tipsy takes you straight to that weird floaty place that your head normally only goes to when you’ve been pushed over the edge.

Drunken orgasms are like taking the express route to Pleasure-town, and with Sexy Elvis as my conductor, I’m on a collision course with the O Train.

Or at least, I am until the showgirls come in.

They’re hot. They’re giggling. And they’re armed.

Three busty, sparkly dancers still clad in their rhinestone bikinis and feathered headdresses rush into the kitchen, spraying each other with cans of whipped cream.

And among them—with no less than half a can of whipped cream smeared over her body and her perfect beauty queen tits—is Mysti May.

She laughs like a madwoman as one of the showgirls—a blonde—dips her head to Mysti May’s nipple and licks the whipped cream off of it.

As for me and Sexy Elvis?

We’re caught in the crossfire of the sexy whipped cream war.

“Run!” I yell at him.

He flinches as a stream of whipped cream hits him smack dab on the side of his Sexy Elvis face.

“On three,” he agrees. “One—two—”

Roaring with laughter, Elvis shields me from further barrages of whipped cream with his cape as we flee the kitchen, an unfinished orgasm still begging to bubble over between my wobbly drunk girl legs.

“Your friend…bit of a carpet muncher, isn’t she?” Sexy Elvis asks, using his red silk scarf to mop the whipped cream up off his face.

He really does have a gorgeous face. Ruggedly handsome. Like he’s gotten into a fist fight or two in his day. Nothing like Elvis’ at all, really, but he’s idiotically good looking just the same.

I preen a little as I collapse into a pool chair. There are a lot of Elvises in Vegas, but I caught the handsomest Elvis of them all.

“She’s married, actually,” I giggle salaciously.

“To a woman,” he says with certainty.

I shake my head no. “But she did always want to compare tits after we made out…”

A wistful look crosses Elvis’ handsome face, as if he’s contemplating that scene vividly in his imagination: my curvy redheaded body straddling Mysti May’s lean, supermodel physique as we lock lips at a party while the crowd cheers us on.

“Did you?” he finally asks. “Compare tits, I mean?”

I shrug. “A couple times. We’re not just best friends…” A terrible grin forms on my lips. “We’re breast friends.”

Elvis laughs at my awful fucking joke, which I love him for. “You little fucking tart,” he growls in delight.

He prowls toward me, his cock hanging thick and heavy out of the split in his jumpsuit. The flight from the whipped cream-covered kitchen might have softened him up a little, but as he grins at me, I watch it stiffen again before my very eyes.

“And are you a muff diver too, Becky Brooks?”

His body slides up against mine, and in that little amount of friction, we can feel each other’s need.

“No,” I tell him with a coy, little smile. “I’m just…fun.”

“Bloody right you are,” he says, and then he’s kissing me again.

The night is cool, and the wind washes over us like the moon overhead is blowing us a kiss, but just like the song—his skin is burning up, and so am I.