Chapter 15: Jamie's mouth stretches obscenely around Adrian's thick shaft as the priest's bible hits the ground, Adrian's fingers tangled in Jamie's hair while pre-cum drips down his chin onto the pristine white runner - the ultimate 'fuck you' to the board's expectations played out before three hundred stunned guests.
The Hartley estate had never seen a wedding like this.
The air in the grand ballroom hung thick with the cloying scent of ten thousand white roses and the whispered judgments of two hundred guests. Afternoon light streamed through the high, leaded windows, casting cathedral patterns on the marble floor. Adrian stood at the end of the aisle, his tuxedo a prison of silk and wool, his smile a practiced, numb thing. He felt the weight of every stare, the expectation, the performative perfection. This was the final act, the ultimate seal on their gambit.
Jamie walked toward him, escorted by a confused but beaming aunt. He looked like a fallen angel in his simple, perfectly tailored suit, his sun-streaked hair defiantly messy against the starch and polish of everything else. His eyes, though—they were fixed on Adrian with an intensity that cut through the haze. There was no smile on his face, only a fierce, almost frightening focus.
The ceremony washed over Adrian in a wave of formal phrases. He heard his own voice, steady and clear, reciting vows about fidelity and support. He meant them, with a terrifying depth that stole his breath. But they were just words in a script.
Then it was Jamie’s turn.
The officiant, a venerable judge who had known the Hartley family for decades, prompted him. “Jamie, do you take Adrian to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward…”
Jamie’s gaze never wavered from Adrian’s. He took a slow, deep breath, and for a second, Adrian thought he saw a flicker of the old Jamie—the hesitant, insecure friend.
Then he saw the shift. It was in the set of Jamie’s jaw, a hardening. His eyes flicked past Adrian’s shoulder, toward the front row where Eleanor Vance sat, impeccable in icy blue, her expression one of detached, analytical disdain. She held a flute of champagne, the bubbles rising in a serene, mocking column.
Jamie’s lips curled, not into a smile, but a predator’s baring of teeth.
“I do,” Jamie said, his voice ringing clear in the silent room. “But I think actions speak louder than words.”
Before Adrian’s brain could process the statement, Jamie moved.
He dropped to his knees on the hard marble, the sound a shocking crack in the sacred hush. A collective, sharp gasp ripped through the ballroom. Adrian’s world narrowed to the man before him. Jamie’s hands were deft, unhesitating. He popped the button of Adrian’s trousers, tugged the zipper down, and reached into the opening of his briefs.
Adrian’s cock, already half-hard from a day of tension and the visceral presence of Jamie, sprang free into the cool, rose-scented air. A second, louder wave of shock echoed off the walls. Someone choked.
Jamie looked up, his eyes locking with Adrian’s for one searing, infinite second. Then he leaned forward and took Adrian fully into his mouth, sinking down until his nose pressed against the coarse hair at the base. The heat was an electric shock. The wet, tight suction was a claim staked in front of God and everyone.
Adrian’s hands flew out, bracing on Jamie’s shoulders. A strangled sound, half-groan, half-protest, tore from his throat. He saw, over Jamie’s bent head, the stunned horror on his mother’s face. He saw the flash of paparazzi cameras at the discreet perimeter—Leo would be having a stroke. He saw it all through a shimmering haze of unbearable, blinding arousal.
But most clearly, he saw Eleanor Vance.
Her polished composure shattered like the crystal flute she dropped. It hit the marble with a brilliant, explosive crash, spraying champagne and shards across the floor. Her mouth was a perfect, horrified ‘O’. Her victory, her investigation, her entire worldview of proper conduct and hidden secrets—it was all being publicly, graphically throat-fucked into oblivion.
Jamie began to move. He pulled back until just the slick, swollen head rested on his tongue, then plunged down again, his throat working open around the girth. A low, obscene gagging sound vibrated through Adrian’s core. Spit slicked the length of him, glistening in the afternoon light. Jamie’s hands gripped Adrian’s thighs, holding himself steady as he bobbed, his rhythm becoming more confident, more desperate.
“Jesus Christ, Jamie,” Adrian breathed, the words for his ears alone. His fingers tangled in Jamie’s hair, not pushing, just holding on as his hips gave a small, involuntary jerk.
Jamie moaned around him, the sound a filthy, wet vibration that pushed Adrian perilously close to the edge. He was using his mouth like a weapon, like a paintbrush, creating a masterpiece of scandal. He pulled off with a lewd pop, his lips swollen and wet, a string of saliva connecting them to Adrian’s glistening shaft.
“Tell them,” Jamie rasped, loud enough for the first few rows to hear. His voice was wrecked, raw. “Tell them whose husband I am.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He dove back down, taking him deeper, his nose buried in skin, his body shaking with the effort. Adrian threw his head back, a groan tearing from his chest. The tension, the fear, the weeks of performance, all coalesced into a white-hot point in his gut. He came with a force that shuddered through his entire body, pulsing deep into Jamie’s waiting throat.
Jamie swallowed, once, twice, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, before pulling off and staying on his knees, panting, a trickle of white escaping the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact with Adrian. The silence was absolute, a vacuum waiting to be filled.
Slowly, Jamie rose to his feet. He turned, facing the stunned, silent congregation. He looked directly at Eleanor, who was as white as the roses, a hand pressed to her chest.
“Any questions,” Jamie said, his voice now clear and steady, “about the consummation of this marriage?”
Chaos erupted.
Cries of outrage, bursts of nervous laughter, the frantic buzzing of voices. The judge stood frozen, his book of ceremonies hanging limp at his side. Adrian, his body humming, quickly tucked himself away and fastened his trousers, his hands trembling only slightly.
He stepped forward, putting his arm around Jamie’s waist, pulling him close. He leaned into the microphone.
“I believe,” Adrian announced, his voice cutting through the din, “that concludes the ceremony. The reception will proceed in the garden. Thank you all for sharing in our… joy.”
He led Jamie down the aisle, past rows of stunned faces, past his ashen mother, past Eleanor who looked, for the first time, utterly defeated. They moved through the grand foyer and out into the blinding sunshine of the estate gardens, the noise of the scandalized crowd boiling out behind them.
They didn’t stop until they reached the relative seclusion of a walled rose garden, the sound muffled by thick hedges. Then Adrian spun Jamie around and pushed him against the ancient, warm stone wall, crushing their mouths together. The taste of himself on Jamie’s tongue was darkly, profoundly arousing.
“You insane, brilliant, fucking artist,” Adrian gasped between kisses. “You completely fucking unhinged…”
“She was watching,” Jamie said, his eyes blazing. “She was watching with her little fucking smirk, thinking she’d wait us out, catch us in a lie. So I gave her the truth. I gave it to all of them. No take-backs. No doubts.”
Adrian rested his forehead against Jamie’s, their breaths mingling. “They’ll never recover from that. I’ll never recover from that.”
“Good.” Jamie’s hands came up to frame Adrian’s face. “I don’t want you to. I want you to remember the taste of that power. It wasn’t yours. It wasn’t the board’s. It was ours. We just rewrote every rule they had.”
From the ballroom terrace, they could hear the strained beginnings of a string quartet, the uneasy murmur of the reception attempting to begin.
“We have to go back out there,” Adrian said, not moving an inch.
“I know.”
“They’re all terrified of you now.”
Jamie finally smiled, a real one, bright and wild. “Even better.”
Later, after two hours of enduring stares, whispered conversations that hushed at their approach, and grimly polite congratulations, they escaped. Their driver, Leo, held the car door open with the same impassive face he’d worn after the office lounge. The man was a national treasure.
Inside the rolling silence of the town car, heading not to the airport for a honeymoon but back to the city, back to their life, the adrenaline finally bled away, leaving a deep, vibrating quiet.
Jamie stared out the window, his head leaning against the glass. “My aunt Margaret fainted,” he said, a faint, hysterical laugh in his voice. “They had to call a doctor.”
“Worth it,” Adrian murmured, taking his hand.
“It felt like painting,” Jamie said after a long moment, his voice soft, introspective. “But with consequences. Real, human consequences. It wasn’t on a canvas that you can ignore or hang in a quiet corner. It was on them. On their minds. I’ve never made art that truly mattered before.”
Adrian brought Jamie’s knuckles to his lips. “It mattered.”
They drove through the gathering dusk, the city lights beginning to sparkle like the shattered glass on the ballroom floor. The battle lines were drawn in a way they could never be redrawn. The marriage of convenience was ashes. What remained, smoking and vital and raw, was simply a marriage.
And for the first time, Adrian Hartley, who feared nothing in the boardroom, felt a true, crippling fear. Not of the scandal, or of Eleanor, or of lost deals.
He was terrified of the depth of his love for the beautifully reckless man beside him, and the devastating, glorious ruin it promised to bring to his carefully constructed world.