Wedding of the Century update

Felicia Hardy’s hotel seemed designed to depress Peter with his own circumstances. There were oil paintings on the wood paneled walls, soft music from a live band filtering out of the bar, and a deep carpet that seemed to massage Peter's feet after how many steps he'd taken to get here from the nearest bus stop.

The doorman… concierge? Maître d?... directed him to the elevator once he said he was there to see Felicia. He went to press the call button and his hand nearly collided with that of a woman.

She wore shorts and a shirt and no bra, though he would've thought she'd need one, with the bust she had. It was putting up a good fight against gravity, which Peter usually associated with aftermarket parts, but if they weren't real, they were done by a good enough surgeon to be better than real…

Peter suddenly realized how much thought he had put into a stranger's cleavage when the elevator arrived with a ding. He hustled inside the car. 

What floor? he asked when the woman got on too.

“Twelve.”

“Same here.”

She smiled at him and leaned forward a little. There was a slit down the front of her shirt and at every heaving breath, it yawned open to show him the soft smooth flow of her chest. “You wouldn't happen to be Peter Parker, would you?”

“Sometimes they tell me I look like him,” Peter said, smiling back. “I guess I'm here to make you look beautiful.”

“I hope you won't charge me too much. I did try to make it easy for you.”

“That's the thing. I charge more when the job doesn't challenge me enough.”

“Then I'll have to try and butt heads with you. I'm not made of money, Mr. Parker,” Felicia said, brushing the smooth cascade of platinum hair away from her eyes to expose their full jade beauty to him. A little off from the shade of Mary Jane’s.

His cheeks burned. It was easy to flirt with this woman… but it made Peter remember how intense things had been with MJ, how much more meaningful it felt, even when they were just trading quips…

That was an illusion of course. Mary Jane was a celebrity. It was her job to make fans think they had some special relationship with her. The same way this woman no doubt was an old hand at charm. It was painless, but that's all it was.

The elevator let them out with another ding. Felicia stepped into the hall, her peaked breasts shifting inside her tee.

“I'm over here,” she told him, taking her room key from her pocket. Peter followed her. As she unlocked the door to her apartment, all Peter could think was of how beautiful she was. His heart pounded. He felt feverish. He busied himself with his camera bag rather than stare.

Felicia opened the door and went inside, beckoning him after her with a friendly grin. He'd been watching her hips shift ahead of him; when she turned her head back, he snapped his head up to meet her eyes.

“Make yourself at home,” she said, sitting down to remove her shoes.

Peter looked around. The first room he could see of the apartment matched the luxury downstairs. Sunlight drifted through tall windows, lighting up a couch, cabinets, an ottoman, and a large TV set. Half the room was a photography studio in miniature. The wall was a blank slate with a projector set up before it. In the corner was a vanity dominated by a ring light. Felicia had the full influencer setup.

“Would you like a drink?” Felicia asked, coming up onto her bare feet. She walked into a neighboring kitchenette before he could answer.

“Yes please,” said Peter, to be polite.

“Any preference?” she asked, turning around to face him while leaned against the refrigerator, holding an ever-present smile on Cupid's bow lips, like he was amusing her with the way he breathed.

Peter made himself blink out of contact with those vast green eyes. “Something wet.”

She nodded, feline grin firmly in place, though he couldn't be sure whether she was smiling at the joke or just at him. Peter sat down on the couch, wondering if he should take off his shoes. He got the feeling that if Felicia wanted him to, she would take them off herself.

Slender fingers extracted a bottle from the fridge and she stepped away from it, leaving the door to sweep shut.

“Here you go,” she said, dropping the bottle in his lap. Her fingers lingered on the bottleneck as they came off it. “Enjoy.”

Used to opening bottles alone, at home, Peter thought nothing of simply wrenching away the pry-off cap.

Felicia arched an eyebrow. “Trying to impress me, Mr. Parker?”

“Just thirsty,” Peter said, looking up into her eyes past the thrust of her breasts against her shirt.

“I can see why she likes you.”

“Who, Mary Jane? No, she doesn't like me…”

“Oh?”

“I mean, she likes me, but just as a friend.”

“So you're single.”

Peter took a big drink from the bottle. It burned his throat so much he worried he'd been poisoned, until Felicia reached out to take the bottle from him. Her long tapered fingers brushed against his. The whole bottle couldn't have burned like his skin did after touching hers.

“She's a very good model,” Felicia said.

Peter looked at her in confusion. “Mary Jane?”

Felicia nodded. “Even if you're only friends, you must like the way she looks.”

“I mean, yeah, but she's… I'm not looking for a relationship right now.”

“Me neither,” Felicia said, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Here's what I want.”

She leaned over him, almost making him feel her against him before she stretched a hand down to his lap. Peter didn't know how to react: not until she plucked a magazine from between the couch cushions and held it in front of him.

The cover advertised a pictorial by Mary Jane Watson. She wore a silk nightgown, standing in a bedroom door with light streaming out all around her, silhouetting her perfectly formed body within the loose gossamer.

Peter gulped. “That's some nice sleepwear.”

She stayed leaning over him, her body heat wheedling at him. Peter resisted the urge to flare his nostrils for more as he caught the scent of her perfume.

“I don't want pajamas, Mr. Parker. I sleep in the nude.”

Felicia dropped the magazine into his lap. She slid her fingertips over the picture until she was touching the right edge. She opened the magazine up, flipping from page to page, making Peter feel one flickering note of pressure after another against his groin.

“Maybe there's a table we can read this at?” Peter asked, jaw clenched.

“I want this,” Felicia purred, arriving at Mary Jane's photo shoot. She tapped on the glossy page, and on Peter's member underneath.

His eyes hooded, he looked down at her hand and it was hard to remember that she was just pointing out the picture to him. Reality and imagination blurred as he sensed her closeness in all respects.

Peter managed to focus his eyes. There was Mary Jane, modeling swimwear. Her chest pushing a poncho of white stretch terry out from her body. Beside her was Felicia. She wore a string bikini, the triangles clinging wetly to her ample breasts and lower, very low, the sultry line of her body moving from her flat belly to her pliant loins.

“You want to be a model?” Peter asked, trying to discern what she was getting at while his brain felt like it was on fire.

“I want to be the model,” Felicia corrected him. “Why should Mary Jane be the centerpiece while I’m a stage prop? What does she have that I don’t have? The body? The brains? The red hair?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Peter said, his voice barely audible as he stared at the borderline pornographic photo, highly aware that the woman so bracingly displayed there was also all but rubbing against him, her hand still so close to his crotch…

“Exactly,” Felicia said, moving her hand to his thigh, which Peter was almost thankful for, only actually having her touch him wasn’t much better for his self-control. “All I need is that last little push.” She squeezed his thigh. “That stroke of luck that can make or break a woman. Only I don’t wait for black cats to cross my path. I do my own luck.”

She slid off the armrest, crouching behind the couch instead, her arms extended over its back to wrap around Peter’s shoulders.

“And how lucky would I be if Mary Jane Watson’s pet photographer suddenly started photographing me?”

“I’m not her pet—” Peter began, but as he turned to look at her, he saw that she was wiping the high, smooth plane of her forehead with a fabric he recognized from her midcalf skirt. He suddenly realized that if he looked, he would see her bare thighs, her panties if she were wearing any. He chewed at the inside of his cheek instead.