Wedding Ruin: Part 3

We didn’t make it quick.

By the time Ethan finally pulled out of me the second time, my knees were shaking and the decorative rose petals on the bed were crushed and scattered. His come was already sliding down the inside of my thighs, warm and unmistakable. The air in the suite smelled like sex and the expensive candles someone had lit earlier for the newlyweds.

I sat on the edge of the mattress trying to catch my breath. Ethan stood, fixed his trousers, and ran a hand through his hair until it looked almost presentable again. His bow tie was still loose around his neck. There was a red mark on his throat where I had bitten him when I came the second time.

“You need to get back first,” he said, voice still rough. “If we walk in together people will notice.”

I nodded. My legs felt unreliable when I stood. I found my panties near the foot of the bed and pulled them on. The fabric was immediately damp. There was no way to clean up properly—only a quick wipe with a handful of tissues from the bathroom that did almost nothing. His come kept leaking out of me in a slow, steady trickle that soaked into the black lace with every step.

The bridesmaid dress was wrinkled from being left in a heap on the floor. I stepped into it and turned so Ethan could zip me up. His fingers brushed the bare skin of my back as he did it. When the zipper reached the top he leaned in and pressed a brief, open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck.

“You look like you’ve been fucked,” he murmured against my skin.

“I have been.”

“Good.”

I smoothed the skirt with both hands, checked my reflection in the full-length mirror, and tried to do something with my hair. My lipstick was gone. My cheeks were still flushed. There was no hiding the slightly glassy look in my eyes. I reapplied what little makeup I had in my clutch and decided it would have to be enough.

Ethan watched me the entire time from the edge of the bed, expression dark with residual heat and something that looked a lot like possession.

“Go,” he said finally. “I’ll wait ten minutes and come down the other stairs.”

I paused at the door with my hand on the handle. The muffled thump of music and voices rose from the ballroom below. My sister was down there. Her new husband. Our entire family.

I could still feel Ethan’s come slipping out of me.

I opened the door and stepped into the quiet corridor.

The walk back to the reception felt longer than the climb up. Every step reminded me of what we had just done. The wetness between my thighs was impossible to ignore. My panties were ruined. A thin, warm line threatened to escape down my leg if I didn’t keep my thighs close together. I focused on the rhythm of my heels on the marble and the need to look normal by the time I reached the ballroom doors.

I slipped back in through the side entrance.

The party was in full swing. People were dancing. The cake had been cut while we were gone. Someone pressed a fresh glass of champagne into my hand before I could orient myself. I smiled automatically and took a sip that tasted like nothing.

My sister spotted me from the sweetheart table and waved me over, radiant and a little tipsy.

“There you are,” she said, pulling me into a quick hug. “I thought you’d fallen in. Everything okay?”

“Long bathroom line,” I lied. My voice sounded almost steady. “And then I needed air. It’s warm in here.”

She laughed and squeezed my hand. “Tell me about it. Have you seen Ethan? Chris is looking for him. They’re supposed to do the thing with the cigars.”

“Not recently,” I said, and the lie sat easily on my tongue even while her husband’s best friend’s come continued to leak out of me an inch at a time.

I stayed beside her for a few minutes, nodding at the appropriate moments, laughing when everyone else laughed. The whole time I could feel the slow, sticky evidence of the suite with every small shift of my weight. When I finally excused myself to the edge of the dance floor, I caught my reflection in one of the mirrored panels along the wall. I looked flushed and bright-eyed. Happier than a maid of honor with sore legs and ruined underwear should have looked.

Ethan reappeared twelve minutes later.

He walked in through the main doors like he had only stepped out for a phone call, jacket back on, bow tie roughly retied. Chris intercepted him immediately and steered him toward the terrace for the cigar toast. Ethan went without protest. At the last second, just before he disappeared outside, his eyes found mine across the crowded room.

The look lasted less than a second.

It still made my empty cunt clench around nothing.

I spent the rest of the reception in a strange, heightened state—dancing when asked, accepting congratulations on my sister’s behalf, smiling for the group photos—while my body quietly reminded me of every place Ethan had been inside me. By the time the newlyweds left in a shower of sparklers, my panties were a lost cause and my legs still felt weak.

I didn’t speak to him again that night.

I didn’t need to.

When I finally got back to my hotel room across the street and locked the door, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, lifted my dress, and watched the last of him slip down my inner thigh in the bright light. The sight of it sent a fresh, shameful pulse of heat through me.

I cleaned up eventually.

But I fell asleep still feeling him, and already knowing that whatever we had started in that bridal suite was nowhere near finished.