Sinful Affairs (MM Erotica collection) のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

The rehearsal dinner had been perfect. Every toast landed, every course came out on time, and Maya had cried exactly the right amount for a bride the night before her wedding. By 10:30 PM, I had checked the last item off my list, confirmed tomorrow’s vendor arrival times, and retreated to my room with the intention of getting exactly seven hours of sleep. I lasted forty-five minutes. At 11:15, I gave up on the pretense of rest. My mind spun like a carousel I couldn’t stop, cycling through tomorrow’s timeline, backup plans for the backup plans, the ten thousand tiny details that could go wrong. I’d been planning weddings for six years. I knew the anxiety was irrational. That didn’t make it stop. I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped out of my room, thinking a walk might help. The resort at night was a different creature than during the day. Quieter. The kind of quiet that made you aware of your own breathing. I found myself drifting toward the lake, drawn by the sound of w

The morning blurred into a montage of small crises averted. A missing boutonniere was found in the groomsmen’s mini fridge for reasons no one could explain. A bridesmaid with a broken heel was solved with the backup shoes I’d packed in my emergency kit. The string quartet arrived late, and I had to personally escort them to the ceremony site, speaking in the calm-but-firm voice I reserved for vendor management. I was heading back to check on Maya when I nearly collided with Lucas in the hallway outside the bridal suite. “Sorry,” we said simultaneously, and then stood there, neither moving. “I was just going to check on Jake,” Lucas said. “I’m checking on Maya.” “Right. Good. That’s good.” Neither of us moved. We stood in that hallway like two magnets, pulled but not quite touching, and I thought about last night. About his hand in mine. About the things we’d said in the safety of darkness. “About last night,” Lucas started, and my phone rang. It was the caterer. Problem with

When I came, it was with his name on my lips and his hand wrapped around me, and the world went white and perfect for a moment. He followed seconds later, face buried in my neck, body shaking with the force of it. We lay tangled together afterwards, sweat cooling, hearts still racing. Lucas traced lazy patterns on my chest, and I played with his hair, and neither of us spoke because words felt inadequate. Eventually, he got up and returned with a warm washcloth, tending to me with the same careful attention he’d shown during. It should have been awkward, this intimate care, but it felt natural. Right. “Stay,” he said when we were clean. “Tonight. Don’t slip away to your own room to overthink this.” I should have. I should have processed everything alone, built my walls back up, and protected myself. But his bed was warm and he was looking at me with hope in his eyes, and I was tired of always doing what I should. “Okay,” I said, and settled against his chest. We talked as the m

Our first coffee date turned into a four-hour conversation at a hole-in-the-wall café in the West Village. Our second date was a walk through the High Line that lasted until the park closed. By the third date, dinner at a small Italian restaurant where Ethan knew the owner, I was beginning to suspect I was in trouble. “So let me get this straight,” Ethan said, gesturing with his fork. “You’ve been living in New York for six years and you’ve never been to MoMA?” “I’ve been busy,” I protested, smiling despite myself. “Architecture is demanding.” “Everything is demanding if you let it be.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those observant artist’s eyes. “When’s the last time you did something just because it made you happy? Not because it was good for your career or your five-year plan or whatever, but just because?” I opened my mouth to answer and found I couldn’t. The silence stretched between us. His expression softened. “Hey, I’m not judging. I spent my twenties b

Spring arrived with my parents. “They’re going to hate me,” Ethan said for the fifteenth time, adjusting his collar in the mirror. “They’re not going to hate you.” I was straightening the apartment with manic energy, moving a pillow three inches to the left, then three inches back. “They’re just traditional. And they have expectations. But they’ll come around.” He caught my hand as I passed, stopping me. “Hey. Look at me.” When I did, he continued, “Whatever happens, we’re okay. Right?” “Right,” I said, but my stomach was in knots. Dinner was a disaster from the moment my parents walked through the door. My mother’s smile froze when she saw Ethan, and my father’s handshake was perfunctory at best. They sat through the meal in painful politeness, asking Ethan questions that felt like tiny interrogations. “So, Ethan, what is it your family does?” My mother’s tone suggested she already knew the answer wouldn’t satisfy her. “My dad was a mechanic. My mom worked retail.” Ethan’s vo