Chapter 31
Irie
We lie under the stars, basking in silence and our shared confessions and new admissions. It doesn’t feel right to say anything more, to taint the complicated beauty of tonight with small talk.
“We should head back,” I say, gazing at a darkened sky. I don’t feel like dealing with my aunt’s wrath if I stay out too late. Despite the fact that I’m a grown woman, I’m staying at their house and fully expected to respect that curfew.
We stroll the three blocks back to my aunt and uncle’s house hand in hand relatively unrushed, and we stop at the rental car at the end of the driveway. All the other cars that were here earlier appear to be long gone and the house is mostly dark save for a few inside lights.
“I should probably go check into my room,” he says, his fingers twisted with mine as we face one another. “You’re welcome to stay with me …”
He made that same offer before, and as much as I’d love it, I can’t. “I need to stay with Bette.”
“All right,” he says, sighing as he leans in and tastes my mouth one last time tonight. “Call me in the morning.”
I amble up the driveway as he climbs into the driver’s side of the Nissan, and I sneak inside, reeling.
Every part of me is lit, alive in a way I’ve never known.
I feel unstoppable, giddy, and I couldn’t wipe this ridiculous smile off my face if I tried.
It’s a foreign sensation—all of it, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize …
… this must be what it feels like to be loved.
Chapter 32
Talon
We file into a pew in the middle of the church Saturday afternoon, next to a woman with an oversized hat and a man in a mothball-scented tweed suit. Their expressions are somber, mournful almost. But I think that’s just the way they look …
The place is covered in pale pink flowers and silver ribbons and a woman in the front plays How Great Thou Art on an organ. Irie says this is what weddings are like in Iron Cross—a hybrid between a marriage ceremony and a service, but with an odd funeral vibe to round it out.
“You excited?” Irie asks with a teasing wink. “You seem like the kind of guy who just loves a good Midwestern wedding.”
“Let’s be real: I’m just here to catch the bouquet.”
She laughs through her nose, but her smile fades the moment her attention skirts over my shoulders toward a clean-cut dark-haired man making his way down the aisle.
He takes a seat in the row behind us, a leggy brunette with glossy curls on his arm. The stench of his overpowering perfume is almost nauseating as it assaults the air around us. Irie’s hand is still in mine, only there’s a slight tremble to it.
It’s him.
Trey McAvoy.
Has to be.
I don’t think she’s afraid of him—I think his sheer presence brings out all the deep shit she’s been avoiding all these years.
I give her hand a tight squeeze before leaning in and whispering, “Fuck that guy.”
Her posture gives a little, and she relaxes against me, resting her head against my shoulder.
“I love you,” I whisper next.
“I love you too.”
Saying those words to her last night in the football field was the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever done—but once they were out, I’d never felt so liberated.
So I’m that guy now.
Drunk-in-love, drunk on her.
After a few more minutes, the pews fill all the way to the back, and the groom makes his way up front next to the preacher.
As soon as the music begins to change, five sets of bridesmaids and groomsmen march down the aisle, all of them carbon copies of one another. Honestly with as prissy and conniving as Lauren is, I’m shocked she was able to scrounge up these many friends for her bridal party.
Irie keeps her attention on the front of the church, her gaze never veering, not once. But every time I steal a quick look around, I catch him staring, watching the two of us. I even shoot him a smile. Not a kind one of course, one that implies that I see him, I’m onto him. That she’s mine. That he can gawk all he wants but she’ll never want him, she’ll never be his again.
His gaze is so heavy, so penetrating, so invasive, I’m going to need a chemical shower to get it all off me.
As soon as the bridal party is settled up front, the music changes once again, the wooden pews creaking as everyone rises to acknowledge the bride. In the back of the church, Lauren stands in the whitest of white princess-style gown. An elaborate veil covers her face, hiding everything but her bright pink lips that match the plethora of pink flowers she’s had placed in every corner of the sanctuary.
A woman in front of us gasps when Lauren and her father pass, exclaiming to her husband that Lauren looks like a “modern-day Grace Kelly” … whoever that is.
A few moments later, Michael gives his daughter away and takes a seat next to Elizabeth in the front row, dabbing at the corners of his watering eyes.
It makes me think of Irie—and the fact that she doesn’t have a dad. Would she want Michael to give her away someday? Or maybe she doesn’t want to marry at all. Seems like everyone I know is swearing off marriage, and for a while, I was right there alongside them.
But when you meet someone and you know you want to spend the rest of your life with them, it changes your whole perspective on locking it down.
I glance at Irie, whose stoic expression is virtually unreadable, and I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking right now … specifically, if she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking.
* * *
They hold the reception—if you can even call it that—in the church basement. There’s no DJ. No bar. Just “refreshments,” a wedding cake, and an overflowing folding table covered in gifts for the newlyweds.
“They don’t believe in dancing,” Irie says to me as we scan the large fellowship hall. “It’s against their religion.”
“I mean, I get not wanting to blast Bruno Mars songs in God’s house and all of that, but I’ve never heard of dancing being against anyone’s religion.”
“It’s too seductive,” she says, her tone nonplussed. “Might encourage premarital relations.”
“Anyone who thinks dancing is too seductive has never seen my Grandma Mary breaking it down to Motown Philly.”
She laughs at my cheesy one-liner and bats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to go find Aunt Bette and get us a table before they all fill up. You want to grab us some cake and sparkling cider?”
“I’m on it.”
Irie disappears into the crowded room and I head toward the refreshments table, where the line is already eight people deep.
I’m minding my own business, waiting my turn, when some guy behind me clears his throat like he’s trying to get my attention. Curious, I glance back and find him.
The asshole of the hour—no, the asshole of the century.
“You’re here with Irie, right?” he asks, hands clasped in front of him as he puffs out his chest. His tone is a desperate attempt to be cool and friendly but his rigid posture and defensive stance are a glaring contradiction.
He’s intimidated by me.
Maybe even jealous.
Which makes no sense seeing how he threw Irie away like fucking trash after she gave him the night of his life.
The more I stare at this smug bastard’s pinched-in face, the tighter my fists clench. If I don’t get some goddamned wedding cake in my hands in the next fifteen seconds, it’s not going to look good for him.
“I, uh … we used to date,” he says, with a nervous chuckle, like I’m supposed to find that cute.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
His thin lips crack into a proud smile. “She stills talks about me, doesn’t she?”
I don’t know if it’s the arrogant funk permeating off his body or the fact that he thinks I’m dumb enough to believe he’s simply making conversation here and not trying
to infiltrate his nose in his ex-girlfriend’s business, but a flash of heat sears through me and my palms begin to twitch.
“We had a pretty bad falling out in the end,” he says, leaning in like it’s some kind of secret between us. “Always wondered what happened to her. She left Iron Cross after graduation and never came back. Always wondered if it had to do with me.”
I flatten my lips to keep from saying what I really want to say, and the cake line moves ahead.
“Honestly, I’ve known her for years and the first time she ever mentioned you was last night,” I say.
He chuffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Why would I lie to you about that? I don’t even know you. And honestly, I don’t know why you’re talking to me right now. If I were you, I’d be staying as far away as I could.”
His self-satisfied smirk vanishes. I can only assume he’s spent the last four years fantasizing about how much she was missing him, relishing in the fact that he thought he had the upper hand in the break up. I bet not once did he imagine her showing up to Lauren’s wedding completely smitten with someone new.
Leaning in, Trey sniffs. “You don’t scare me.”
I scratch at my temple before crossing my arms, sizing him up once more, examining a loose thread sticking out from the shoulder of his cheap suit jacket.
This dude is all for show.
He doesn’t care about being a decent person as long as he looks the part. On the inside, he’s just as fake and rotten as the nasty cologne he drowned himself in before he came here.
The line moves once more.
“Hey,” Irie’s voice calms the moment and I turn to my right to find her standing next to me. “I got us a table. Just seeing if you needed some help. Aunt Bette wants a piece of—”
Her eyes widen when she notices Trey.
“Hey, Irie,” he says, his mouth sliding into a slick grin … one I’d love nothing more than to smack off his self-righteous face. “Been a long time.”
I don’t know if Irie is verbally paralyzed in his presence or if she’s simply trying to take the high road by not engaging with this jackass, but she turns her back to him, like he isn’t even there, and for some reason I find it fucking hilarious.
I slip my hand into hers and the line moves once again.
And then I hear the word “slut” … clear as day … from Trey’s mouth.
It happens so fast—my balled fist coming into contact with the midline of his perfectly straight nose.
One clean slice of a punch and the jackass falls to the floor.
A woman screams.
Two men rush to his aid.
Irie slips her hands around my bicep, tugging me away from the scene as her uncle sprints across the crowded room.
There’s blood everywhere. Apparently the fucker bleeds easily. Someone yells for ice, another person yells for towels.
“We have to get out of here,” Irie says as her uncle pushes and shoves his way through the gathering crowd of worked-up wedding guests.
“You two!” he points at us—like she’s equally to blame for what just happened.
I lift a hand in protest as we back away. “We’re leaving.”
Irie takes me past the table where Aunt Bette is saving our spots and grabs her phone and little black clutch.
“What’s going on?” Bette asks, squinting across the room toward the circle of people trying to help poor, defenseless Trey McAvoy.
“Talon punched Trey,” Irie says. “We have to go.”
Bette’s face lights up and her hands clap, and before I know it, she’s rising from the table to give me an actual standing ovation. “Bravo, Talon. Bravo. I knew I liked you.”
“Bette, I’ll call you later,” Irie tells her before navigating us out of the fellowship hall, up the wooden stairs, and out the back door to the parking lot, where our Nissan chariot awaits.
My fist throbs, and my heart ricochets the way it does during the final seconds of the fourth quarter.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she says, breathless, her palm splayed across her forehead.
“I’m sorry. After what he said, I couldn’t stand back and—”
“No, don’t apologize,” she says, waving her hand. “That’s not what I meant. I mean … I’ve been fantasizing about punching him in the face for years and you did it!”
Irie throws her arms around me, bouncing on her toes.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her face buried against my neck. A moment later, she kisses me, soft and slow, her lips curling against mine. “Take me to your hotel. I don’t think I can wait any longer …”
Chapter 33
Irie
My heart beats in my ears as he unlocks the hotel room door. We step into a dark void, wrapped in a blanket of icy air that sends a thrill down my spine.
“You sure this is what you want?” he asks as the door floats shut behind us.
“Yes.”
He reaches for a light switch and a small lamp next to the king-sized bed illuminates. The suite is luxurious and contemporary—not your average Peony Falls, Missouri hotel room, and he curls his finger around mine, leading me to the foot of the bed.
Once there, he sits on the edge and pulls me into his lap. The hem of my dress rides up, inviting him to slide his palms up my bare flesh.
Originally I never intended to take things this far with him. It was never supposed to get physical. But then he held me in his arms last night and absorbed my sordid past with zero judgement, and when it was over, he told me he loved me.
And punching Trey at my cousin’s wedding? Well, that was the icing on the cake.
“I love you, Irie,” his words are delivered on cinnamon breath while his hands slide beneath my dress until he finds my panties. His movements are slow, deliberate. I don’t know why I expected the first time with him to be animalistic. Of course it wouldn’t be—the man is going to savor me, savor this moment.
Talon shrugs out of his suit jacket and leans back on the bed. I climb over him as he slides my panties down to my ankles, tossing them aside. A moment later, his hands cup my ass and he pulls me against him, my bare sex rocking against the outline of his throbbing cock that grows harder by the second.
I slide my dress over my shoulders and his hands travel up my back until he reaches the clasp of my strapless bra. Within seconds it’s gone, vanished into the dark void of the hotel room.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says, sitting up and taking a pert nipple between his lips as his hands continue to explore this newfound territory. He stops to kiss me, his tongue fondling mine, and a minute later he flips me to my back, crawling over my naked body. His mouth presses hot kisses against my collarbone, working his way between my breasts before traveling down my stomach, which caves against his touch. The faintest hint of his five o’clock shadow tickles my sensitive skin, and I reach down to run my fingers through his hair as I get comfortable.
A moment later, he’s kissing my inner thigh, moving closer and closer to the ache between my legs. Closing my eyes, I sink into the mattress, my body overcome with tiny earthquakes as the heat of his breath centers on the one place I want it most.
When the flick of his tongue dances across my seam, I let out a sigh, gripping a handful of sheets. He teases a finger down my slit before taking another taste, and another. With his corded steel arms hooked around my thighs, he pulls me closer to the edge of the bed, lowering himself to his knees and making a meal out of me.
I’m flushed with arousal, high as a kite on anticipation as he devours me, taking his time and bringing me to the edge and back more times than I can count.
It’s getting harder to fight the wave that wants to wash over me, each peak growing more intense than the one before. Finally I reach below, placing my hand over his, and I release a surrendered breath.
His heat leaves my thighs and he rises over me, his hand moving to his belt. I sit up to help him, my fingers tugging on his zipper, my hands grazing
the swollen bulge in his suit pants. He lowers his mouth against mine, depositing a biting kiss that tastes like my arousal and his sweet tongue all at once.
My heart ricochets as I take his veined cock in my hands a moment later, pumping the length as he stares deep into my eyes. A second later, I bring myself to the floor, the hotel carpet rough against my knees, and I take him in my mouth.
Talon moans, his hands making fists in my hair, and I take him deeper, faster.
“I can’t wait another fucking minute, Irie,” he says.
I wipe the corner of my mouth, gazing up at him.
“I have to have you.” He takes my hand, helping me back to the bed, climbing over me. “I have to have you right now.”
He presses my thighs apart, settling between them and running his finger along my slit before pressing it gently inside me. I squirm with his touch, my mind impatient but my body responsive, and I bite my lower lip.
“I don’t have a condom, Irie,” he says, exhaling.
“What?” I sit up on my elbows, squinting at him through the dim light.
“Believe it or not, I don’t carry them with me.”
“You don’t use them or …”
“I don’t sleep around,” he says. “I haven’t been with anyone since my freshman year, since before I saw you.”
The heat from my naked body teases the heat from his. We’re so close—yet so far away.
“I’ve never slept with anyone without a condom,” I tell him. “Have you?”
“Never.”
I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this but given the fact that I just finished my period three days ago, I think it’s safe to say I’m not ovulating anytime soon.
“Do you … do you want to just … pull out?” I propose.
He worries the inner corner of his lip. “Are you sure? You sure you’re okay with that?”
I nod, slow. “I am if you are.”
His gaze holds on mine for what feels like forever, and then he settles between me, his hands running up my thighs as his throbbing cock presses against my sex. Bracing myself, I swallow the lump in my throat and wrap my legs around him. With a hand around the base of his dick, he guides himself into my wetness, slowly, inch by inch.
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