by Amanda Faye
“Ryan,” she smirks, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
I can’t help it; I smile in return. I crumble a little when I see Tom-ass is wearing a smirk of his own now.
“Can we help you, Ryan?” He asks, frost dripping from his lips.
I angle my body to see as little of him as possible.
“I’m sorry to bother you Steph. Can I call you Steph?” She gives a sardonic nod, and I power on before Tom can intervene. “I got a look at the menu, and I know it’s not your problem, but Cris is deathly allergic to seafood. Is there some way she could get the salad or something without any fish in it? I hate to be a bother, but—.”
Her eyes turn glacial as they flick in the direction of her husband, but that knowing little smirk only grows on her face. I honestly can’t tell if she’s irritated with Tom’s behavior or impressed with his petty vindictiveness. Maybe both?
“I’ll take care of it, Ryan. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
I wink, mainly just to irritate Tom. He practically growls on the spot.
It’s just too easy.
Stephanie, knowing her husband is about to blow, wiggles her fingers in a ‘go away’ motion. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, I turn tail and make my way back to Cris.
Sure enough, when the salads are delivered fifteen minutes later, hers is shrimp free.
“Yours was made separate ma’am, so there was no cross-contamination.”
“Thank you,” Cris says, sincerity lacing her voice.
“Did you say something to them?” she asks, gazing around with an adorable look on her face.
“Nope,” I pop, glad I can answer the truth. “I didn’t say a word to the caterers.”
She eats it slowly, assuming it’ll be her only food until we get to the cake. Our tablemates are tolerable, second cousins and work friends they had no choice but to invite. Close enough to be there, but not so close as to care that they’re sitting with Cristina.
The entree comes with a handwritten note.
I apologize about the meal. Tom promises me that Chicken Alfredo is your favorite. I hope you enjoy.
Stephanie
I look up to see Stephanie standing, watching us from the top table. I raise my glass in salute, and Cris looks back and forth between us in awe as Stephanie nods her head regally and sits back down in her seat.
I really like this chick. She’s going to give Tom a run for his money, that’s for damn sure.
“What did you do, Ryan?” Cris breathes, half-pleasure and half-annoyance dripping from her voice.
“I didn’t talk to the caterers. I talked to the bride. If you want something done right, take it to the boss.”
I’m rewarded with a kiss before she digs into her pasta.
Score one for me.
Chapter Seven
Ryan
“What did you ever see in that guy?”
Tom and the blushing bride are twirling on the dance floor, surrounded by couples who more or less know what they’re doing.
Stephanie is pretty. I’ll give her that. She looks good enough, swishing her hips to the beat of the band. She looks happy, somehow.
Tom, however, is a mess. Awkward, but not in the cute way some people are, he smiles for a few minutes before his face drops back into its standard scowl. For someone who is supposed to be the happiest he’s ever been, he sure looks like a miserable old fool. It almost makes me feel sorry for him.
I realize that I haven’t had the urge to hit him at all tonight. It’s something I’ve been fantasizing about for months. Years, if I’m being honest with myself. However, not once did the need to blacken his eyes creep into my psyche tonight. Even when I thought he was going to swing at me first.
Huh.
I glance at Cris, and she’s watching the couple as well. Her head is tipped lightly to the side, and she’s got her lip between her teeth again. She’s glazed, as if she’s watching, but not seeing the same thing I am.
“I’ve thought about that a lot, since, you know.”
I scoot my chair closer to hers and wrap my arm around her back. She snuggles into the curve of my shoulder without a second's hesitation.
“I did love him, at one point in time. I don’t think it was true love though. Not anymore. He was comfortable, safe. There were never any surprises. He was boring. Until of course, he left.”
She’s silent for a minute, and I don’t make any effort to fill the space.
“It was over, long before he left me. We’d stopped planning the wedding; the date came and went without either of us mentioning the blip on the calendar. We stopped fighting, even about you. In my ignorance, I thought that meant we were perfect. In reality, it just meant we didn’t care enough anymore.
“I’m still mad about what he did. I’ll never forgive him for his cowardice. I’m even madder that he had the guts to do something, anything, to put us out of our misery. Even if the way he did it was deplorable.”
I look around us, but we’re alone at the table, and no one is glancing in our direction. After hours of being on display, Cris and I are no longer the red-headed step-children of the wedding.
“So, you don’t still love him?”
“No. I don’t. I don’t feel much of anything for him. It took the wedding to confirm it, but I’m free. I have been for a while now.”
I let the silence surround us again, enjoying the feel of her warmth against me. My fingers trail up and down her arm, and I watch as her flesh pebbles underneath my ministrations. The evening is winding down, the older generation saying their goodbyes and inching their way towards the exits.
“I used to have a crush on you, you know.”
I ignore the way my heart skips a beat at that unexpected declaration.
“No, Sugarplum. That’s not a crush; that’s eternal devotion. I understand why you’d mistake it. I mean, compared to what you're used to, that kind of passion can be confusing to decipher.”
The scoff of derision I’m expecting never comes.
“Tell me then, what does passion feel like?”
My breath sucks in through my teeth, and when she lifts her left hand to gently twist her fingers with mine, I let it out slowly.
“It’s all-consuming. You find yourself smiling for no reason, simply because you thought of them. Every time you kiss someone else, you wonder what it would be like to feel their lips against your own. They are the first thing you think of when you wake up, the last as you drift off, and when you touch yourself—.” I let my voice drop low and gravelly, growling into her ear. “When you touch yourself, you close your eyes and imagine you are spilling your essence into them, instead of into your hand. You’d do anything to make them happy, including going to the wedding of a man you despise.”
“Oh,” is all she says, breathy and weak.
The music has slowed, one serene song after the other. Tom and Stephanie finally look like they're in step, swaying sedately, pressed together. It’s the first time all night I’ve had any hope for this sham of a marriage. Good luck to them. With a man like Tom, they’re going to need it. I bring my beer to my lips and take another chug. It’s room temperature now, left to sit ignored too long on the table. It’s free though, and I hate to waste free booze.
Besides, I need something to concentrate on that doesn’t involve me demonstrating to Cris the physical side of passion.
“It is a king-size.”
I startle at the intrusion to my thoughts, then try to focus on what she said.
“Huh?”
“My bed. In my hotel room. It’s a king-size. Don’t judge me, but I knew about the wedding invite before it actually came in the mail. Myra warned me it was coming. I booked a suite before the invitation even arrived. I read some stat about how sixty percent of couples don’t have sex on their wedding night, because of the stress of the day. I decided at least one of us should enjoy ourselves this evening.”
I laugh at the audacity of her, even if it
doesn’t make much sense. I learned in the womb that a woman's mind is nothing to be messed with.
“Well, I’m sorry your plans got screwed up then. It’s late enough, maybe you can call Mr. No-Show, and he’ll be able to come over.”
That’s what true love is. Sending the woman, you worship into the arms of another because it would make her happy.
“I meant you, Ryan. You should come upstairs with me.”
My stomach drops out, and my dick resumes the semi I’ve been ignoring for half the night. Luckily, something that sounds suspiciously like Beth reminds me that it wouldn’t be a very good idea.
“You know I love ya, Sugarplum, but I don’t think that’s a wise choice. I’m rather fond of my dick, thank you very much. I’m not quite ready for Beth to take it from me yet. I was given strict instructions to keep it in my pants.”
“Is that true?”
What a stupid question. Why would I lie about something like that? I’ve been trying to get into Cris’s pants in some form or fashion for a decade plus.
“Sorry to say, it is.”
It’s peaceful between us, despite the mostly serious nature of our conversation.
“Shouldn’t what happens between us, if anything, be ours? Why should we let your sister dictate what goes on in my hotel room?”
My stomach starts to rumble in all the best ways, and the blood I need to keep me thinking straight is on a one-way trip to my dick.
“Cris, Beth matters because outside of each other, she is the most important person to each of us. She told me, and I quote, to keep it in my pants.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t react to my statement. Still, though, the air is sparking around us. While at first glance we appear to be lounging around whispering sweet nothings, I’m sure anyone who takes a second to stare will see the electricity zipping in between us.
“Then what if I told you Beth gave me her approval to take you to my bed tonight. Hell, she practically encouraged it.”
When I don’t say anything, she reaches for her clutch, pulling something from its depths.
I’m startled when she hands me a three pack of condoms. On the front is a sticky note, with Beth’s clear handwriting sprawled across it.
His safe word is yellow.
That little twerp. The whole time she’s warning me off of Cris, she’s giving her the go ahead. When did she even have the time to get this? I hope for her husband’s sake that she didn’t just have these laying around at home.
“I told her I’ve had a crush on you too.”
Forgetting where we’re at and what we’re here for, I stand and pull her with me. In a heartbeat, we’re on our way to the elevator.
Chapter Eight
Ryan
I’m so thankful she wore those fucking boots. By the time we reach the elevator I’m walking so fast she’s practically sprinting to keep ahold of my hand. She’s giddy, peals of laughter trailing behind us as we go.
Cris spins when I pull her into the elevator, back smacking into the rear of the enclosed space. She covers her mouth trying to contain her pleasure, but the sounds of her happiness sneak out between her fingers.
“I don’t remember the floor, you beast,” I say, using my body to push her tighter against the wall.
“Six,” she grins at me, and I angle momentarily to smack the button then turn my attention back to her.
“Just a crush?” I ask, trapping her head between my hands.
She sucks that damn lip between her teeth again, and my groan echoes into the confinement of the elevator.
“Mmhmm. Teeny tiny. Barely there at all.”
As the ding of the elevator marks the floors we pass, I take her arms and pin them above her head. A lion examining its prey.
“You must be mistaken, cause I’m not tiny at all. And I plan to consume you whole.”
Just as I lean down to suck that lip for her, the elevator dings again, and the doors slide open.
“Saved by the bell,” she sasses at me, and when I loosen my grip, she dips underneath my arms and takes off pell-mell towards the hotel room, leaving another peal of laughter in her wake.
I laugh full throated at the pleasure on her face.
I’ve won the game.
She's mine, she just doesn’t know it yet.
I’m longer, faster, and make it to the door at the same time as she does. We’re making an ungodly ruckus in the hallway, but I’m far past caring at this point. If anything, I want witnesses to my conquest. Pictures I can save for prosperity.
I pin her against the door, face pressed to the side, and lay silky kisses against the back of her neck.
“Are you running to get away or to make it more fun when you’re caught?
“Neither,” she huffs. “I thought you’d like the view of my ass.”
“Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave?” I lick into her ear.
“Something like that,” she gulps, sucking in gasping breathes of air.
“Ryan,” she whimpers, and —.
“Oh, I love the way you say that. You’re going to be screaming it before the night is out.”
Suddenly the door gives way, and we tumble into the hotel room, surprised laughter echoing off the walls of the hallway.
We stay upright, barely, and before I can recover; she slams the door behind us.
“What the hell, Sugarplum? Warn a guy next time!” I can’t get my laughter under control, and my face is starting to hurt from smiling.
“And where’s the fun in that?” She sasses, tossing her clutch and the key onto the coffee table.
I lurch in her direction, grabbing her hand and hauling her to me, and she lets out a squeal of surprise.
“Paybacks a bitch, Sugarplum.”
She’s still giggling when I bring my lips down to hers.
I push her sweater off her shoulders, letting it tumble to the floor. She pulls at my tie, loosening the knot.
“One sec,” I pant, bending to yank the zipper on my boots and toe them off into the middle of the room. I jerk my ankle socks off next.
She bends too, one hand resting on the couch, the other on her boot zipper.
“Oh, please don’t,” I beg, and she looks at me with confused eyes.
“Don’t take off my clothes?” She asks with sarcasm dripping off her tongue.
“No, the clothes have got to go. Absolutely. Don’t take off your boots. Not yet anyway.”
“My boots, huh?” She gives me a knowing smile as she reaches behind her instead, looking for her zipper. “You like ‘em?”
I groan at the teasing lilt in her voice, yanking my tie off and closing the distance between us.
“Like them? They’ve been the bane of my existence for years now. I never thought I’d be jealous of an inanimate object. Every time I watch you zip them up, the way you run your hands over them, settling them against your skin, I want to cream my pants.”
She tries to laugh at me, but I eat her noises with my kiss, covering her lips with my own. I plunger her mouth with my tongue, desperate to commit the feel it to memory.
She pulls my shirt out of my waistband, slipping out a frown when she’s met with my undershirt instead of bare skin.
“Why do you have to wear so many layers?” She wines, and man, do I love it when she pouts like that. When Beth pouts, I want to smack her.
“My momma raised me right,” I say.
I try to burry my hands in her hair but am instead poked by a dozen bobby pins. It’s driving me insane. I need to run my fingers through it.
“I’ll take off my shirt if you take your stupid hair out of that stupid braid.” I mumble against her lips.
Yes, I have regressed ten years of maturity.
“Deal,” she snaps, lifting her hands to her head.
We try to keep kissing, multitasking at its worst. To varying degrees of success.
She backs me into the table, and I end of half-hoisted on it, trying to keep my balance and my lips against hers simulta
neously.
I fail completely.
We erupt into laughter again as she tilts to remain on her feet. Using me to stay upright as I pray the table doesn’t tip under our ill-coordination. I feel giddy with excitement. This is the way it should have always been between us.
Laughter, and bickering, and copious amounts of sex.
Fuck it.
I snap the final two or three buttons on my shirt and push it from my shoulders as pins and clips and rubber bands litter the floor around our feet.
It took all that to make her hair look like nothing?
I’ll never understand women’s hairstyles.
She flips her head upside down, shaking out the waves as I yank my muscle shirt off and over my head.
God, she is so beautiful.
I can’t wait another minute and pounce on her, finally burying my fingers into her mass of frizzy curls, as I latch onto her mouth again.
“Are we really doing this?” She pants, and I freeze with my hands on her face.
Guilt is not how I want to win this game.
I step back, ass against the table again.
“No,” I say simply, “Not if you don’t want to. I don’t want or need a pity fuck. Or you feeling like you have to do this because I came to the wedding with you. I can go home, and all will be forgotten.”
“What if I say it’s for one night only?”
I shrug and lay my heart out on the table.
“I’d rather one night with you than a lifetime with anyone else.”
She looks me in the eyes, running her thumb across my cheekbone.
“You mean that, don’t you?”
“Every word.”
We’re silent for a moment, both of us lost to our own thoughts.
“Besides, this is not how I want to win.”
“Win?” She asks, and the grin is back on her face.
“This is a game we’ve been playing for decades. I can wait it out another few rounds.”
She laughs, full-bodied and sexy as fuck, then reaches behind her and finishes pulling down her zipper.
“I’ll concede this round to you,” she says, “but don’t count me out of the contest just yet.”
