I should say no... but...

I should say no. I should tell her this is going too far. But the thought of it—Sarah coming to me on our wedding night still carrying evidence of Wiley inside her, me claiming her permanently while he watches, devastated—sends a rush of heat through my body that's impossible to ignore.

“Fuck, Sarah” I groan as her hand works me steadily beneath the sheets. "You're going to kill me with these ideas."

She laughs, the sound low and seductive. "Is that a yes?"

I flip her onto her back, pinning her beneath me. "Yes," I growl, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss. "But I want to watch. The whole time."

Her eyes widen with excitement. "As you should."

The wedding plans accelerate after that night. Sarah sends Wiley a formal invitation with a handwritten note I don't get to read. When she returns from delivering it personally, she's flushed and grinning, refusing to tell me exactly what happened but riding me with such enthusiasm I nearly black out from pleasure.

The night before our wedding arrives with alarming speed. I sit in my car outside Wiley's house, watching through the FaceTime connection as Sarah arrives wearing nothing but a trench coat, heels, and our engagement ring, with everything she need to get ready for tomorrow in the back of her car. The camera angle from her purse gives me a perfect view as she drops the coat at his doorstep, revealing her naked body adorned only with the "something blue"—a garter she'll wear tomorrow during our ceremony.

"Sarah!" Wiley gasps, his eyes bulging at the sight of her. "I... you're..."

"Shh," she presses a finger to his lips. "No talking. Not tonight."

She pushes past him into the house, the purse camera swinging wildly before settling on a side table. The angle is perfect—capturing the entire sofa where Wiley now sits, Sarah straddling his lap.

"Tomorrow's the big day," she says, her voice carrying clearly through my phone speaker. "So, one last night with you as single me."

Wiley's hands tremble as they move up her thighs. "Don't go through with it," he blurts out, his voice cracking. "Don't marry him, Sarah. Please."

She laughs, the sound both gentle and cruel. "Oh, Wiley. Always so dramatic."

"I'm serious," he insists, his hands gripping her hips now. "I love you. I've always loved you. These past months... they've meant everything to me."

Sarah grinds against him slowly. "They've been fun," she agrees, her tone deliberately casual. "Very fun."

"Not just fun," Wiley protests, his face contorting with emotion. "It's more than that and you know it. You can't marry him. You belong with me."

Instead of answering, Sarah reaches between them, freeing Wiley from his pants. The camera catches his expression—a mixture of **** hope and animal lust—as she sinks down onto him.

"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back against the couch. "Sara-bear, please..."

"No more talking," she commands, beginning to move on top of him.

What follows is both familiar and different from their usual encounters as Sarah fucks herself on top of Wiley. Wiley's desperation lends a frantic edge to his movements, his hands clutching at Sarah like she might disappear at any moment. He keeps trying to speak—pleas and declarations of love that Sarah silences with kisses or sharp commands to focus on the physical.

"You can't—" he starts again, but Sarah twists beneath him, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss that silences whatever declaration was about to spill from his lips.

When she breaks away, she hisses, "Focus on what you're doing. Nothing else matters tonight."

The raw need in his expression is almost painful to witness. His hands clutch at her body like she's a life raft in a stormy sea, fingers trembling against her skin. Each time he tries to speak—to plead his case one final time—she either kisses him quiet or issues another demand for more, harder, faster.

"You can't tell me you don't feel something," he gasps as they change positions, Sarah now beneath him on the couch. "All these months, all the times we've been together..."

Sarah arches her back, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Harder," she demands, ignoring his words. "Make me feel it."

Wiley complies, thrusting with renewed vigor, his face a mask of desperation and pleasure. Each stroke seems more determined than the last, as if he believes he can fuck his way into her heart—or more specifically, into her womb.

I shift in my car seat, the leather creaking beneath me as I adjust the phone screen for a better view. The interior grows stuffy with my labored breathing, windows fogging slightly despite the air conditioning. I'm mesmerized by the scene unfolding through the small screen—my fiancée's body writhing beneath another man on the eve of our wedding.

Their pace quickens, becomes almost violent in its intensity. Wiley's grunts turn to sobs, actual tears streaming down his face as he pounds into Sarah.

"I love you," he cries, his voice breaking. "Please, please don't marry him tomorrow."

Sarah's only response is to dig her nails deeper into his back, urging him on with her body while offering no comfort with her words.

Hours pass. I watch as they move from the couch to the floor, from the floor to the kitchen counter, from there to his bedroom. My phone battery dwindles to twenty percent as I witness their marathon of **** coupling. Wiley seems determined to fuck Sarah into submission, as if enough orgasms might change her mind about tomorrow.

The digital clock on my dashboard reads 2:17 AM when they finally collapse in Wiley's bed, their bodies slick with sweat and other fluids. Sarah's head rests on his chest, her breathing deep and even. They had fuck so hard that neither had the energy to even wish each other a good night as they drift to sleep in each other arms with Sarah's engagement ring glints in the dim light as her hand rests on his chest, rising and falling with his deep, sleep-heavy breaths.