Reception

The ballroom breathed in gold and ivory.

Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen fireworks, their light catching the sequins on my dress, scattering little galaxies across the dance floor. Mark's hand was warm in mine, his palm slightly sweaty, his grin wide and unguarded as we stepped through the double doors to a wave of applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Davis!"

The DJ's voice boomed. Marcus. I caught his eye from across the room—a brief, knowing glance, his fingers still moving over the mixer even as he lifted his chin in acknowledgment. My stomach clenched. The taste of him still lingered at the back of my throat, a ghost I couldn't swallow away.

Mark pulled me close, his lips brushing my ear. "We did it, baby. We actually did it."

"We did." My voice came out steady. Practiced.

The room swirled around us. Tables draped in cream linen. Centerpieces of white roses and eucalyptus. My bouquet was somewhere—tossed aside during the receiving line, probably wilting on a gift table. Guests pressed in from all sides, offering congratulations, clinking glasses, pulling me into hugs that smelled like champagne and cologne.

My mother cried. Carol dabbed her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. Richard stood beside her, one hand resting on his wife's shoulder, his gaze finding mine with the weight of something unspoken. His fingers tightened—just slightly—before he looked away.

I felt the warmth of him between my thighs, a phantom pressure, and squeezed Mark's arm a little harder.

Dinner arrived in courses. Some kind of soup I barely touched. A salad I pushed around my plate. The seating chart had placed Ryan at my left, a coincidence I didn't believe for a second. Sarah must have been involved. She caught my eye from three tables over and raised her glass, her smile sharp as a blade.

Ryan's knee pressed against mine.

"Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Davis?" His voice was low, smooth, the same voice that had murmured encouragement while my dress hung above my head like a shroud.

"Very much." I didn't meet his eyes. Couldn't. Not with Mark's grandmother seated on my other side, her hearing aid whistling faintly as she squinted at her menu.

Her veined hand found my wrist. "You make a beautiful bride, dear. Mark is so lucky."

"Thank you, Mrs. Davis."

"Call me Nana. You're family now."

Family. The word hit me like a stone. I smiled, nodded, and felt Ryan's hand close over mine beneath the tablecloth.

His fingers guided me, insistent, pressing my palm against the rigid line straining against his trousers. The fabric was warm. He was already hard, already waiting, and something in my chest cracked open at the realization that he'd been sitting here, making small talk with Mark's uncle, carrying this secret beneath the linen.

I didn't pull away.

My fingers found his zipper. The metal teeth parted with a whisper I felt through my fingertips. He shifted in his seat, a subtle adjustment, and then he was free—hot against my palm, the skin velvet-soft, the vein along the shaft pulsing with his heartbeat.

Nana was telling me about her own wedding, sixty-three years ago. A church in Vermont. Peonies instead of roses. I nodded, made all the right sounds, while my hand moved in slow, steady strokes beneath the table.

"Such a lovely ceremony," she said, her eyes watery and sincere. "I cried through the whole thing."

"So did I." The truth slipped out before I could catch it. She squeezed my hand—not the one wrapped around the best man's cock, thank God—and beamed.

Ryan's breath hitched. His hips shifted, pressing into my grip. I risked a glance at his face. His expression was neutral, pleasant, the perfect best man listening to a toast, but his jaw was tight. A muscle flickered at the corner of his eye.

I tightened my grip. Twisted my wrist on the upstroke.

His hand clamped over mine, pressing me still, and I felt the pulse against my palm—hot, rhythmic—as he spilled over my fingers. Thick warmth spread across my knuckles, pooling in the spaces between. He held me there, breathing through his nose, his face betraying nothing.

Then he released me. A napkin appeared from somewhere. He cleaned himself, quick and discreet, while I tucked my soiled hand beneath the tablecloth and reached for my champagne flute with the other.

Nana was still talking about peonies.

I excused myself to freshen up.

The hallway to the restrooms was dimmer than the ballroom, the carpet muffling my footsteps. I paused at the ladies' room door, my hand still sticky, my heart still racing—

A hand closed around my wrist.

Jason pulled me backward, through a on the other side of the hall, into the cold tile echo of the men's room. He pushed me into a stall and swung the door shut behind us, the lock clicking into place.

"Couldn't wait," he said. Not an apology. An explanation.

His hands found my shoulders, pushing me down. My knees hit the tile, the impact dulled by layers of tulle and silk. He was already unzipping, already free, and I was already opening my mouth before my brain could form the word stop.

The bathroom door swung open. Footsteps. Two men, laughing about something, their voices bouncing off the tile.

Jason's hand fisted in my hair, pulling me forward. His cock slid past my lips, smooth and insistent, filling my mouth with the taste of salt and skin. I breathed through my nose, my tongue flattening against the shaft, my throat opening to take him deeper.

The men at the urinals were talking about the open bar. One of them was apparently on his fourth whiskey. The other had lost a bet on how long the best man's speech would last.

Jason's hips moved in short, controlled thrusts. His fingers tightened in my hair, a warning. I looked up, met his eyes, and saw the strain there—the effort of staying quiet, staying still, while his brother's wife knelt between his legs.

He came without sound. His body locked, his cock pulsing against my tongue, and I swallowed, once, twice, the bitter heat sliding down my throat. He pulled back, tucked himself away, and was out of the stall before the other men had finished washing their hands.

I stayed on my knees, listening to the water run, the paper towel dispenser crank, the door swing shut.

Silence.

My reflection in the polished chrome of the toilet paper dispenser showed a woman with smeared lipstick and wild eyes. I fixed my makeup in the men's room mirror, using a damp paper towel to clean my hands, my face, the corners of my mouth. The woman in the mirror looked like a bride. She looked like a stranger.

The dance floor swallowed me whole. Bodies pressed in from all sides, the bass thumping through the floorboards, through my bones. Mark found me, pulled me into his arms, and we swayed together in the center of the crowd. His eyes were glassy, his smile loose. He'd been drinking. A lot.

"Love you," he slurred into my hair.

"Love you too." It was true. It just wasn't enough.

A hand gripped my ass. Firm. Deliberate.

I spun, ready to snap, and found Ethan's face inches from mine. My brother's smile was knowing, hungry, the same smile he'd worn in his bedroom while our father flipped burgers below.

"Dance with me, Em."

He didn't wait for an answer. His arm hooked around my waist, pulling me away from Mark, spinning me into the darker edges of the dance floor where the chandelier light didn't reach.

His mouth found mine. His tongue pushed past my lips, and I tasted whiskey, tasted need, tasted the wrongness that had become my addiction. His hands roamed my body—cupping my breasts through the bodice, thumbs circling my nipples, then sliding lower.

The music thumped. Bodies moved around us, oblivious, drunk, celebrating.

Ethan's hand slipped under my dress. His fingers found the damp heat between my legs, and I bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He worked me with practiced precision—a finger inside, thumb on my clit, a rhythm that built and built and built until the world dissolved into white noise and starlight.

I came against his hand, my face buried in his collar, my body shuddering.

He withdrew. Kissed my forehead like a brother should. "Congratulations, Mrs. Davis."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Mark appeared a moment later, weaving through dancers. "There you are. Where'd you go?"

"Just dancing with Ethan."

"Come on. My dad wants his dance with the bride."

Richard was waiting at the edge of the dance floor, his hand extended, his smile paternal. "May I?"

I took his hand. His other found my waist, pulling me closer than was proper, closer than anyone would notice in the crush of dancers.

"You looked beautiful this morning," he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "Getting ready. Your friends were... very attentive."

My blood ran cold. Hot. Both at once.

"How do you—"

He just smiled at me. His hand slid lower, resting on the curve of my hip.

The song was slow. His body pressed against mine, and I felt him—hard, insistent—through the layers of my dress. His fingers traced the line of my thigh, bunching the fabric, finding the slick evidence of my earlier encounter.

"Still wet," he whispered. "Even now."

The song ended. He stepped back, his expression serene, his hand releasing mine with a final, deliberate squeeze.

"Welcome to the family." And then he was gone.

Mark was at the bar, laughing too loudly, a glass of something amber clutched in his fist. His face was flushed. His words were starting to slur together, syllables bleeding into each other.

"Em-ma! My wife!" He threw an arm around my shoulders, nearly toppling us both. "I love you so much. So, so much."

"Let's get you some water." I tried to guide him toward a chair, but he resisted, stumbling, his weight heavy against my side.

"No, no, I'm fine. I'm great. I'm the luckiest man—" He hiccupped. "—in the whole world."

My father appeared at my elbow. Concern creased his forehead, familiar and comforting. "Em, he's not looking so good. Let me help you get him to your room."

Gratitude flooded through me. "Dad, thank you. I don't think I can manage him alone."

"Of course, sweetheart. That's what fathers are for."

He took Mark's other arm, slinging it across his shoulders. Together, we steered my husband toward the exit, past the well-wishers and the tossed confetti, past the remnants of our four-tier cake.

The elevator doors slid open. We stepped inside.

My father's eyes met mine in the mirrored walls. His gaze was steady, patient, waiting.

I thought of Ryan's hand guiding mine under the table. Jason pulling me into the stall. Ethan's fingers buried inside me on the dance floor. Richard's knowing smile, his promise of a room down the hall. Jake and Marcus in the bridal suite.

Six men. Six secrets.

The elevator climbed.

My father smiled.