Stuck in White Silk

The silk was cool against my skin, a second skin of ivory and lace. I turned, watching the fabric catch the afternoon light, the train pooling like a whisper on the hardwood floor. My breath hitched. In three days, I would walk down an aisle in this dress, toward Mark.

Toward Mark.

The thought should have felt like a lock clicking shut. Instead, it felt like a door left ajar, a draft creeping in from somewhere I couldn’t see.

My fingers traced the boning at my ribs, the delicate embroidery. The dress was perfect. Everything was perfect. Except for the way my stomach tightened whenever Ryan’s name crossed my mind. The best man. Mark’s childhood friend. The one who had looked at me across the rehearsal dinner table with a smile that said he knew something I didn’t.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the image. It was nothing. Just nerves. Pre-wedding jitters.

I reached behind me for the zipper tab, my fingers brushing the nape of my neck. The zipper slid down with a soft, metallic whisper. The bodice loosened. I took a breath, then lifted the dress over my head, careful not to snag the delicate lace on my engagement ring.

The fabric rose, billowing around my face, engulfing my vision in a cloud of white. I twisted, reaching for the hem, and felt a sharp tug. The dress stopped moving.

Shit.

I was blind. The dress was caught on something above my head, pulled taut. My face was buried in layers of silk and tulle. I fumbled behind me, my fingers grazing the closet door, searching for whatever hook had claimed my wedding dress.

A hook. A stupid, decorative hook I’d never noticed before.

I pulled gently. The fabric groaned. My heart hammered. Don’t tear it. Don’t you dare tear it.

“Mark?” My voice came out muffled, swallowed by the dress. “Mark, are you there?”

Silence. The apartment was still.

He’d left. Picking up his tuxedo. Of course he had.

I tried again, twisting my hips, arching my back, trying to find an angle that would free me. The dress held firm. My arms ached. Panic prickled at the edges of my calm, a sharp, electric thing.

Footsteps. A door creaking open.

“Emma?”

Ryan’s voice. Low. Smooth. A little too amused.

Heat flooded my cheeks. “Ryan? I—I’m stuck. The dress is caught. Can you—?”

“Let me see.”

His footsteps were soft on the carpet, deliberate. I felt him stop behind me. The air shifted. I could smell him now—cedar and something warm, something masculine that made my stomach drop.

“Well,” he said, his voice a murmur, “this is a predicament.”

I heard the smile in his words. I couldn’t see him, but I knew that smile. I’d seen it a dozen times over the past week, every time he found a reason to stand too close.

“Can you help me?” My voice was too high. Too breathy.

“I certainly can.” His hands touched my waist, and I flinched. His fingers were warm, pressing through the thin lace of my wedding lingerie. The white bra. The matching panties. Exposed. He can see everything.

“The dress is beautiful,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “But I have to say, what’s underneath is even more stunning.”

My breath caught. “Ryan…”

“Just trying to find the best angle.” His hands slid up my sides, grazing the underwire of my bra. His thumbs brushed the underside of my breasts, almost casually. “It’s caught on a hook. Pretty high up. You must have really twisted to get it up there.”

I didn’t. I didn’t twist. I just…

His body pressed against my back, solid and warm. One hand moved higher, his fingers grazing my bare shoulder, my collarbone, as he reached toward the caught fabric. The dress shifted. Lifted. Then dropped again, still stuck.

“Almost,” he breathed.

His hand came back down. Slower this time. His palm brushed my nipple, and it hardened instantly, betraying me through the lace.

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded satisfied.

My knees trembled. “Please, just… get it off.”

“I will. But I want to make sure I do it right.” His lips were at my ear now. “You’re not married yet, Emma.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

I should have told him to stop. I should have said Mark would be back any minute. Instead, I said nothing. My silence was a door opening, wider than I wanted to admit.

His hands found my hips. He turned me slightly, adjusting my stance, and his fingers hooked under the waistband of my panties. The lace whispered against my skin as he pulled them down, inch by inch, baring me to the cool air of the room.

“Ryan…” My protest was weak, a thread about to snap.

“Shh.” His voice was a low hum. “The dress is expensive. I’m just trying to get a better angle.”

I felt his breath on the back of my thighs. Then his hands parted my legs, spreading me open. My skin prickled. Every nerve in my body was alive, screaming at me to stop him, to tell him no.

But I didn’t.

His tongue touched me, a warm, wet stripe from my opening to my clit. I gasped, my fingers curling into fists. He did it again, slower this time, savoring.

Oh god.

My hips bucked involuntarily. He groaned against me, the sound vibrating through my core. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady as his tongue circled, teased, pressed. I was drowning in sensation, my mind a fog of shame and pleasure.

I wanted to push him away. I wanted to pull him closer.

My hand dropped to his head, my fingers threading through his hair. I told myself I was trying to push him back. But when his tongue flicked harder, faster, my fingers curled, holding him in place.

He moaned, the sound muffled against me, and the vibration sent a tremor through my whole body. I was wet. So wet I could feel it dripping down my thigh. His tongue slid inside me, then back up, lapping at my clit in a rhythm that made my toes curl.

“Please,” I whispered, not knowing what I was asking for.

He pulled back, just enough to speak. “Please what, Emma?”

“Don’t stop.”

His laugh was a warm puff of air against my folds. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His mouth returned, hungrier now. He sucked my clit between his lips, his tongue flicking in rapid, merciless strokes. My vision went white. The dress forgotten. The wedding forgotten. There was only his mouth, his hands, the building pressure in my core that was about to shatter.

I came with a cry I couldn’t muffle, my body convulsing against his face. He drank it all, licking me through every aftershock until I was trembling, boneless, gasping for air.

He stood up, his grin audible even through the fabric covering my face. I heard his zipper. Then his hand was on my hip, guiding me forward. The head of his cock pressed against my slick entrance, hot and thick.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured. “So ready for me.”

He pushed inside.

A slow, deliberate inch. Then another. My walls stretched around him, gripping, pulling him deeper. I was full. So full I could barely breathe. He paused, letting me adjust, and I felt every heartbeat throb around him.

Then he began to move.

Each thrust was slow, deep, deliberate. His hands held my hips, guiding my rhythm, and the dress swayed above me with every impact. The hook creaked. The fabric groaned. But neither of us stopped.

He fucked me like he had all the time in the world, like Mark didn’t exist, like this was the only thing that mattered. His pace quickened, his breath coming in hot pants against my shoulder. I felt him swell inside me, felt his rhythm falter.

“I’m close,” he gritted out.

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

He drove deep, his body pressing flush against mine, and I felt him come undone. Hot pulses of him filled me, spilling deep, marking me from the inside. I clenched around him, milking every drop, my own pleasure cresting again in a silent, shuddering wave.

And then—

The front door clicked open.

“Emma? I’m back!”

Mark’s voice, cheerful and oblivious, floated down the hall.

Ryan moved like a shadow. He pulled out, zipped up, and in one fluid motion, tugged my panties back into place. The damp fabric pressed against my sore, sensitive skin.

“In here,” he called, his voice calm. “She got her dress caught.”

Mark’s footsteps approached. I heard his laugh, warm and familiar. “You got stuck again? You’re hopeless.”

He appeared in the doorway. I was still trapped in the dress, blind, my face flushed, my body still humming with Ryan’s touch. Mark walked over and kissed me, a quick, affectionate peck on the lips.

“Let me see,” he said.

Ryan reached up, his fingers brushing my shoulder one last time as he freed the dress from the hook. The fabric dropped, pooling around my feet.

He pulled Mark by the arm, guiding him out of the room. “Can’t let you see her in the dress before the wedding. Bad luck.”

Their footsteps faded. The door clicked shut.

I stood there, my heart hammering, the feel of Mark's lips still on my own, with Ryan's seed still warm inside me. My body was a traitor, still trembling with pleasure, still aching for more.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me was a stranger.

And she was terrified of how much she liked it.