Chapter 54
“I dream of cracking locks throwing my life to the wolves, or the ocean rocks crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox. I'm seeing visions, am I bad? Or mad? Or wise?" Taylor Swift
Six months. That was the sentence. Six months since I had last felt the heat of her skin, and now I stood in a hall draped in white flowers and deep forest greens—a setting fit for a princess. And though she was the queen of my life, I knew this throne was made of glass.
Donald, fueled by too much champagne and the exhaustion of his own charade, had confessed that Megan let him plan the wedding of his dreams.
"Even the dress, Kels," he’d slurred, his eyes red from the weight of his own hidden life. "Because she looks beautiful in anything, but I wanted her to match the party."
He was right. Megan looked breathtaking. The classic silhouette of her gown outlined her body with a precision that felt like a personal attack on my sanity.
Since the engagement, I hadn't touched another soul. I wanted my woman, and there she was, locked in the arms of my best friend. Her husband.
"She’s not mine..." I heard her whisper as I neared them on the dance floor, hidden by the architecture of the ballroom. Donald was clearly prodding her, knowing I was within earshot.
"No? To me, you’re hers," Donald countered, spinning her as she flashed a practiced smile at a passing senator. "And she’s yours. Go to the dressing room. Now."
"You think she’ll just walk in and I’ll jump her?" I murmured to myself from behind a pillar, a muffled, cynical laugh escaping me.
"I’ll tell Vanessa," Don promised her. "She’ll meet you there. Consider it my wedding gift."
I retreated to the mansion’s library, the scent of old leather and dust a sharp contrast to the floral air of the ballroom. I leaned against a heavy armchair, my eyes fixed on the door, waiting for her to storm in.
"Kitty..." I breathed as she entered.
She didn't hesitate. She shook her head as if to silence the world, stopping only inches from me.
Her fingers traced my jawline, a touch so light it burned, before I pulled her into a kiss that tasted like eighteen months of starvation.
I gripped her waist, lifting her until her feet barely touched the floor, our tongues tangling in a desperate, wordless conversation.
"Shh... don't talk," she whispered, pressing her finger to my lips when I tried to speak. The tulle of her gown was a frustrating barrier, but her scent, that lavender and fire, cut through everything. I felt like I was going to ignite.
"Meg..." I pulled away, my voice a ragged rasp. "You look beautiful. I’m sorry. For all of it."
The apology was a mistake. I watched the arousal in her eyes flicker and die, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.
"I’m sorry too," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I was wrong to think I wanted anything from you tonight." She turned toward the door, her posture rigid. I caught her arm, staring into eyes filled with a year’s worth of hurt and doubt.
"Calm down. Let me talk," I pleaded. She leaned against the doorway, her hand outstretched to keep the distance between us.
"You know we have to end this now, don't you?" she asked.
I nodded. The logic was there, cold and unyielding. I started to speak, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "I know our time was short, but it was intense... it was free... it was…"
"Yes, it was," she interrupted.
As I spoke, her fingers found the buttons on the side of her dress. She undid them with a slow, deliberate rhythm. I lost the thread of my own sentence. She lowered the straps, letting the expensive white silk and tulle pool at her feet like a discarded skin.
When my eyes took in the sight of her in white lace lingerie, the bride in her truest form, a dark, mischievous smile tugged at my lips.
"You’re trying to kill me," I rasped.
"No," Megan said, her gaze pinning me to the spot. "I want you to fuck me."