14. Lover #2
He lifts me onto a nearby table, positioning me right where he wants. My dress bunches high around my hips, fabric whispering against my skin.
“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” I sigh between moans, even as my head falls back, his mouth dragging down my throat.
“Probably not,” he says, his hands already pushing the hem higher, fingers brushing bare skin. “But are you gonna stop me?”
No.
Because I want to fuck him before Avery even gets the chance.
I groan as his mouth claims mine again—hungrier now. That’s answer enough.
He hikes my dress to my waist, silk pooling around me, and I fumble with his belt, dropping his pants low enough to free him. My fingers wrap around his shaft, slow and greedy. Feeling his full length makes my whole body tighten.
“I need this.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
Broderick spits into his hand, rubbing it over the tip of his cock.
Oh shit that was hot.
“Fuck me already.”
He chuckles, then slips my thong aside, thrusting into me without hesitation.
It hurts—in the best way.
His hips slam into me, catching my moans with his mouth. I cling to him, arms locked around his neck, thighs tight at his waist, needing him closer.
While Avery had planned to fuck him, I’m the one taking him—right here, right now.
Satisfaction flares hot inside me.
We’re ravenous—despite already indulging yesterday, it’s like we hadn’t touched in weeks. Sex with him is addictive. Like the heat between us resets every time.
Then he slows, pulling out inch by inch.
I whimper, aching for the feeling back.
“You looked so fucking sexy walking down that aisle, Elena.”
Broderick drags his tip against my slick, rubbing hard over my clit.
I moan, thighs twitching, “Brody—”
“I couldn’t wait to mess you up.”
He pushes back in slowly—it’s torturous.
My body arches.
He builds the rhythm again, purposeful, deep strokes that make me feel euphoric.
Then his pace snaps back to punishing—hips pounding into mine, hands gripping my thighs so tight they might bruise. The thought sends shivers through me. I’ll feel him for hours.
The table creaks beneath us, but I don’t care. Every thrust is dizzying, searing, unraveling me.
“Brody—” I choke, nails digging into his shoulders. “I’m—”
“I know,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine, eyes locked on mine. “Give it to me.”
And I do.
I shatter around him, legs trembling, breath stuttering as the orgasm tears through me sharp and fast. He keeps moving, chasing his own release, and I can barely keep upright, hips jerking with each stroke.
He groans low in my ear—rough, guttural—and then he follows, pulsing inside me as he holds me tight against his chest, like he needs the anchor just as badly.
We hold each other for a moment, ragged breaths, spent and satisfied, as he peppers kisses across my bare shoulders.
We hurriedly redress, fumbling with buttons and smoothing fabric like that could erase what just happened. I’m flushed tugging my dress back into place—slightly wrinkled now, clinging in all the wrong places.
Fucking silk.
“You’re trouble,” I mutter.
He grins—proud to be my undoing—tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek. “You love trouble.”
I hum, but it comes out faint.
The warmth of release still pulses through me, but already the edges are cooling. The high—short-lived. And in its place: her voice.
Creeping back in like smoke under a door.
He notices the shift. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I hesitate, biting my lip. “Avery said she wanted to fuck you tonight.”
He barks a laugh. Not the reaction I’d hoped for.
My stomach sinks. I look away.
“Hey.” He tilts my chin up. “How can you say that while my cum is still dripping down your legs?
“I’m busy tonight anyway,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” His voice drops. “Fucking you.”
I roll my eyes, but my lips betray me with a smile.
“Come on,” he murmurs, kissing me once more. “We should get back before your sister starts hunting us down.”
I sigh, smoothing my hands down my dress again. “Yeah. Because that would be fun to explain. Again.”
He laughs and offers me his arm like the perfect gentleman—which only makes the whole thing more ridiculous.
As we slip back into the party, blending into the swirl of guests, the weight of his hand at the small of my back.
I want to hold onto this—whatever this is—for as long as I can.
Because while Broderick still wants me, still touches me like this, the ache for Alex stays quiet.
Sex. No feelings. And I’m doing my best to pretend I still believe that’s all it is.
The reception is already in full swing by the time we slip into the Grand Ballroom, trailing behind the rest of the bridal party.
Everything is bathed in soft ambient light—chandeliers glittering overhead, champagne glasses clinking in harmony with the low hum of conversation and music.
The tented walls have been pulled back to reveal the gardens, now strung with fairy lights that cast a dreamy glow across the night.
Philippa and Andrew are radiant, gliding from guest to guest, all smiles and grace—the perfect couple in the perfect moment.
I hover near the edge of the room, watching as Broderick laughs with Jack, glass in hand, looking maddeningly good in his suit—as if he hadn’t had his hands all over me hours ago.
I sip my champagne, feeling the buzz of the day and the weight of everything unsaid—the remnants of last night with Philippa, and Mortimer’s speech that cracked something open inside me.
The band shifts into something slower, and the announcement for the father-daughter dance drifts across the room like it isn’t about to gut me.
The string quartet begins “My Girl” by the Temptations.
Mortimer steps onto the floor, straightening his jacket before offering Philippa his hand.
She takes it, glowing and proud, the picture of perfection.
They move together effortlessly, twirling beneath the chandeliers, and a lump rises hard in my throat.
I want to be happy for her. I am happy for her. But I can’t pretend watching them doesn’t sting in places I don’t want to admit.
How I wish I had that with him.
The music swells—just as my chest tightens to the point of breaking, warm arms slide around me from behind.
Riley. Her chin rests on my shoulder, her arms cinched around my waist holding me together by sheer force.
She doesn’t speak—she doesn’t have to. I lean back into her, grateful beyond words, blinking fast as Philippa and Mortimer glide across the floor, laughing so naturally with one another.
“You good?” Riley whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.
I nod, though my answer wavers. “Yeah. I mean…no. But yeah.”
She squeezes me tighter. “I’ve got you, babe.”
A tear slips free before I can stop it. And for the first time that day, I don’t fight it. I let myself feel.