Chapter 4
LIZ
We're at a table with twelve people. My mother is three seats away, explaining the ceremony timeline to anyone who'll listen. Maura is at the head of the table, laughing too loudly at something her fiancé said, even though there's no way Ted is that funny.
That guy has zero sense of humor.
Dean is touching me like this morning didn't just happen. Like, we didn't just obliterate every rule we set not even forty-eight hours ago.
Like "just once to get it out of our systems" actually worked for him when it absolutely did not work for me because all I want is more, and I can't have more.
I knew this was going to destroy me when it ended, but I wasn't prepared for how unmoored I'd feel, like standing on a boat adrift with no compass in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
My body remembers exactly what it's like to have him inside me and wants it again despite every rational thought screaming that this is a terrible idea that will only end with my heart in pieces.
Someone asks about the cake—my mother's friend, I think, though I can't focus enough to remember her name—and Maura launches into an explanation about French pastry techniques and imported ingredients and how she had to special-order the edible gold leaf from some boutique in Paris because nothing local was good enough for her vision.
My world has tilted on its axis, but at least two things remain consistent—Maura and Mom.
I'm drowning in the memory of Dean's mouth on me, his tongue, the sounds I made that I'd be embarrassed about if I could think past the desire coiling low in my belly. It hasn't stopped since this morning and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon.
Mom claps once. "Liz? Did you hear me?"
"Sorry, what?"
"The processional order. Were you listening?"
"Of course."
Dean's thumb traces circles on my hip through my dress. I'm supposed to be present, supposed to be paying attention, supposed to be acting like his touch doesn't make me want to combust right here at this table in front of everyone.
The conversation shifts to tomorrow. I nod in the right places. Smile when expected. Laugh at someone's joke about wedding disasters even though I didn't actually hear the punchline.
God, I have never felt so out of it as I do now.
His hand lands on my thigh, and I nearly choke on some wine.
"I need air," I say suddenly, too loud, and push back from the table before anyone can respond.
I hear Dean behind me—chair scraping, his voice low, saying something to whoever's beside him—but I'm already moving toward the terrace edge where dim lighting gives way to shadows.
My hands grip the stone railing. I'm barely holding it together, all but falling apart with longing, and it overrides every other thought, as if I'm nothing more than a hormonal teenager who just lost her virginity.
"Liz."
"I just needed a minute."
Dean's right behind me now, close enough that I can feel his body heat even though we're not touching. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Talk to me."
I force myself to turn, to meet his eyes, even though looking at him hurts when I want him this much and can't have him. "This morning—"
"Yeah."
"It was ... we said ... just once."
"Just once."
"To get it out of our systems."
His jaw tightens as he shoves both hands deep into his pockets. "Right. Did it work for you?"
"Yes." The word tastes wrong, and I feel a lump the size of my fist in my throat. "Definitely. You?"
Something flashes across his face too quickly for me to read. "Yeah. Totally."
"We should get back," I say, because if we stay here, I'm going to do something stupid like kiss him or tell him the truth or both.
"Yeah."
We return to the table separately. I slip into my seat, and Dean follows a minute later. His hand doesn't return to my back.
Maura finds me later as I check out the dessert station. She has that smile that means she's about to say something cruel disguised as concern. "Can we talk? Sister to sister?"
"About?"
"Dean."
My hands still on the baklava.
"I just..." She sighs, like this pains her, like she's being so brave bringing this up. Poor Maura still has to look out for her baby sis even at her own wedding. Boo-freaking-hoo. "I want to make sure you're okay with everything that's happening."
"What does that even mean? I'm fine. More than fine."
"Okay, but you do know you're not really his type, right?"
My stomach twists, skin tingling with discomfort. "W-what?"
"You're wonderful, Liz, don't get me wrong. But you're more ... the brainy best friend type. Not the girlfriend type. And definitely not the type guys like Dean fall for."
Something cold spreads through my chest, seeping into spaces I've been trying to protect. "He proposed to me."
"In front of everyone. Very publicly." She tilts her head, studying me. "Maybe he's just being nice? Maybe you're just too available? I'm not even sold on the boyfriend-girlfriend thing."
"That's not—"
"I just don't want you to get hurt when he ends this and goes back to his normal type." She squeezes my arm. "You'll still be friends. That's what matters, right?"
Maura leaves, and I stand there staring at the most beautiful-looking pastries I've ever seen, my appetite gone.
You're not his type.
Just being nice.
You're just too available.
Maybe that's all this is, all it's ever been, all it can be. My best friend being chivalrous and considerate.
What if this morning was pity? Pity-sex? Is there even such a thing? What if I'm falling apart for someone who's just being kind? Or worse, because I really was too available?
My shoulders curl over my chest, muscles jumping under my skin. I'm really about to lose it, tears already pricking my eyes. Instead of embarrassing myself, I escape to the resort gardens, following the path that winds through hibiscus and palm trees toward the beach.
I make it maybe fifty feet before I hear footsteps behind me.
"Liz."
"I needed air."
"Liz, please. You're shutting me out, and I need to know why."
"I'm not—"
His hand is on my shoulder, turning me to face him, and I can't avoid his eyes anymore. "Do you regret it? Because if you do, just say so. Don't shut me out."
"We should end this." The words tumble out too fast, too desperate, my last defense against the way looking at him hurts me. "The fake engagement. We should end it before—"
"Before what?"
"Before someone gets hurt."
A muscle jumps in his cheek, and Dean scrubs a hand across his face. "Too late."
"What?"
"Too late, Liz. I'm already hurt."
Silence settles in and lingers, heavy and charged and impossible to navigate.
He's hurt. He just said he's hurt. But why? Is it the pretending? The lies on top of lies? It was his idea in the first place, but what if…?
"Dean—"
He slams his lips to mine, and it takes me half a second to catch up. God, Dean's kisses are designed to melt my brain into soup.
"We can't—" I start, trying to find some shred of logic in the chaos.
"Should I stop? Tell me you don't want this." His voice is gravelly with want.
The real answer is no, I don't want this to end. Not yet. My arm snakes along his chest and around the back of his neck, pulling him down so I can crush my lips to his, reveling in the way he sucks in a sharp breath.
Dean leads me to the other side until we spot the bathroom.
It's small, a single room with a sink and a mirror, and barely enough space to breathe. He locks it behind him, and the click echoes in the tiny space.
"Liz—"
I kiss him before he can finish, before he can talk me out of this, before common sense returns and reminds me this is my sister's wedding rehearsal, and anyone could knock on this door and discover us.
His hands are in my hair, tangling in the strands as he lifts me onto the narrow counter, my legs wrap around his waist. The marble is cold against my bare thighs, but nothing else matters except the heat radiating from his body pressed against mine.
Nothing except his mouth on mine and the way he crowds into the space between my legs, and how absolutely right this feels despite every reason it shouldn't.
Dean's hands slide under my dress—the black cocktail dress I wore to dinner, the one with the thigh-high slit that seemed modest until this moment, until his palms are skimming up my legs and pushing the fabric higher.
We need to be quiet, but I'm already gasping when his fingers trace the edge of my underwear, when he dips a finger in my pussy, only to discover I'm already so wet for him.
"We have to be fast," he says against my mouth, voice rough and urgent, words barely audible over the sound of our ragged breathing.
"I know." My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure he can feel it through my dress.
"Someone could come looking—"
"I know." I'm fumbling with his belt, fingers trembling with need and nerves and the desperate desire to have him inside me. "Dean, please—"
"I've got you."
Dean hooks my panties to the side with one quick motion and presses his thick cock inside me, filling me slowly until he's buried to the hilt.
Oh my God. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from crying out.
He notices immediately, tugging my abused lip free with his thumb and kissing me hard instead.
Just like that, I forget about thin walls and wedding guests and everything except the way he fills me completely, stretches me in the most delicious way, makes me feel whole in ways I can't articulate even to myself.
"Quiet, Liz." His voice is strained, almost growling. "Gotta be quiet for me."
I nod against his shoulder, teeth sinking into my lip hard enough to taste copper, focusing on staying silent even as he starts to move.
"God, you feel so good." His breath comes in harsh pants against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Always knew you would. Always so perfect."
The admission makes my chest tight with emotion I can't afford to examine right now.
He moves faster, the rhythm becoming more urgent, more desperate.
I try so hard to be quiet, but when he shifts his angle and hits that perfect spot inside me, I can't help the soft whimper that escapes, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.
He covers my mouth with his instantly, swallowing the sound completely. His other hand grips my hip, holding me steady as he moves deeper, harder, chasing something we both need.
The pressure keeps building inside me, winding tighter with every thrust, every brush of his thumb against my skin.
"Oh God, Dean—"
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, waves of molten heat washing through my entire body and imprinting the feel of him so deep in my memory I'll never forget this moment.
I shatter completely in Dean's arms, my body convulses around him in a torrent of sensation while his mouth captures every whimper and moan.
It doesn't take him long to follow me over the edge.
His body responds to my orgasm in thick, liquid pulses, his cock twitches inside me until I feel his hot come spurting out.
We both try to catch our breaths and wait for our heartbeats to slow, still connected.
Reality is slow to return, but when it does, it's brutal.
We just had sex in a bathroom at my sister's wedding rehearsal.
Desperate, fast, and so good that my legs are still shaking. I don't even think I can walk. Maybe not even tomorrow. I ache in the best places, but that monster inside my head just wouldn't shut up. It kept repeating everything Maura said, all my doubts and insecurities rushed to the surface.
You're not his type. He's just being nice. You're too available.
I can't let myself believe this means what I want it to mean.
Pulling down my dress and smoothing my hair, I smile tightly at him. Dean, God bless him, is so in tune to my moods that he immediately senses the shift. "Liz—"
"See you at the wedding tomorrow."
A quick glance in the mirror, then I leave before he can respond, before I can see whatever expression is on his face. It's already there, at the tip of my tongue, the confession that I've been in love with him all this time.
That no other man has ever measured up to him. That I kept waiting and waiting for him to give me a sign.
But this … this is just sex, right? He's a man, and I'm available. Right?
The outside is blessedly empty. I smooth my dress, check my reflection in a decorative mirror, and force myself to breathe.
Tomorrow is the wedding.
Tomorrow, we play the perfect couple one more time. Just one more.
I either go back to being his best friend who's desperately in love with him, or we could end up being total strangers.
Guess we'll have to see.
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