The hotel hummed with post-wedding laughter. Distant music still pulsed from the ballroom, muffled by floors of carpet and champagne.
She leaned against the suite door, barefoot, bouquet wilted in one hand, the strap of her bridesmaid dress slipping off her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed—not from alcohol, but from adrenaline.
He opened the door in just his dress shirt, unbuttoned to the middle, sleeves rolled up. He froze when he saw her. His tie was gone, hair tousled, jaw tight.
“Wrong room,” he said, voice dry. Tired. Dangerous.
She didn’t move.
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them. The kind that holds history. Her eyes flicked to his ring finger—bare. She lifted hers—also bare.
But somewhere upstairs, her sister—his bride—was probably still laughing with guests. Or taking photos. Or waiting.
“I just wanted to see you one last time,” she whispered.
He stepped aside, letting her in.
The suite was dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the curtains. She dropped her shoes, walked past him, every step daring. She stood at the window, hands trembling. He closed the door, slowly, like a man locking away guilt.
He crossed the room.
"You shouldn't be here," he said against her neck.
"Then stop me."
His hands were on her hips before the words finished leaving her mouth. She turned, lips meeting his in a kiss that wasn’t sweet—it was desperate, messy, months of repression breaking like waves.
He lifted her onto the dresser. Her thighs parted like a secret just for him. His mouth trailed down her collarbone, devouring every inch he wasn’t allowed to want. She tugged open the last buttons of his shirt. His belt came next.
“I loved you first,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just pushed into her with a groan so guttural it made her shiver.
It was wrong. It was cruel.
But when he wrapped her legs around him and moved like he belonged there—like she belonged to him—nothing else mattered.
The bride’s name was never said.
Not even once.