Page 54 of Always a Bridesmaid

Sarah had seemed pleased with Jane’s work, and no one was the wiser about her and Henry—which was what she wanted. So then why did she feel so conflicted?

Because he walked away from you.

He’d only done what she’d asked, and while her brain was saying it was a good thing, her body was wound as tight as a suspension coil.

On the boat, she’d watched other couples holding hands and laughing at private jokes and felt a zing of jealousy every time, knowing that she and Henry would never have that freedom. They would go their separate ways after this. They’d never walk down the street together or dance in the rain. And they’d never be able to express their feelings other than in the bedroom.

Tonight she’d wanted to express those feelings, but him following her back to her room or vice versa was just too dangerous. There had been guests and family staying on the same floor, roaming around the halls well into the night. So they’d taken the elevator up with other people and stood in the back, where Henry had run a sly finger up her arm, causing goosies to explode all over her body. No eye contact, no “Good night,” no “I’m sorry for bailing earlier,” just the single brush of the finger and she’d been a goner. Forgotten her anger, the reasons why this thing between them could never work. Which must have been why she’d opted for his team shirt over pajamas.

“Ugh!” Jane threw the pillow over her face. Even thinking about that touch made her core start to warm and tense.

She needed some release, pronto.

Admitting she’d never be able to sleep in this condition, she knew she had two options: take a cold shower or pull out the big guns.

Big guns it was.

Flicking on the light, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust before she rested her head against the headboard and picked up her smutty book. It was about a hockey player and a ballerina. She flipped to where she’d left off and began reading. All it took was a few minutes before she reached a heated passage.

Two paragraphs in and her body started to heat. By the fourth paragraph, she had to squeeze her thighs together to create the friction she desperately craved. With every eroticword, her thong became more constrictive, more uncomfortable and scratchy.

With a single hand, so as not to drop the book, she shimmied out of her underwear, leaving her in nothing but hormones and #19 across her chest.

Blindly reaching over,she grabbed her Clitorator and slid her hand down her stomach, sighing with relief when the vibrator hit her sweet spot.

She arched her back, her eyes closing ever so slightly, but not so much that she couldn’t keep focus on what she was reading. As the scene became steamier, she raised the vibration level until it was maxed out.

She read and moved with intention to bring her some kind of relief. Only she finished the scene and there she sat, right on the precipice, unable to fall over the edge.

She moved faster, pushed harder, but it didn’t help. Then she closed her eyes and pictured Henry with his head between her thighs as she rode his face like it was a race, and the pressure built. That coiling tensed so tightly that it hurt, straddling that thin line between pain and pleasure until she was sure she’d snap in half.

Then it began. The building of her orgasm as Fantasy Henry swirled his tongue through her folds over and over again, driving her higher and higher until she was moaning uncontrollably.

Without warning her orgasm hit, so hard and powerful it had her screaming out. “Henry! Oh god, Henry!”

Her hips thrust up and she rode out her orgasm until the stars were no longer visible and she could finally breathe. She crashed back onto the mattress like a wet noodle, completely spent.

She was still breathing heavily when there was a gentle tap at the door. Clutching her hand to her heaving chest, she sat straight up.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“You know who it is.” He was right. Her nipples knew exactly who was at the door the moment she heard that knock. “Open up, love.”

“Go away.”

“Not happening,” he said through the wood, and she knew that if it was that easy to hear him, he must have heard her.

Slipping her underwear back on, she walked to the door and opened it to find him on the other side leaning against the doorjamb, with his hands over his head like he was holding up the building.

He was still in his clothes from earlier, only they looked a mess—wrinkled, the collar undone, the tie long gone, the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was rumpled as if he’d run his fingers through it, and as he took a slow inventory of her in nothing but his team shirt, his nostrils flared, his eyes dilated, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

“What were you doing, love?”

“Nothing?”

His smile said everything she needed to know. Without a doubt she’d been caught. “So you weren’t—how do you Americans say—rubbing one out, while screaming my name?”

Jane grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him inside and slammed the door. “Why don’t you say that louder so maybe the entire floor can hear.”

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