Page 112 of The Wedding Menu

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Stop saying the word ‘wet.’?”

“How about ‘drenched’?” I let my hand slide down my stomach. “I can check.”

“Amelie,” he whispers reverently. With a winning smile, I let my hand wander farther down, until his voice breaks through the silence again. “No, wait—wait, Amelie.”

“Ian, I promise—”

“Listen to me,” he says, cutting me off. “Feeling undesirable sucks. I understand you need someone to make you feel wanted. And I want you, Amelie. I want you so much, my cock hurts. I want you so much, myeverythinghurts. I want you so fucking much that when I end this call, I’ll have some intense sex with my hand and come so hard my soul will leave my body.” He barely pauses to breathe before saying, “But I also care about you. I care about you too much to disrupt your life. Not when you’re drunk and emotionally spent. So I’ll end the call now.”

“Ian!” I blurt out as I sit up. “Wait! Frank—he left.”

“What?”

“I just—I knew you’d have questions, and I’m…” I swallow. What’s a classy way to sayhorny, drunk, and depressed? “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hold on.” I do, but he says nothing for a while. “You’re single?”

“Yes,” I whisper, though it still feels unreal. “I guess I am.”

“You’re single. Right now,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

There’re a few seconds of silence. Maybe he thinks I’m lyingand this is just a ruse to get what I want. Maybe the fact that I’ve been single for five minutes doesn’t change anything.

“Spread your legs.”

“I—what?” I ask, my heart jumping up in my throat.

“Spread your legs, Amelie. Tell me if you’re drenched.”

Fuck.

I lie back down, eyes wide and chest heaving. He didn’t ask questions. He understood and… well, put my needs above his, because I’m sure he’d like to have about a million clarifications.

My hand slips under my panties, finding the pool of my arousal. I gasp lightly as the tip of my finger grazes my clit, then quickly release a breath. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m soaked.”

“Fuck yeah, you are,” he rasps. “Touch yourself, Amelie. I’ve dreamed of hearing you moan in my ear so many fucking times.”

My breath hitches, my body arching over the bed as if his words are actually touching me. After sliding my underwear down my thighs, I turn the vibrator on, then slowly move it over my clit. “I wish you were here,” I breathe.

“God, me too.”

“I wish you were inside me.”

He groans, and it’s by far the most erotic noise I’ve ever heard. The thought that I did that to him and I’m not even there… I spread my legs wider, whining as my hips writhe against the vibrator.

“Fuck,” he says in a coarse voice. “I want to be buried so deep inside you that there’s not an inch of space between us—fucking you so hard, you can’t kiss me back while you come all over me.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian.”

“TMI?”

“Not enough,” I whimper, images of everything he just described dancing before my eyes. The feeling of fullness with himinside me, his eyes turning into slits as I clamp my legs around him, feel his hands gripping my hips.

“God, you sound spectacular.”

So does he, with his raspy, breathy voice. With the way he’s fanning quick and shallow breaths over the phone. I can picture them against my neck, against my inner thighs.

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