1
“Ahhhhh . . .” A deep male groan broke from behind the closed door.
Sex noises seemed really out of place in a church. Call me old-fashioned, but I was certain of two things: One, doggie style should be reserved for the bedroom, and two, we were all going to hell. “Come on,” I urged Braydon, tugging his tuxedo-clad elbow. “We can’t listen to this.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” His feet remained planted to the floor, despite my efforts to shove him farther down the hall.
A loud, thundering moan vibrated the door.
My eyes jerked up to Braydon’s. His mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin, showing off his perfect dimple. He lowered himself to the floor, leaning his back against the wall with his long legs stretched out in front of him, and crossed his feet at the ankles.
“What are you doing?” I hissed. Shouldn’t we give our friends some privacy?
“Guarding the door.” He shrugged. “I’m sure one of those photographers outside would love a shot of the action in there.” He gestured with a nod toward the door of the church library where our friends were currently getting it on.
I couldn’t argue with that. There was a fleet of paparazzi outside who’d give their left testicle to get a shot of the action today. This wedding was practically the event of the summer in Manhattan. World-famous male supermodel Ben Shaw’s wedding to my best friend, Emmy, would be front-page news on the celebrity gossip sites.
I looked down at Braydon’s stretched-out form. He was dressed in a tailored black Armani tuxedo, crisp white shirt, and sleek Italian leather shoes that tapered just slightly at the toe. His bow tie was hanging loose around his open collar, and he was sipping from a silver flask, watching me curiously.
“Come sit with me.” He tapped the floor beside him with his knuckles. “Those shoes can’t be comfortable.” His eyes slowly lowered, wandering the length of my black strapless gown and all the way down to my strappy five-inch heels.
He was right again; I’d been in them for thirty minutes and already I could feel my toes becoming numb. The price of beauty. Sometimes it sucked being a girl. I sighed, not wanting to admit he was right.
“I won’t bite, kitten. Unless you want it rough.” He flashed his dimpled grin at me again and my stomach knotted.
Braydon tested my willpower like no one else. I’d sworn off men, so why did I want to take off my panties and give in to him? Lord, this wasn’t healthy. Not one bit. I forced my eyes from his. Gazing into his navy blue depths felt entirely too intimate. He saw too much. I wondered if he knew just how much he got my heart racing. I’d met him last year through our mutual friends, Ben and Emmy. He was a sinfully sexy male model, often working with Emmy’s soon-to-be husband, and trouble with a capital T.
Defeated, I slipped off my heels and sunk down on the floor next to him. Trying to maintain a sense of modesty, I arranged heaps of black satin and organza around my legs in the hallway of the church where my best friend was about to wed the man of her dreams. Pity party, your table of one is now available. I knew it was cliché, but weddings depressed me. Always have. I’d helped Emmy into her dress and fussed with her veil until it was just perfect. And now, I could only imagine what was going on in that church library, and the mess I’d have to clean up before their wedding ceremony even began.
“Ben wanted a quick f**k.” Braydon shrugged like this situation was completely normal.
Oh, that was romantic. Men were disgusting. I rolled my eyes at him; I felt like sticking out my tongue, too, but I didn’t. Weren’t most people nervous before their wedding? Apparently Ben and Emmy were just horny.
But this was f**king ridiculous. Their wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes, and I could see the stream of guests already filtering in and sitting with the assistance of the ushers. When Ben had come knocking at the door, looking for Emmy, I hadn’t argued; I’d just helped her out of the one-of-a-kind white lace gown made just for her by Vera Wang, and let him inside the little library where we’d been getting ready.
His eyes had drunk her in, moving down from the little white bra and panty set to the pale blue garter around her thigh. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he’d murmured.
The chemistry and intensity between them was impossible to ignore. It’d always been that way between them though. Ben had crossed the room in three long strides, stopping in front of her and watching her with a look of adoration. His hands had skated down her sides, gliding over her hips and thighs. His voice had been a weak whisper when he told her how beautiful she looked. My heart had twisted in my chest. It was obvious how much he loved her, despite how many times he’d messed up. You only found a love like that once in a lifetime. And as happy as I was that my best friend had found it, it only reminded me of how painfully alone I was.
As I sat trying not to listen to my friends go at it in the tiny church library, I wished it was me in that room with a white poufy dress pushed up to my ears and a man who was so deeply in love with me he couldn’t wait another moment to be inside me.
“Is it true?” Braydon asked, passing me the flask.
“Is what true?” I accepted the flask and took a small sip. Mmm. I wasn’t expecting it to taste good. Citrus vodka. My favorite.
“That bridesmaids are horny at weddings,” he chuckled.
“Guess you’ll have to be a good boy tonight to find out,” I replied, taking a healthy swig from the flask before handing it back to him. “Zoey and Jenna are both single.” So was I, but that wasn’t happening. No thanks. I’d be leaving here tonight with my dignity intact.
His eyes lifted to mine. “There’s someone else I had in mind, actually.”
That little pang of nerves in my stomach was back. He needed to stop flirting with me. I wasn’t interested. Sure, my body processed that he was sexy—he was a supermodel for goodness’ sake—but my brain wasn’t stupid enough to fall for his batting eyelashes and quips. I wasn’t going to be another notch on his belt. “That’s not happening,” I deadpanned.
Braydon chuckled, the low rasp sliding from his perfect lips. He was like one of those jock-types in high school who thought the V on his varsity jacket stood for vagina. He was a total player, I was sure of it. “We’ll see,” he said.
“I’m a bitch to you. Why do you even like me?” I asked.
“I don’t argue with my cock, sweetheart. And he seems to like you. In fact, he’d like to get to know you a lot better.”