1
ELLIE
My sister just had to go with lace, didn’t she? I get wanting it on your own wedding dress, but forcing your poor bridesmaids into this torture too? That just didn’t seem fair. I’d gone into the bathroom for the umpteenth time, taking a break from the small, pointless interactions that happen at weddings—especially when you’re the maid of honor and barely know the guests.
Still, even if the dress was uncomfortable, I couldn’t deny that I liked it. It was champagne-colored, tight in all the right places to flatter my figure. The annoying neckline drew attention to my chest, and the tight waist of the bodice definitely elongated my silhouette. Between that and the sky-high heels, I’d never felt taller—I was probably hitting 170 cm, ten more than usual. Not a bad view from up here.
After a few more minutes, I forced myself to head back to the dining hall of the enormous venue the newlyweds had chosen. I hadn’t sat down once since I’d arrived, and I had no clue where my seat was. My sister and her new hubby had gone with medium-sized round tables, each seating four or five people—except for theirs, which was just for the two of them. They were doing their best to mingle with guests between courses, walking around and chatting with everyone. I glanced around the tables until a waiter came to my rescue and led me to the right one.
With immense effort—yes, I’m painfully introverted—I faked some cheer and forced myself to introduce myself to the three other people at the table. Thankfully, the food arrived shortly after, and I was beyond grateful for the perfect excuse not to talk. I stuffed my mouth with delicious appetizers and kept going right through the meal, eating and drinking like I hadn’t all day—also because I really hadn’t. Somehow, by some divine miracle, I even managed not to spill anything on myself.
When the final course was done and the guests began sinking into their chairs, drowsy from the meal, the cake-cutting was announced. The couple did it together in a sweet moment, feeding each other bites to the sound of applause from the whole room.
•••
We moved outside to the large garden, where a steady flow of wine and other alcohol was being served—clearly meant to shake us out of our food coma and get us ready to dance and have some fun before the day was over.
“Ellie, what are you still doing over here? Come with me—I need backup while Eddie chats with some friends. Don’t make me stand there like an idiot, please,” Susy pleaded, yanking on my arm with a surprising amount of strength for such a tiny, delicate bride.
“Guys, here we are—I want you to meet my little sister. Ellie, this is Josh,” she said, pointing to a man around thirty with soft features, fair coloring, a reddish beard, and a kind smile. I shook his hand.
“And this is Peter,” she continued. We exchanged a polite “nice to meet you” and a handshake—he looked like he could’ve been Josh’s brother, they were so similar. I turned to the last guy and found him already holding his hand out.
“I’m Lorenzo. It’s a pleasure, Ellie,” he said with a clear Italian accent, kissing my hand while looking me straight in the eyes. I blushed and felt a wave of heat rush through me. Jesus, Ellie, get a grip. Why did you drink so much?
“Pleasure’s mine,” I squeaked, and he kept holding my hand way longer than what would be considered socially acceptable. I started to panic that my palm might start sweating and he’d notice—but just as the thought crossed my mind, he let go. He was at least twenty centimeters taller than me, even with heels on, and his magnetic gaze was locking me in. I had no idea how to continue the conversation, or even if I could, but luckily the group resumed whatever they’d been talking about before we arrived.
Lorenzo didn’t rejoin the chat. He kept standing there, watching me—or rather, scanning me—until he leaned in close enough to be heard over the music, which was progressively getting louder.
“Want to grab a drink with me?” he asked with a smile.
“Okay,” I replied, completely out of words. My brain had gone into full blackout.
He stepped over to the nearest waitress carrying a tray and took two drinks, leaving a tip in return. Handing one to me, he said:
“Don’t be mad, but I just used you to escape that dreadful conversation I was having. I hate small talk.”
“Well, what makes you think talking to me will spare you the small talk? You don’t even know me,” I replied, curious but also slightly uncomfortable with how close he was standing. He seemed totally at ease, while I was freaking out thinking about everything he could see or smell from that distance. We were barely a step apart, and the conversation hadn’t even started. Of course, he smelled like heaven, fresh and intoxicating, while I had just finished stuffing myself and only had time for a quick rinse with mouthwash. I was silently praying I didn’t stink. As for my makeup, I was glad I hadn’t gone overboard, but now I was terrified a giant pimple would suddenly appear on my forehead. The only reassuring thought was that he surely wasn’t backing away—or maybe he was blind and had no sense of smell.
“I don’t think you like small talk either,” he said with a smirk. “Judging by how you used food and alcohol to keep your pretty little mouth busy so you wouldn’t have to chat with anyone.”
I blushed—not just because it was true, but because he’d clearly been watching me. And “pretty little mouth?” Seriously?
“So you were spying on me? Why?”
“I admit it—I was.”
“Well, I feel a little violated,” I laughed, both awkward and flattered.
“And I haven’t even started,” he said with a wicked grin.
We both took a long sip from our drinks. Then he spoke again:
“Want to dance? I’m dying for an excuse to touch you, to be honest.”
“Well, that depends on how you want to touch me. I’m not exactly thrilled about putting on a show in front of everyone,” I chuckled at the absurdity of his boldness.
“We don’t have to be in front of everyone, you know. I could play some music in my room—my hotel’s just around the corner,” he said, still locking eyes with me, a spark of mischief in his gaze and a sly smile suggesting he meant it.
“You don’t even know if I’m legal,” I said, trying to throw him off.
“You look legal. Are you?”
“Yes. What age would you have guessed?”
“Twentyone. Am I right?”
“Close—twentytwo. You?”
“Twentysix. You’re stalling.”
Caught. I didn’t know what to say, or whether I wanted to back out or give in.
“If it makes you feel safer, we can just dance right here. I promise to stay perfectly appropriate,” he said, reassuring me. I nodded, took his hand, and led him toward the growing crowd on the dance floor.
“Sounds like a better start,” I said.
“Careful, Ellie—you’re getting my hopes up.”
I just laughed, and we began to dance, melting into the rhythm of the crowd. His hands stayed in completely opportune places but never left my body. We got lost in the beat of The Nights by Avicii, jumping, singing, moving against each other. I turned my back to him, arching slightly so I could press against him more. His hand instinctively gripped my waist, pulling me closer. I pretended innocence by acting like I didn’t bother, and turned around facing him again and wrapping my arms around his neck, casually giving him the perfect view of my chest, then slowly moved my hand from his collar bones to his belt across his muscolar torso.
Lorenzo had stopped singing and dancing . He just stared towering over me, eyes roaming up and down, mouth slightly open. I leaned in to whisper in his ear:
“You okay? If you’re tired, we can stop.”
“I’m not tired,” he replied, voice rough, pulling me even closer, pressing his body against mine. That’s when I realized—he was rock hard.
“Quite the opposite, actually. But I need to get out of here. Think you can cover for me while we sneak away?” he asked.
I had to cover my mouth to keep from bursting into laughter, but I did as he asked, parting the crowd while he stayed right behind me, his arousal pressed against my back. We rushed into the building and ducked behind a dimly lit wall.
“You messing with me, bimba?” he asked, eyes dark with desire.
“Why would I do that, Lorenzo? It’s not my fault,” I replied innocently, pretending not to know what he meant.
“Oh, I don’t blame you—but you’re definitely the cause,” he said, brushing his hand along my cheek, then tilting my chin toward him.
“And if you keep this up, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to control myself,” he whispered, less than a breath away from my lips.
I couldn’t pretend anymore. Our faces were almost touching, and my heavy breathing was giving me away. I got the feeling that if I wanted anything to happen, I’d have to give clear consent.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t control yourself then.”
In a flash, he was on me—his lips crashing into mine, his tongue hungry in my mouth. His right hand scooped me up by my butt like it was nothing, while his left held my face, tilting it to give better access to my neck, which he kissed and sucked, sending shivers through me.
He turned around, pinning me between his body and the wall, still holding me up, completely blocking my view of anything else. His weight was pressed on me—but not uncomfortably—and his hands were all over, touching, gripping, keeping me close while his mouth devoured me. Our bodies were separated by only a few layers of fabric while we were grinding against each other, the tension was unbearable. This wasn’t like me, but I was insanely turned on and had no clue how to deal with it.
Suddenly, a wave of clarity hit me. We were at my sister’s wedding. If anyone walked by, they’d see us instantly. And then what? Were we seriously about to have sex right here, with a guy I had met barely an hour ago?
I froze, going stiff. He sensed it and set me down. I seized the moment, ran off, waved goodbye to my sister from a distance, grabbed my jacket and purse, and called a taxi to take me home—far from that place and that man—before I could do something I’d regret.
