Aimee had told me that Matt was planning to get her face full of cake when they fed each other bites of the first-cut piece, but she got him first, smearing it all down his chin. I had never understood that tradition, but they looked like they were enjoying themselves, licking cake off their fingers—and each other.
Then it was back onto the dance floor with Dale and the endless torture of his lean, hard body against mine, the musky, masculine smell of him filling my nostrils, the sweet sound of his voice as he sang along to his song—my song. They were playing it, I Will Always Come For You. My wish had come true—he was here in my arms, this close—yet neither of us could really do what we wanted to. The dance was just a slow, hot tease, heightening my senses and making me dizzy with lust.
The music changed and I lifted my head from Dale’s shoulder in surprise.
“Chicken dance!” Carrie exclaimed, hooking her hands under her armpits, elbows out, flapping her “wings.”
“I think we can sit this one out.” Dale laughed, taking my hand and leading me off the floor. As more people crowded on to do the goofy, traditional chicken dance, Dale pulled me past the tables decorated with pink and white roses as centerpieces, out of the room and down a quiet hallway.
“Where are we going?” I whispered although there was no one there to hear me.
Instead of answering, Dale turned and pressed me to the wall, instantly taking my breath away. His mouth coaxed mine open—not that I needed much coaxing—and I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling his thigh slide snuggly between mine, a perfect fit. His hands moved over my dress with a frustrated urgency, as if fabric was something new and foreign to him, something that just shouldn’t exist between the two of us. And I couldn’t have agreed more.
“Dale!” I gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his mouth down over my collarbone, his hands cupping my breasts through the slippery material. My nipples were so hard they hurt. I ached all over, wanting him, feeling suddenly inadequate to fill his urgent need. Dale eclipsed everything. He gave off a kind of energy everyone noticed, but when he was like this, nuzzling and rutting against me, growling things that might have been words, once, against my skin, he was like a caged animal pacing back and forth, his gaze never leaving his prey.
“What if someone comes,” I whispered, imagining one of Aimee’s prim out-of-state aunts wandering down this hallway, catching me with my dress halfway up and Dale’s hands roaming over my bodice.
“I don’t care.” His words were muffled in my cleavage, his breath hot against my skin. I slid my hands through his hair, still marveling at how short it was now. He was like a different person without his ragtop shock of dark hair always falling over his eyes. Now I could see the dark heat in them when he lifted his face to mine, capturing my mouth again in a kiss that sent hot, white tingles through me, like shooting stars, traveling like lightning through my veins.
He forced me harder against the wall, reaching down and grabbing me by the hips, lifting me so our bodies were matched, even, his pelvis pressed into mine. I clasped his waist between my thighs, hanging on for dear life as if his kiss was a wild roller coaster and I the only rider. This was the energy he gave out on stage in front of thousands—soon to be hundreds of thousands—of people. But here, it was all for me and I drank it in like sweet liquid after a thousand mile trek across a desert.
“Oh God, Sara, I want you so fucking bad,” he whispered against my lips. I felt how much he wanted me, in spite of all the fabric between us. “Can we please just go now?”
I moaned, feeling his hips shift, pressing harder, if that was even possible, between my open thighs, and almost gave in. But I glanced down the hallway and saw someone coming out of the dining room, where Aimee and Matt’s reception was still going on.
“After she throws the bouquet.” I could barely get the words out—he had his full weight against me, and it was alarmingly delightful.
Now it was his turn to groan. “You promise?”
“Well, Matt has to throw the garter,” I replied, smiling as he lifted his head, his cheeks as flushed as mine felt. I touched that sweet little dimple in his chin, remembering the very first time I’d done that, and how long I’d thought about doing it before it ever happened—before Dale had been mine. “And then the guy who catches it has to put it on the girl who caught the bouquet.”
“Haven’t they outlawed that tradition yet?” His gaze had dipped down again to my cleavage. I wasn’t outrageously blessed in that department, but the dress, and the bra underneath it, did wonders. “Didn’t Carrie and Wendy say it was sexist?”
I laughed, remembering that conversation. Both girls had been adamant that it wasn’t so much the bouquet and garter throwing part—whoever caught it, according to superstition, would be the next person married—it was the girl who caught the bouquet sitting in a chair in the middle of the dance floor and the guy who caught the garter sliding it higher and higher and higher up her leg while the DJ played some sort of stripper music. That last part was sexist, they insisted, and should be outlawed. Dale obviously agreed, although his reasoning wasn’t quite the same, I was sure of it.
“Aimee insisted. It’s really just harmless fun” I felt him letting me go, relenting, and I planted a soft kiss on his cheek as he set me on her feet again. I clung to him anyway. I was still too dizzy to stand up straight. Dale took a deep breath, kissing the top of my head, all arranged in curls.
“Let’s go see if we can move them along.” He took my hand and led me back down the hallway, head down, like a bull charging a matador. I stumbled after him, trying to keep up—he was in an awful hurry! I was out of breath by the time we turned the corner and went back into the room.