Make Your Move

The bride bolts. Cold feet in ivory silk. Her bridesmaid and groom stand in the suite doorway like nothing just broke. She pours him a shot. He drinks. She asks if he wants to play. He says nothing. She drops to her knees anyway. Blonde hair spills over his lap while she takes him in, slow at first, then deeper until her throat gives and her eyes water. He grips the back of her head. She lets him. He pushes harder. She takes it. Spit runs down her chin. He pulls out. She stands, turns, bends over the bed. He slides into her from behind and starts pounding. The room is quiet except for skin slapping skin. He drives into her hard. She pushes back. Sweat beads on her spine. He grabs her hips and slams faster. She moans through clenched teeth. He pulls out just before the end. She drops back to her knees. He strokes once, twice, and finishes across her tongue. She swallows. Neither says a word. The wedding dress still hangs in the closet.