Wedding Night - Part 01

[Aki]

They were already mid-ceremony when the picture sharpens: white aisle, late sun pooling warm across the floor-to-ceiling windows, a hush that makes each breath feel ceremonial. Dahlia’s veil floats like a sigh against her shoulders; Damian’s jaw is set in that steady way of his, sharp suit cut close, boutonnière pinned with almost military precision.

“I do,” Dahlia says, voice bright and unwavering.

“I do,” Damian answers, the corner of his mouth finally breaking into the smile he’d been holding back.

The rings slide home — gold against warm skin, metal catching a flare of light — and the crowd exhales as one. Annie stands to Dahlia’s left in a long, soft dress the color of still water, bouquet lifted. Lucas is at Damian’s right, a step off the groom in polish and posture, handsome but not fussy: tie slightly loosened from a rushed minute, hair one shade more disobedient than he’d planned.
The officiant beams. “I present to you—”

Applause rises. The kiss is simple, genuine. Dahlia laughs into Damian’s chest when they turn to face the room, and Annie’s smile ignites with hers. Lucas claps Damian on the shoulder, two quick pats, pride and relief in the gesture.

Photos follow — first formal, then barely controlled chaos. The happy couple flanked by their favorite people. The four of them — bride, groom, bridesmaid, best man — gathered tight, shoulders touching, heads tipping together and apart as the photographer calls, “One more—just one more—okay, eyes here!” Dahlia’s train is adjusted, Damian’s cuff straightened; Annie leans in and Lucas leans closer, their smiles not quite leaving even when the camera drops.

“Perfect,” the photographer declares, and for a minute it really is.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The reception hums on the far side of the door: silverware, glass laughter, a band tightening a melody. Inside the small, bright space, Dahlia is half-dressed — underwear and a cloud of veil laid over a chair, her wedding gown hanging from a hook like the husk of a miracle they’ve already stepped out of. Annie kneels by an open garment bag, shaking free the sleek silk of a second dress.

“Lucas looked at you like a man walking past a bakery with an empty wallet,” Dahlia murmurs, grinning as she smooths lotion over her collarbones.
Annie snorts, fluster creeping into her cheeks. “He’s just being polite.”

“Polite men don’t stare at your mouth like it’s an invitation.” Dahlia tilts her head as Annie brings the new dress over. “You two will be great.”
Annie hesitates, then blurts it out. “I haven’t… kept up with my maintenance lately.”

Dahlia’s brows lift. “How long?”

“Two… maybe three months.” Annie replies, embarrassed. “I’m flat broke alright!”

Dahlia clicks her tongue. “You know your body needs it more than ever.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just—” Annie’s shoulders slump. “Maybe tonight isn’t the night. Maybe I smile and let him dance and then I go home and… not ruin anything.”

Dahlia steps in close, thumb under Annie’s chin, lifting her face until their eyes meet. “You are not going to ruin anything.”

“I don’t have the confidence you do.”

“I didn’t, until I decided to. That’s the secret.” Dahlia’s smile softens. “Let me help.”

Before Annie can parse the shape of that promise, Dahlia’s hand trails down, gathers the skirt at Annie’s hips, and slides beneath. Cool fingers find warm heat through cotton; Annie stiffens on a gasp she tries and fails to swallow.

“Dahlia,” she whispers. It isn’t a protest.

“Shh.” Dahlia’s mouth is close to her ear. “Confidence.”

Annie meets her gaze, naked question in it. “Do you really want me? You’ll have Damian to yourself later.”

“Right now,” Dahlia says, palm cupping, middle finger pressing, “I want you to remember how desired you are.”

She turns Annie with practiced ease, pressing her gently into the wall, one of Annie’s arms guided behind her back and held there — not hard enough to hurt, exactly hard enough to make Annie breathe differently. Annie’s forehead tips to cool paint; Dahlia kisses the hinge of her jaw and then pushes her panties aside as her fingers slides in from the front, hooking up.

One finger first: slick heat, a testing curl. Annie shivers, weight sliding onto her toes. The second follows, then the third, Dahlia’s knuckles grazing as she sets a rhythm — in, out, in, out — with enough patience to let Annie rise to it and enough insistence to keep her from thinking too much.
“More,” Annie breathes into the wall, the syllable caught on the edge of a moan. “Please… don’t stop.”

Dahlia’s free hand finds Annie’s hip and anchors it, guiding the angle. The room becomes small: the whisper of silk on silk, the soft thud of Annie’s back as she rocks, the breathy, helpless sounds she can’t keep quiet. Dahlia’s temple rests against Annie’s hair as she works her hand, crooking and pressuring until Annie’s hips buck into her with impatient, greedy pushes.

“That’s it,” Dahlia whispers. “You’re fine. See? You’re fine. You’re okay.”

Annie’s answer is a sound that’s nothing like words. Her knees threaten to give. She swallows a cry and feels it anyway, breaking up inside her — a stuttering rush that makes her breath hitch twice in quick succession, makes the next “oh—” come out on a tremble and then again, involuntary, a reverb of pleasure. She clutches at the wall with her free hand, fingers splayed, nails skittering against paint.

And then she moves.

Annie wrenches her pinioned hand free and reaches blindly back, pushing under the band of Dahlia’s panties. Touch lands, sure by instinct: two fingers, then three, sliding inside until the heat of Dahlia’s body takes them. Dahlia gasps sharply, her forehead thumping the wall next to Annie’s.
“You’re—” Annie can only say what she feels. “You’re so wet.”

“So are you,” Dahlia answers, voice ragged with delight.

They find a rhythm together, messy and new, Annie’s hips driving back into Dahlia’s hand as Annie’s fingers curl inside her. Each unspools the other with the same clumsy grace: breaths synching, thighs trembling, little sounds tumbling into laughter and back into moans.

Annie comes first — a warm, rolling break that makes her whole body tighten and flutter, makes a gasp catch and repeat as if the room itself were echoing, and echoing, and echoing. The tremor jitters through her muscles, freezes and then smooths; she whimpers her lover’s name against the wall. Dahlia follows smoothly a heartbeat later, a low sound rising from her chest as her knees soften and she stifles the cry in Annie’s shoulder.

They sink together, sliding down the wall until they’re seated on the cool floor, legs tangled, dresses rucked up, Dahlia’s arms wrapping around Annie from behind. The door stays blessedly shut. The world on the other side keeps celebrating.

“You’ll be fine,” Dahlia murmurs into her hair, fingertip tracing little circles on Annie’s wrist. “You’re better than fine.”

Annie turns her head and finds Dahlia’s mouth with hers — a quick, grateful kiss. “Okay,” she whispers, the word steadier now. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dahlia taps her thigh. “Up. Let me get into this dress before they send a search party.”

They laugh as they reassemble themselves: panties adjusted, lipstick refreshed, the new dress pulled over Dahlia’s shoulders and smoothed into place. When they open the door, the corridor’s noise rushes in like surf, and they step into it hand-in-hand before letting go.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The reception is mid-spin by the time they return. Lights have gone softer; candles make tiny galaxies across linen. The band slides from something classic into something with a bright, quick heartbeat, and people surge toward the dance floor.

“May I?” Lucas asks, appearing at Annie’s elbow with that rueful half-smile that looks like he’s apologizing for wanting something.

“You may,” she says, surprised at how easy her voice comes.

He isn’t the clean line that Damian is; his tie’s already loosened again, his hair stubborn in a way that makes her want to smooth it and not smooth it at the same time. He pulls her in with the music, one palm warm at her back, the other catching her hand. They find the beat within a bar, eyes searching, both a little breathless for nothing to do with dancing.

“Did you have fun escaping with the bride?” he teases.

“She needed help with a zipper,” Annie says, deadpan, and his laugh lines spark like it’s the best joke he’s heard all night.

They sway, spin, draw back, and come together; her dress flares and settles; his hand firms when the floor gets crowded and loosens when space opens. Happy draws itself into the lines of their faces and refuses to move.

When the song slows, he steps closer, the world narrowing to his breath against her cheek and the edge of cologne at his collar. He hesitates, eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back, a question he doesn’t quite push into words.

Annie answers first. She lifts onto her toes and kisses him — not a test, not a tease, but a sure, deep thing that says exactly what it means. The music swells, and someone somewhere whoops on their behalf.

She breaks the kiss with a smile that feels like a promise and lets her mouth graze his ear. “Come find me later,” she whispers.

When she steps back, he’s still smiling like he’s trying not to, which is the same as not trying at all. The song changes. Somewhere, Dahlia’s laugh rings across the room. Annie takes Lucas’s hand again, and they keep dancing.

To be continued...

[azure]

wow, cant wait to see more already!! that is so cool