Chapter 24: The wedding festivities reach a fever pitch as Andi and Matt sneak away for a passionate quickie, unable to keep their hands off each other even in public.
The bass from the reception hall thumped through the floor, a distant, rhythmic heartbeat that vibrated in the soles of Andi’s heels. Two weeks. Two weeks since Matt’s apartment, since the coffee table and the scattered picnic and the feeling of something fundamental breaking open between them. Now, surrounded by the cloying sweetness of a hundred wedding cupcakes and the shrill laughter of her aunts, she felt like she was going to vibrate out of her skin.
She’d been a good bridesmaid all day. She’d held bouquets, fixed her cousin’s train, smiled until her cheeks ached. She’d avoided Matt’s eyes for the first hour, then spent the next three seeking them out, each glance a spark on dry tinder. He looked devastating in a dark suit, a stark contrast to the pale sea of pastels around him.
When the formalities finally loosened and the dance floor swallowed most of the guests, she saw her chance. She caught his eye across the room, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod toward the hall, and walked away without looking back.
The bathroom was an oasis of terrible lighting and silence, the music now a muffled throb. She pushed into the last stall, the lock clicking with a sound that seemed to echo like a gunshot. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was insane. This was necessary.
The door creaked open a moment later, and then he was there, filling the space, his large body making the stall feel impossibly small. The air shifted, charged and thick.
“Hey,” he breathed, his voice a low rumble that went straight through her.
“Hey yourself.” Her own voice was shaky. She reached for him, her hands finding the crisp lapels of his jacket. “I’ve been going crazy out there.”
“I know.” His hands settled on her hips, warm and sure through the thin silk of her dress. “Watching you in that dress all night… fucking torture, Andi.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He spun her around, the motion swift and practiced. Her hands flew out, bracing against the cold metal of the stall door. She heard the rustle of fabric, the quiet tear of a packet, and then his hands were gathering the delicate lace of her panties, pushing the silk of her dress up around her waist. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps.
“Matt,” she whispered, a plea and a warning.
His answer was a low groan against her ear. One hand splayed across her stomach, holding her steady, while the other guided himself. The blunt, solid pressure of him pressed against her, and she gasped, pushing back against him, desperate for it.
He entered her with a single, deep, perfect thrust that stole the air from her lungs. A sharp, choked scream ripped from her throat, swallowed by the relentless thump of the bass from the hall. Her head fell forward, her forehead pressing against the cool stall door as he filled her completely, a stretching, burning fullness that was exactly what she needed.
“God, you feel…,” he muttered, his voice strained, his hips already beginning to move.
He set a brutal, driving pace, each thrust jolting her forward, making her knuckles white where she gripped the door. The stall rattled softly with their rhythm. She could hear their ragged breathing, the soft, wet sounds of their bodies meeting, the distant, joyous chaos of the wedding a stark contrast to their own private, frantic one.
“Quieter,” he grunted into her ear, his breath hot.
She bit down on her lip, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to become screams. It was useless. The sensation was too much—the friction, the depth, the sheer wrongness and rightness of it all. A particularly deep plunge wrenched a loud, broken cry from her.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his hand moving from her stomach to clamp over her mouth. The pressure was firm, smothering her sounds, and the intimacy of it, the slight dominance, sent a new, sharper thrill through her. She moaned against his palm, her body clenching around him tightly.
He cursed, his rhythm faltering for a second. “Andi… I’m not gonna last.”
“Don’t,” she begged, the word muffled by his hand. “Don’t stop.”
It was all the permission he needed. His movements became faster, harder, more frantic. The world narrowed to the feel of him moving inside her, the smell of his cologne mixed with her perfume, the sound of their struggle for air. She felt the coiling tension in her belly snap, a white-hot wave of pleasure that made her legs buckle. She cried out against his hand, her body shuddering violently around him.
The feeling of her pulsing around him was his undoing. With a guttural groan that was all her name, he drove into her one last, final time and held there, his whole body going rigid against her back as he spilled deep inside her.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, leaning against the shuddering stall door, panting in the sterile, perfumed air. The distant music swelled as a popular song came on, a wave of collective cheering following it. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth, his touch gentler now, smoothing her hair back from her damp forehead.
He softened inside her and slipped out. The reality of where they were crashed back in. A wedding bathroom. Her cousin’s wedding. Her brother was probably just outside, laughing with friends.
She turned in the confined space, facing him. His suit was wrinkled, his tie crooked. He looked wrecked and beautiful. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.
“We’re gonna get caught one of these days,” he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips.
Andi leaned into his touch, her body still humming. “I know.”
She smoothed her hands over his rumpled lapels, her fingers lingering on the warm, wrinkled fabric. “We should probably… you know. Rejoin the living.”
He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hands still resting on her hips. “Right. The wedding.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple. “You got any of me on you?”
Andi turned, presenting her back to him in the small space. “Check the zipper. And my hair.” She felt his fingers, gentle and precise, tugging the zipper up its track. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of her spine, a fleeting touch that made her shiver. He carefully rearranged a few stray curls that had escaped her updo.
“You’re good,” he murmured, turning her back to face him. He straightened his own tie, running a hand through his closely cropped hair. “How’s my battle damage?”
“You look like you just had a very intense negotiation with a floral arrangement,” she said, reaching up to fix his crooked collar. Her smile was soft, private. “But a handsome one.”
He caught her hand, pressing a quick kiss to her palm. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it made her chest ache. “Let’s go be social.”
They slipped out of the bathroom one at a time, a few minutes apart, trying to look casual. The wall of sound and light in the reception hall was a shock after the sterile quiet. The band was playing a upbeat Motown classic, and the dance floor was a whirl of color and motion. The air smelled of champagne and roasting meat from the carving station.
Andi found him first, leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dance floor, a fresh beer in his hand. He looked calm, composed, the picture of a relaxed wedding guest. Only she knew the rapid pulse she’d felt at his throat moments before.
She looped her arm through his, the contact feeling both daring and natural. “Come on,” she said, her voice bright with a forced social ease. “Time to pay the piper. My aunts have been staring at you all night.”
“Thrilling,” he deadpanned, but he let her lead him through the swirling crowd.
They approached a noisy cluster of relatives near the bar. Andi’s grip on his arm tightened slightly. “Aunt Carol, Uncle David, this is my friend, Matt. Matt, this is my mom’s sister, Carol, and her husband, David.”
“It’s a beautiful wedding,” Matt said, shaking David’s hand with a warm, easy smile that didn’t quite reach his carefully guarded eyes.
“Oh, we’ve heard all about you!” Aunt Carol chirped, her eyes flickering with appraisal. “You’re the graphic designer. The creative one.”
Andi felt a flush creep up her neck. “Matt’s known Ben forever,” she interjected, deflecting.
“Since freshman year,” Matt confirmed, his hand finding the small of Andi’s back, a steadying pressure. “He’s more of a brother than a friend.”
The conversation flowed around them—talk of the food, the band, the bride’s dress. Matt fielded questions with a quiet charm that surprised her, his answers polite but offering little. He was performing, and he was good at it. Andi watched him, this man who hours earlier had her bent over a coffee table and minutes ago had her braced against a bathroom stall, now calmly discussing font choices on the wedding programs with her uncle.
It was a dizzying fracture in her reality. She felt the ghost of his hand over her mouth, the ache deep in her muscles, while he stood there looking like he belonged on a magazine cover for sophisticated groomsmen.
Another aunt, Phyllis, swooped in, pinching Andi’s cheek. “Andi, sweetheart! And is this the young man?” she boomed, her voice cutting through the din.
“Aunt Phyllis, this is Matt,” Andi said, her smile feeling tight.
“So you’re the one she’s always talking about,” Phyllis said, winking broadly at Matt.
The world seemed to slow for a heartbeat. Matt’s polite smile didn’t slip, but Andi felt the minute shift in his posture beside her. His thumb stroked a slow, hidden circle on her back through the silk of her dress. A silent question. A promise.
“Is that so?” he said, his voice low and warm, his gaze finally leaving the aunts and settling fully on her. “She never mentioned that.”
Andi felt the heat flood her cheeks, a crimson wave that burned under the scrutinizing gaze of her aunts. “I don’t talk about him that much,” she mumbled, the protest sounding weak even to her own ears. Matt chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through her arm still linked with his, and then he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her flaming cheek.
The gesture was performative, playful for their audience, but it sent a jolt straight through her, a sharp reminder of his mouth in far more intimate places. Aunt Phyllis let out a delighted cackle, while Carol’s eyes practically glittered with gossipy anticipation. “Oh, you two are just too sweet,” Phyllis cooed, already turning to her sister to share the observation.
Matt smoothly extracted them, his hand a firm guide on Andi’s lower back as he murmured an excuse about needing a drink. He led her away from the cluster of relatives, through the throng of dancing guests, the bass line of the music pulsing up through the floor. The air was thick with the scent of spilled champagne and perfume.
Once they were relatively alone near a darkened corner by the open patio doors, he stopped, turning her to face him. The cool night air from outside brushed against her skin, a relief from the stuffy heat of the ballroom. “You talk about me, huh?” he asked, his voice dropping, losing its social veneer.
“Only to complain,” she shot back, trying to regain some footing, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his body holding hers against the bathroom stall, a secret alive between them in the crowded room.
He just smiled, a slow, knowing look that saw right through her. His thumb traced the line of her jaw where he’d kissed her. “Right. Complaining.” The word hung in the air, loaded with the memory of her choked, desperate moans muffled by his hand. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Sounded like a lot of things back there, Andi. Complaining wasn’t one of them.”
Before she could form a retort, a familiar voice cut through the music. “There you two are!” Her cousin, Alyssa, the bride, approached, her heels off and a wide, champagne-fueled grin on her face. She hooked an arm with Andi’s shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you. The photographer wants one more shot with the bridal party by the cake.”
Matt’s demeanor shifted instantly, the private intensity replaced by an easy camaraderie. He gave Andi’s hand a quick, hidden squeeze before letting her be pulled away. “Don’t go too far,” he tossed over, a casual remark that felt like a promise.
“Don’t go too far,” he tossed over, a casual remark that felt like a promise.
The bridal party photos were a blur of forced smiles and stiff positioning under the photographer’s relentless direction. Andi stood with her cousins, the structured pose a stark contrast to the frantic, hidden moments she’d just shared. She could feel the faint, lingering ache between her legs with every slight shift of her weight, a secret testament to what had happened in the sterile bathroom air. Her eyes kept finding Matt across the room, now deep in conversation with her brother, Ben. He laughed at something Ben said, the picture of ease, while Andi’s skin still hummed with the memory of his hands.
When the photographer finally released them, she didn’t hesitate. She cut through the crowd, the silk of her dress whispering against her legs. The band shifted into a slower song, a soulful, melodic tune that softened the edges of the room.
She walked right up to him, interrupting his conversation with Ben. “You,” she said, her voice firm but her eyes sparkling. “You owe me a dance.”
Ben chuckled, clapping Matt on the shoulder. “Don’t keep the lady waiting, man.”
Matt let her lead him onto the crowded floor. The air was warmer here, thick with the heat of moving bodies. He settled one hand on the small of her back, the other holding hers, his grip sure. It was a formal pose, a world away from how he’d held her against the stall door.
“So, I ‘owe’ you?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration she felt more than heard.
“You absolutely owe me,” she said, leaning closer. “My aunts are now planning our wedding. You kissed my cheek. You unleashed the beasts.”
He smiled, a real, slow smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Seemed like the thing to do. Better than the alternative.”
“Which was?”
“Telling them the truth.” His hand pressed a little harder against her back, pulling her an inch closer. “That I’d rather have my tongue in your ass than make small talk about font choices.”
A shocked, delighted laugh burst from her. She buried her face in his shoulder for a second, the crisp wool of his suit scratching her cheek. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
They swayed, finding a rhythm that was just theirs. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies, the heat of his palm through the silk, the solid feel of his chest under her hand. She could smell his cologne, familiar and anchoring, mixed with the unique scent of his skin.
The music swelled, the singer’s voice aching with emotion. He looked down at her, and for a moment, the performance fell away. There was no wedding, no family, no past or future. There was only the weight of his gaze and the terrifying, exhilarating truth in it. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a slow, deliberate caress.