Mother of the Bride

I'm standing at the altar when I see her.

Not the bride—my best friend's future wife, walking down the aisle in white. Her mother. Walking just ahead, in a dress the color of champagne, taking her seat in the front row.

And suddenly I can't remember what my best man speech is supposed to say.

Her name is Catherine.

Fifty-one years old, recently divorced, mother of the bride. I met her at the engagement party six months ago and haven't been able to stop thinking about her since.

She's not like the other mothers I know. Not thin and anxious and perpetually dieting. Catherine is lush—there's no other word for it. Five-eight, easily two-forty, with curves that her tailored dress does nothing to hide. Her hips are wide, her breasts full, her belly soft and round beneath the champagne silk. Her hair is auburn, shot through with gray, pinned up in an elegant twist that makes me want to pull it down.

She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt.

And she's been watching me all weekend.

The wedding is tomorrow.

Tonight is the rehearsal dinner. A restaurant downtown, fifty guests, speeches and toasts and all the rituals of joining two families.

I give my speech. Talk about my friend Kevin, how we met in college, how happy I am that he found someone. Everyone laughs at the jokes. Everyone claps at the end.

Catherine is watching me from across the room. When our eyes meet, she doesn't look away.

After the speeches, I escape to the hotel bar.

I'm two whiskeys in when she sits beside me.

"Good speech." Her voice is low, warm. "You're a natural."

"Thanks. I've been practicing for weeks."

"It showed." She signals the bartender. "Gin and tonic, please." Then, to me: "You looked nervous up there."

"I was terrified."

"You hid it well." She takes her drink, stirs it with the tiny straw. "Most men don't look at me the way you were looking at me during your speech."

I freeze.

"I don't—"

"You do." She sips her drink. "I'm fifty-one years old, sweetheart. I know when a man is undressing me with his eyes."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Do I look uncomfortable?" She turns to face me. The movement makes her breasts shift beneath the champagne silk. "I look like a woman who hasn't been looked at like that in a very long time. My ex-husband stopped seeing me years before he left. Said I'd let myself go."

"He was blind."

"He was a fool." She finishes her drink. "So. What are you going to do about it?"

"About what?"

"About the way you've been looking at me for six months." She leans closer. Her perfume fills my head—something dark, expensive. "About the way I've been looking back."

Her room is on the fourteenth floor.

We don't speak in the elevator. Don't touch. Just stand side by side, watching the numbers climb, the tension building until I can barely breathe.

She opens her door. Steps inside. Turns to face me.

"Last chance," she says. "My daughter is marrying your best friend tomorrow. If we do this—"

"I know."

"No one can ever know."

"I know."

"And it's just tonight. One night. To get this out of our systems."

"I know."

She holds out her hand.

I take it.

I kiss her like I've been waiting six months for this.

Because I have.

Her mouth opens under mine, soft and eager. Her hands grip my lapels, pulling me against her. I feel her body through the thin silk—the heat of her, the softness, the curves I've been imagining for half a year.

"God," she breathes. "I've wanted this. I've wanted you."

"Show me." I reach for the zipper of her dress. "Show me what you've wanted."

The dress pools at her feet.

She's wearing a champagne-colored bra and panties—matching, expensive, barely containing her. Her body is everything I imagined and more. Breasts overflowing lace, belly soft and round, hips flaring wide. Stretch marks on her thighs. Dimples on her ass. Everything real and lived-in and beautiful.

"Well?" She stands before me, vulnerable in a way I didn't expect. "I know I'm not what you're used to—"

"You're exactly what I want." I pull my jacket off. Unbutton my shirt. "You're all I've been able to think about for six months."

"That can't be true."

"It is." I cross to her, cup her face, make her look at me. "You're gorgeous, Catherine. Every inch of you."

Her eyes shine. She reaches up, pulls my mouth back to hers.

We fall onto the bed.

I'm on top of her, then beside her, then she's straddling me—a confusing, desperate tangle of limbs and mouths. I unhook her bra and her breasts spill free. I take one nipple in my mouth and she moans.

"Yes—yes—"

I worship her breasts while she grinds against me. Her hands fumble with my belt, my zipper. She frees my cock and wraps her hand around it.

"I need this inside me." Her voice is rough, needy. "I need you inside me now."

I flip us. Pull down her panties, revealing wet pink flesh framed by dark curls. She's soaked—dripping—and I can't wait.

I position myself and push inside.

She's tight.

That's my first thought—impossibly tight, gripping me like she's been waiting for this as desperately as I have. She cries out when I enter her, her back arching off the bed.

"Yes—oh God—yes—"

I start to move.

Slow at first, savoring her. The way her body yields beneath me, soft everywhere. The way her breasts bounce with each thrust. The way her face transforms—eyes closed, mouth open, lost in pleasure.

"Harder," she demands. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile. I'm not."

I give her harder. The headboard slams against the wall. She wraps her legs around my waist—thick, strong, pulling me deeper.

"That's it—that's it—fuck me like you mean it—"

I grab her hips and slam into her. She screams—muffles it with her hand—and I feel her start to shake.

"I'm going to come," she gasps. "Gonna come on your cock—"

"Do it. Come for me, Catherine."

She shatters.

Her pussy clamps around me, pulsing, milking me. Her whole body trembles. She throws her head back and makes a sound that's going to live in my memory forever.

I can't hold back.

I bury myself deep and explode, filling the mother of the bride while the rehearsal dinner continues somewhere below us.

We lie tangled in sweat-damp sheets.

The clock says 11:47. The wedding is in less than twelve hours.

"That was..." She trails off. Laughs. "I don't have words."

"Neither do I."

"We can't do this again."

"I know."

"Tomorrow my daughter is getting married. To your best friend. And we have to stand there and pretend—"

"I know."

She's quiet for a moment. Then: "What if I don't want to pretend?"

I turn my head. "What?"

"What if—" She stops. Shakes her head. "Forget it. I'm being ridiculous. Post-orgasm insanity."

"Catherine." I prop myself up, look down at her. "What were you going to say?"

"That I haven't felt like this in years. Decades, maybe. That the way you look at me—the way you touch me—" Her voice breaks. "That I don't want one night. I want more."

My heart pounds.

"So do I."

"You can't. I'm twenty-three years older than you. I'm your best friend's mother-in-law. It's—"

"It's what we want." I cup her face. "Fuck what it looks like. Fuck what anyone thinks. You make me feel things I've never felt with anyone else."

"We've had one night."

"Then let's have more." I kiss her forehead. Her nose. Her lips. "Secretly, if we have to. Just—don't tell me this is over before it starts."

She searches my face. Whatever she finds there makes her expression soften.

"I must be crazy."

"That makes two of us."

She pulls me down for another kiss. It's softer this time. Slower. Full of something that feels dangerously like promise.

"After the wedding," she whispers. "Call me."

"I will."

"And not just for this." She gestures between us. "Take me to dinner. Talk to me. Court me properly."

"I'd love nothing more."

She smiles—tremulous, hopeful.

"Then yes. Let's have more."

The wedding is beautiful.

I stand beside Kevin and watch his bride walk down the aisle. I say the right things, make the right jokes, play my part perfectly.

And when I catch Catherine's eye during the vows, I see everything she's not saying. Everything she's promising. Everything that's waiting for us on the other side of today.

At the reception, I dance with the bride.

Then I dance with her mother.

"You're a good dancer," Catherine murmurs, her hand warm in mine.

"I have a good partner."

"People will talk."

"Let them." I pull her closer. "They can't see what's really there."

She smiles against my shoulder.

And when the night is over—when Kevin and his bride have left for their honeymoon, when the guests have scattered—I find myself outside Catherine's hotel room again.

She opens the door before I can knock.

"I was hoping you'd come."

"I made a promise."

She pulls me inside. Closes the door. Kisses me with six months of wanting and a lifetime of need.

"Stay," she whispers.

I stay.

Six months later, we tell them.

Kevin stares at me like I've grown a second head. His wife—Catherine's daughter—looks like she might cry or scream or both.

"You're dating my mother?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since the wedding."

The silence is excruciating.

Then Catherine speaks. "I love him. He makes me happy—happier than I've been in twenty years. I know this is strange. I know it's not what you expected. But I'm asking you to accept it."

More silence.

Finally, Kevin shakes his head. Laughs.

"You bastard. I always knew you had a thing for older women."

"Kevin—"

"No, man. It's..." He runs his hand through his hair. "It's weird as hell. But if you make her happy?" He looks at his mother-in-law—at the woman I love—and sighs. "Then I guess welcome to the family. Officially."

His wife takes longer to come around. But she does, eventually.

And a year after that, we have our own wedding.

Small. Intimate. Catherine in white and me unable to stop smiling.

Kevin is my best man again.

In his speech, he says: "I always knew Marcus had good taste. I just didn't realize he'd end up with my mother-in-law."

Everyone laughs.

Catherine squeezes my hand.

And I know—whatever anyone thinks, whatever it looks like from the outside—we made the right choice.

Mother of the bride.

Now mother of no one.

Just mine.