The Bridal Suite | NEON LIT

I can't sleep.

The rehearsal dinner ended hours ago. Sarah is upstairs in the bridal suite, getting her beauty rest. Tomorrow I'm marrying her.

So why am I wandering the hotel lobby at 2 AM, sick to my stomach?

"Couldn't sleep either?"

I turn to find two women at the bar: Helena, my future mother-in-law, and Chelsea, Sarah's best friend and maid of honor.

Both of them tipsy.

Both of them looking at me with something that isn't sisterly.

"Join us," Helena says. "One last drink as a free man."

I should go back to bed. Instead, I walk toward them.

Helena is fifty-two and magnificent.

She's what Sarah will look like in twenty years—full-figured, elegant, with curves that her designer dress can't hide. Silver-streaked hair, knowing eyes, a mouth that's seen too much and said too little.

Chelsea is different—thirty, voluptuous, with an energy that fills every room. She's Sarah's opposite: where my fiancée is reserved and proper, Chelsea is loud and wild. Thick thighs, heavy breasts, a laugh that could wake the dead.

They're both looking at me like I'm a puzzle they're trying to solve.

"Cold feet?" Helena asks.

"Something like that."

"It's normal." Chelsea takes a long sip of champagne. "I've been in five weddings. The grooms always look like they're about to bolt."

"Do they?"

"Usually they just need..." She trails off, glances at Helena. "Reassurance."

"Can I tell you something?" Helena leans closer. "Something I shouldn't?"

"Sure."

"I never liked Sarah's father. I married him because it was expected. Because he was appropriate." She stares into her glass. "I spent thirty years being appropriate. And now he's dead, and I'm alone, and I look at you—at my daughter's fiancé—and I think..."

"Mom." Chelsea's voice is warning.

"Don't 'mom' me. You've been thinking it too." Helena's eyes meet mine. "We've talked about it, Jackson. Late nights on the phone, after Sarah went to bed. What a waste it is. A man like you, marrying a woman like her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she doesn't appreciate you." Chelsea sets down her glass. "She talks about your career, your prospects, your family connections. Never about you. Never about how you laugh, or how you move, or how you look when you think no one's watching."

"But we notice." Helena's hand finds my thigh. "We've been noticing for two years."

"This is insane," I say.

"Probably." Chelsea moves to my other side. "But you've been looking at us too. Don't pretend you haven't."

"I'm getting married tomorrow."

"You're not married tonight." Helena's hand slides higher. "Tonight you're still a free man. Tonight you can still make a choice."

"What choice?"

She looks at Chelsea. Some silent communication passes between them.

"The bridal suite is empty," Helena says. "Sarah switched to a smaller room to save money. But I kept the key."

"One night," Chelsea murmurs. "To show you what you're walking away from. To give you something real before you settle for appropriate."

They're both touching me now. Helena's hand on my thigh. Chelsea's on my arm. Two women, two generations, both offering me something I shouldn't want.

"This is wrong."

"Yes," Helena agrees.

"I should walk away."

"Yes," Chelsea confirms.

"But you won't." Helena stands, still holding my hand. "Because you know we're right. Because you've been craving something real. And this—" She presses my hand to her chest, to the swell of her breasts. "This is as real as it gets."

The bridal suite is obscene.

King bed, champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the sheets. All of it meant for my fiancée.

All of it about to be defiled by her mother and best friend.

Chelsea locks the door while Helena pours champagne. They move like they've done this before—coordinated, comfortable with each other in a way that speaks to intimacy.

"You've done this together," I realize.

"Once." Helena hands me a glass. "Three years ago. Lonely widows, too much wine. We found comfort in each other."

"And we've been looking for someone to join us ever since." Chelsea steps close, runs her hand down my chest. "Someone who could handle us both. Someone who wouldn't treat us like trophies or tokens."

"Someone like you," Helena finishes.

Helena kisses me first.

She tastes like champagne and secrets, her tongue skilled and knowing. Chelsea watches for a moment, then joins—kissing my neck, unbuttoning my shirt.

"Sarah's room is three floors up," Helena murmurs against my mouth. "She'll never know."

"No one will ever know." Chelsea's hand finds my belt. "Just the three of us."

They undress me together, their hands overlapping, their eyes hungry. When I'm naked, they step back to look.

"Beautiful," Helena breathes.

"Wasted on her," Chelsea agrees.

"Not wasted tonight."

I fuck Helena first.

She lies back on the bridal bed, spreading her thick thighs, showing me a pussy that's trimmed and wet. I climb over her and push inside slowly, watching her eyes flutter closed.

"Oh God. Oh God, Jackson—"

Chelsea kneels beside us, shedding her dress, revealing a body that's all curves and hunger. She feeds Helena one breast while watching me take the other.

"Harder," Helena gasps. "Give me everything. Everything Sarah doesn't want."

I give her everything. I pound into my future mother-in-law while her daughter's best friend watches, coaches, participates.

"That's it. Make her come. She deserves to come."

Helena shudders beneath me, crying out, her nails raking my back. I don't stop.

"My turn," Chelsea says.

She pushes Helena aside and climbs on top, sinking down on my cock without preamble. She rides me hard, desperate, her heavy breasts bouncing.

"I've wanted this since the engagement party," she gasps. "Watching you smile, charm everyone, be perfect. And I thought—why isn't he with someone who appreciates that?"

"Someone like you?"

"Someone like us." She leans down, kisses me deep. "We'd never take you for granted. We'd never make you feel small."

Helena is beside us now, recovered, her hand finding Chelsea's clit as she rides me.

"Come for him, baby. Show him what he's been missing."

Chelsea comes with a scream, clenching around me. I flip her over and keep going, pounding her into the mattress while Helena kisses us both.

By dawn, we've christened every surface in the bridal suite.

The bed. The couch. The bathroom counter. The balcony, where Helena bent over the railing while I took her from behind, the city sleeping below.

Now we're sprawled across the ruined sheets, exhausted.

"The wedding's in six hours," I say.

"I know." Helena traces patterns on my chest. "And you'll stand up there and say your vows and marry my daughter."

"Will I?"

"Yes." Chelsea's voice is firm. "Because that's what's appropriate. That's what everyone expects."

"But tonight was for us." Helena kisses my shoulder. "And next month, when Sarah has her spa retreat with the girls? We'll be here again."

"And the month after," Chelsea adds. "And the month after that."

"This is insane."

"This is life." Helena smiles, sad and satisfied. "You get the appropriate wife. But you get us too. The real thing. The secret thing."

I stand at the altar six hours later.

Sarah walks toward me, beautiful and beaming. Helena weeps in the front row. Chelsea dabs her eyes beside her.

We say our vows. Exchange rings. Kiss to applause.

At the reception, I dance with my wife. With my mother-in-law. With the maid of honor.

Helena's hand lingers on my waist. Chelsea's breath is hot against my ear.

"Next month," Helena whispers.

"Next month," Chelsea echoes.

I smile for the camera, my arm around my bride.

Marriage is about compromise.

I think I've found the perfect balance.