Wedding Strangers

I don't know a single person at this wedding.

Technically, I know the groom—we worked together for three months before he transferred to the Austin office. That was enough to get me an invite to his destination wedding in Cabo, apparently. Not enough to get me seated with anyone I could actually talk to.

The rehearsal dinner is on a terrace overlooking the ocean. String lights. Open bar. Strangers in linen and summer dresses pretending to care about seating charts.

I'm three drinks in when I see her.

She's at my table. Of course she is—the singles table, the island of misfit wedding guests. But she stands out like a flame in a room full of candles.

Curves. God, the curves. She's wearing a floral wrap dress that's losing the war against her body. Her breasts are straining the fabric, threatening to spill out with every breath. Her hips are wide enough to knock over chairs. When she sits, I see the way her thighs spread against the seat—thick, soft, impossible to ignore.

She catches me looking.

I expect her to glare. Roll her eyes. Turn away.

She smiles instead. Raises her glass.

I raise mine back.

"You don't know anyone here either."

She's standing next to me at the bar twenty minutes later. Up close, she's even better—soft shoulders, round face, lips painted a dark red that makes me think about them wrapped around things they shouldn't be.

"That obvious?"

"You've been nursing that drink like it's the only friend you've got." She orders a vodka soda. "I'm Celia."

"Marcus."

"Bride's side or groom's?"

"Groom. Barely. You?"

"College roommate of the bride." She takes her drink, and I watch her lips close around the straw. "Three years of sharing a bathroom. That earns you a destination wedding invite and a seat at the reject table."

"I prefer 'independent operators.'"

She laughs. It does things to her chest—her breasts shaking, the deep V of her dress showing a canyon of cleavage.

"Independent operators." She clinks her glass against mine. "I like that."

We talk for an hour. She's twenty-eight, works in marketing, hates her job, loves her apartment, came to Mexico alone because her plus-one bailed three days before the flight.

"His loss," I say.

She looks at me over the rim of her glass. "You think so?"

"I know so."

The string lights catch her eyes. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt—not delicate, not fragile, but present. Real. Every inch of her demanding to be seen.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks when the dinner ends.

"The ceremony's at four."

"I meant after." She touches my arm—just a brush of fingertips, but I feel it everywhere. "Same bar. Same drinks. Same independent operators."

She walks away before I can answer.

I watch her go. Watch the sway of her hips, the way her dress clings to her ass, the soft jiggle of her thighs with every step.

Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

The Ceremony

She's a bridesmaid.

I didn't know until she walks down the aisle in sage green, and my throat goes dry.

The dress is doing its best, but it wasn't made for a body like hers. The bodice is straining, her breasts threatening to overflow the sweetheart neckline. The fabric pulls tight across her belly—soft, round, unapologetic. The slit up the side shows flashes of thick thigh every time she moves.

She looks uncomfortable. She looks furious.

She looks like the most fuckable woman I've ever seen.

Our eyes meet as she passes my row. She gives me a look that says don't you dare laugh.

I give her one back that says I'm not laughing.

I'm barely breathing.

The ceremony is beautiful. I don't remember a word of it.

I spend the whole thing watching Celia stand at the altar, trying not to tug at her dress, trying not to sweat in the Cabo heat. The fabric darkens under her arms, clings to the curve of her back. A strand of hair escapes her updo and sticks to her neck.

I want to brush it away. I want to press my lips to that spot where it curls against her skin.

When the bride and groom kiss, everyone cheers.

Celia's eyes find mine across the crowd.

She doesn't look away.

The Reception

Same bar. Same drinks.

But different energy.

"That dress is a war crime," she says, sliding onto the stool beside me. "The bride picked it. I think she hates me."

"You look incredible."

"I look like a sausage casing."

"You look like the only woman in this room worth looking at."

She pauses, drink halfway to her lips. Studies my face.

"You're smooth."

"I'm honest."

"Those aren't the same thing."

"No." I turn to face her fully. "But tonight, they happen to align."

The band starts playing. The dance floor fills with couples—the bride and groom, parents, friends. Celia watches them with something like longing.

"Dance with me."

She snorts. "I don't dance."

"Why not?"

"Look at me." She gestures at herself—the dress, her body, all of it. "I'm not exactly built for graceful movement."

"I'm not asking for graceful." I stand, offer my hand. "I'm asking for you."

She looks at my hand. Looks at me.

Takes it.

The dance floor is crowded. Bodies pressing close, the heat of the Mexican night mixing with the heat of a hundred guests. I pull Celia against me, and she comes willingly—her breasts crushing against my chest, her belly soft against my stomach, her hips settling against mine.

"This okay?" I murmur against her ear.

"More than okay."

We sway. It's not really dancing—just movement, just the excuse to hold each other. My hands find her waist, slide down to her hips. She's so wide. So soft. I can feel the give of her flesh under my palms.

"You feel good," she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She presses closer. Her thigh slots between mine. "Better than I imagined."

"You imagined this?"

"Since last night." Her lips brush my ear. "Since you looked at me like I was something worth wanting."

"You are."

"Most men don't think so." Her voice is light, but there's something underneath. Old wounds. Old dismissals. "They want skinny girls in tiny dresses. Not..."

"Not what?"

She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "Not this."

I pull her back in. Tighter. Close enough to feel every curve, every inch, every softness.

"They're idiots," I say against her hair. "Every single one of them."

She shivers.

We dance through three songs. Then four. The band switches from slow songs to something faster, but we don't speed up. We just keep swaying, keep pressing, keep finding new places where our bodies fit together.

"This is dangerous," she says.

"Probably."

"We're at a wedding. With people. Who can see."

"I know."

"You don't care?"

I let my hand slide lower. Cup the curve of her ass through that straining sage fabric. Feel her inhale sharply.

"I really, really don't."

The Balcony

We escape the reception as the cake is being cut.

The venue has a second-floor balcony overlooking the ocean. It's deserted—everyone downstairs for the sugar and the speeches. Celia kicks off her heels the moment we're outside, groaning with relief.

"God. Finally."

"Feet hurt?"

"Everything hurts. This dress is trying to kill me."

I step closer. "Want help?"

She laughs. "Help with what? You gonna sew me a new dress?"

"I was thinking more... relief." My hands find the zipper at her back. "If you want."

She goes still. The ocean crashes below us. The party hums in the distance.

"We're at a wedding," she says again, but her voice is different now. Breathless.

"You mentioned."

"Someone could come up here."

"They could."

"This is crazy."

"Completely." I lower the zipper an inch. "Tell me to stop."

Silence.

I lower it another inch.

Her breath catches.

"Don't stop."

The zipper slides down, and the dress gives up the fight.

It sags off her shoulders, pools around her waist, and I finally—finally—see what it's been hiding.

Her bra is strapless, sage green to match the dress, and wholly inadequate. Her breasts spill over the cups, massive and soft, the kind of breasts that would overflow any hand, any mouth. Her belly curves below them—round, pale, beautiful in the moonlight.

"God," I breathe.

"Too much?" Her voice is uncertain. Vulnerable.

"Not enough." I step forward, cup her breasts through the bra, feel their weight. "Never enough."

I kiss her.

She tastes like champagne and want. Her mouth opens for me, her tongue sliding against mine, and she moans into the kiss as I squeeze her breasts. I can feel her nipples hardening under the fabric—thick and eager, pressing against my palms.

"Inside," she gasps when we break apart. "My room. Now."

"What about the party?"

"Fuck the party." She grabs my tie, pulls me toward the door. "Fuck the cake. Fuck all of it. I need you inside me or I'm going to lose my mind."

Who am I to argue?

The Hotel Room

Her room is two floors up. We make it without being seen—barely. In the elevator, I press her against the wall, my hands under what's left of her dress, grabbing handfuls of her ass while she yanks at my belt.

"Wanted this since the rehearsal dinner," she pants. "Since you looked at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you wanted to devour me."

"I do."

The elevator dings. We stumble to her door. She fumbles with the keycard while I press against her from behind, grinding my cock against her ass, feeling the softness give under the pressure.

"Fuck—hold on—" The door beeps. Opens.

We fall inside.

I strip her the rest of the way in the dark.

The dress goes first—puddled on the floor, finally defeated. Then the bra—unclasped, thrown somewhere, her breasts finally free. They hang heavy and full, swaying when she moves, and I drop to my knees to worship them.

"Oh—"

I take one nipple into my mouth. Suck. Her hands fly to my head, holding me there, and she whimpers as I tongue the stiff peak. Her nipples are thick, darker than I expected, and incredibly sensitive—every lick makes her gasp, every bite makes her moan.

"The other one—please—"

I switch. Give her other breast the same treatment while my hand finds the first, kneading the soft flesh, feeling its weight. She's trembling. Her thighs are pressed together, and I can see the wet spot on her sage green panties.

"On the bed," I order.

She obeys. Lies back. Spreads her thighs.

I finally see all of her.

She's thick everywhere. Her thighs are massive—pale and soft, dimpled in places, spreading against the sheets. Her belly rises and falls with her breathing, round and inviting. Her panties are soaked, clinging to the outline of her pussy.

I pull them down. Slow. Revealing her inch by inch.

Her pussy is pretty. Swollen. Wet enough that it glistens in the moonlight through the window.

"You're staring," she whispers.

"Getting my fill."

"Aren't you supposed to be inside me by now?"

"Eventually." I kneel between her thighs, spread them wider. "First, I'm going to taste you."

"You don't have to—"

I lick her from entrance to clit, and whatever she was going to say dissolves into a scream.

She tastes like salt and need.

I eat her like a man starving. Long, slow licks from her opening to her clit. Quick, teasing flicks that make her buck. I push my tongue inside her, fuck her with it while my thumb finds her clit, and she grabs fistfuls of the sheets and wails.

"Oh god—oh god—Marcus—"

I slide two fingers inside. She's tight—tighter than I expected—and burning hot. I curl them forward, find that spot, and press.

"FUCK—"

She comes on my tongue.

Her thighs clamp around my head—so thick, so soft, I can barely breathe—and her pussy clenches around my fingers while she shakes. I keep licking through it, keep pressing, keep drawing it out until she's shoving at my shoulders, too sensitive to take any more.

"Stop—stop—I can't—"

I pull back. Look up at her.

She's flushed. Sweaty. Her breasts heaving, her hair wrecked, her eyes glazed.

"Your turn," she breathes.

She's on me before I can move.

Yanks off my shirt. Unbuckles my belt. Shoves my pants and boxers down in one motion and wraps her hand around my cock.

"Fuck, you're big."

"Problem?"

"Challenge." She strokes me, slow and tight, and I have to close my eyes. "I like challenges."

She pushes me onto my back. Climbs on top. And I'm surrounded by her—her thighs straddling my hips, her belly soft against my stomach, her breasts hanging over my face.

"Condom?" she asks.

"Wallet. Back pocket."

She reaches. Finds it. Rolls it on with practiced hands.

Then she positions herself over me, guides my cock to her entrance, and sinks.

I watch every inch disappear inside her.

Watch her pussy stretch around me, pink and wet and gripping. Watch her belly shake as she adjusts. Watch her breasts sway as she starts to move—slow at first, just a gentle rock, then faster, harder, building into a rhythm that makes the bed creak.

"You feel so good," she moans. "So full—"

I grab her hips. Pull her down harder. She cries out, bracing herself on my chest, and I can feel her nails digging in.

"Ride me. Take what you need."

She does.

She bounces on my cock like she was made for it. All that weight coming down on me with every stroke, her flesh rippling, her breasts swinging. I reach up to grab them—fill my hands with softness, squeeze, pinch her nipples. She throws her head back and screams.

"Harder—harder—"

I plant my feet. Thrust up to meet her. The sound of flesh slapping flesh fills the room, wet and obscene, and she's so tight around me, clenching with every stroke.

"Gonna come again—" she gasps. "Don't stop—don't stop—"

I don't.

I fuck up into her, hard and fast, while she rides me into the mattress. Her whole body is shaking, her pussy fluttering around my cock, and then she screams—really screams, loud enough that the whole hotel probably hears—and comes so hard I feel it in my spine.

I follow her over.

Grab her hips. Pull her down. Bury myself to the hilt and explode, pumping into the condom while she milks me, while her pussy spasms around me, while she collapses onto my chest in a heap of sweat and curves.

We lie there. Panting. Hearts pounding.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

"Yeah."

"We missed the cake."

"Worth it."

She laughs against my chest. Her breasts are crushed between us, her belly soft against mine, her thighs still trembling on either side of my hips.

"This is crazy," she says.

"You mentioned."

"I don't do this. Hook up with strangers at weddings."

"Neither do I."

"So what happens now?"

I wrap my arms around her. Pull her closer. Feel all of her—every curve, every inch, every softness.

"Now," I say, "we figure out how long until round two."

She lifts her head. Meets my eyes.

"Give me ten minutes."

"Done."

The After-Party

We never make it to the after-party.

We fuck twice more that night—once from behind, bent over the desk while I grab fistfuls of her ass; once in the shower, her back against the tile while I hold her thigh over my hip. By the time we finally collapse, it's past three in the morning, and the party has long since ended.

"I have a flight tomorrow," she says in the dark. "Afternoon."

"Me too."

"Back to real life."

"Yeah."

Silence. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest.

"Where's real life for you?" she asks.

"Chicago."

Her hand stills. "Are you serious?"

"Why?"

"I'm in Chicago. Lakeview."

I turn to face her. In the dark, I can barely see her expression.

"I'm in Lincoln Park."

"That's—"

"Twenty minutes."

She laughs. Disbelieving. Hopeful.

"This is crazy," she says for the hundredth time.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

I kiss her. Slow and soft, nothing like the desperate kisses from before.

"Have dinner with me," I murmur against her lips. "When we get back. A real dinner. Where I can look at you across a table and think about all the things I'm going to do to you later."

"Just dinner?"

"Dinner first." My hand finds her hip, squeezes. "Then everything else."

She's quiet for a long moment. I can feel her thinking. Feel the weight of the decision.

"Okay," she says finally. "Dinner."

"Friday?"

"Friday."

She settles against me, her head on my chest, her body warm and heavy beside me.

"For the record," she whispers, "I don't regret coming to this wedding anymore."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her arm tightens around my waist. "Best decision I ever made."

Outside, the ocean keeps crashing.

Inside, I hold her close and think about Fridays. About dinners. About all the things that start with strangers at weddings.

About how sometimes, the person you're looking for is the one you never expected to find.

I sleep better than I have in months.

In the morning, she kisses me goodbye at her door. Her dress is wrinkled. Her hair is a disaster. Her lips are swollen from a night of kissing.

She's never looked more beautiful.

"Friday," I say.

"Friday," she agrees.

And when I walk back to my room, past the hungover wedding guests and the empty champagne bottles and the remnants of someone else's happily ever after, I realize I'm smiling.

Who knew destination weddings were good for something after all.