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He disengages from my sex, stands, and helps me compose myself. A rush of awareness and embarrassment fills me, and a different kind of heat spreads across my cheeks.
Grey looks at me, his eyes dark as he grips my chin. “After dinner.”
He doesn’t need to say the words.
After dinner, we’ll fuck.
And hopefully, it will finally scratch this crazy itch.
11
Grey
I look at my phone. Where the hell is Sylvie?
My sister talked about her dress during dinner, and Sylvie politely asked her questions. Leslie offered—summoned—Sylvie to go to her suite after dessert to take a first look at her wedding dress.
Well, the dress must be a fucking masterpiece because that was over an hour ago.
I go to our suite, take a shower, dim the lighting, and wait. And wait.
Pacing the floor, my sexual frustration reaches new heights—like a prisoner released from jail after not seeing women for ten years. It’s that bad, even though we had sex a few days ago and would again tonight if my sister ever let her go.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the frustration away.
Sylvie will be back soon, and we’ll finally address the need bubbling in my veins.
I frown as I hear a thump, followed by several voices. I leave my suite at the far end of the hall and follow the noises until I'm at my sister's suite.
The door is half-open.
“Hello?” I don’t wait for a reply and enter.
In a few strides, I pass through the set of couches, endless suitcases, and open boxes to find Leslie sitting in the oversized chair with tears rolling down her cheeks. My mom sits on the arm, fanning her, telling her to calm down.
“What happened?” I ask.
They both look at me, and Leslie’s tears fall harder.
I move closer, seeing a goose egg on her forehead. What the hell?
"I wanted to show Sylvie the view from my terrace. I thought the doors were open and walked into them," she says, sobbing.
Mom rubs her shoulder. “Oh, honey, it’s okay.”
“I’ve got the ice,” Sylvie says, rushing into the room, carrying a couple of big Ziploc bags filled with ice cubes. “Here.” She gives it to my sister. “You need to ice it for as long as possible.”
“How long will it take for the swelling to go down?” Mom asks.
Sylvie threads her fingers together. “A few days. That’s the case at the daycare when kids get hurt.”
Leslie’s eyes widen. “A few days? I’m getting married in three days! And we’re having the rehearsal dinner in two. And. Oh. The pictures are scheduled for tomorrow. Shit.”
My mom rolls her eyes. Patience was never her forte, especially with Leslie’s meltdowns. My dad usually does better in these situations, but he’s probably in his room. Lucky him.
“Leslie, I’m sure there’s something we can do. More importantly, how do you feel?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing her.
She wipes away her tears. “I’m terrible. My forehead hurts, and this egg on my head has its own zip code.”
