Page 25 of The Spare

He’s right, of course. We have danced a million times before. He’s been my favourite dancing partner for as long as I can remember: a thrilling combination of hot, competent, and downright dirty. I think the last time we danced together was when he pulled me onto this very dance floor to boogie to ‘Bad Guy’ in full Regency costume at Xavier’s thirtieth, a few months back.

Except tonight is different. Tonight, I’m in a wedding dress—or at least, a fabulously abridged version of it, having removed the voluminous bottom half after dinner to reveal a sexy little fit-and-flare mini-dress. Tonight, every pair of eyes in the place is fixed on us. And tonight, I’m dancing with my husband.

We finish the dance. I grab a couple of glasses of champagne. I dance with my bridesmaids. My girlfriends. We gush over Flora’s very sweet, very fledgling, romance with Harry, a distant cousin of mine. They’re shy and adorable together. Predictably, Benedict and his mates hit the scotch at the bar. Just as predictably, someone requests ‘SexyBack’, and each of them feels the need to perform the snake as the rest of the guests stand around in a circle and cheer. And, most predictably of all, my new husband’s snake is the best. He manages to look almost exactly as if he’s fucking when he performs it, and I find myself having to look away.

He’s blind drunk by the time we’re due to leave our own party, but I’m not mad. It’s not a surprise that he needs to let off some steam after upending his entire life so I could save face.

And, more pressingly, it makes our first bedtime as man and wife a whole lot more straightforward. We go up to his room together—Ewan and I will need to make a lot of changes to the décor, but that can wait a week or two—and he begins to strip. He lost the tie and tails hours ago, but he unbuttons his waistcoat and then his shirt, all the while gyrating unevenly and humming ‘Moves Like Jagger’. I inadvertently lick my lips as his gorgeous bare chest comes into view, olive-skinned even in midwinter, with a dusting of dark hair and indecently defined pecs. I’ve seen it all a million times before—Ben has never been a man afflicted with self-consciousness—but it’s different now: we’re in our bedroom. He’s my husband.

‘Strip for me, wifey,’ he slurs with a lopsided grin.

That snaps me right out of the Magic Mike zone. ‘No, thank you.’ I turn and head for the bathroom.

By the time I emerge from an aggressive tooth-brushing session and a very thorough skincare routine, it’s just as I hoped.

He’s under the covers, out cold.

I blow out a breath of relief. As long as he stays like that, I can survive this wedding night.

CHAPTER 12

Benedict

My brother looks a lot like the schoolboy who threw a stone straight through the greenhouse window and has returned, reluctantly, to face the music.

The only difference is that he also looks a lot like a grown man who’s been so well fucked that nothing can touch him—not even our father’s imminent death.

It’s a brave return. We are a couple of days post the wedding, and he’s left Ivy and the twins in our family’s fuck-off mansion in Little Venice. I know he would have been here sooner, except for the fact that, when he reunited with Ivy, he found her and her little sisters living in a hellhole of a council flat in some godawful tower block and insisted on moving them out. I can’t imagine he’s happy about having left his love behind, but no one understands duty more than my elder brother—one recent, notable exception aside, that is.

Slinky and I are eating breakfast with Flora and Ma in, funnily enough, the breakfast room when Xav rocks up. He stands in the doorway, looking wary. I’m not surprised. It’s the first time he’s seen Slinks since he dumped her. I get to my feet to greet him.

‘Jesus,’ I mutter in his ear as we bro-hug. ‘You look indecently happy. I really hope your dick is chafed as fuck.’

He chuckles and slaps me on the back. ‘Not far off it.’

‘Good.’

We release each other and he stands there awkwardly. ‘Anyway, congratulations, mate.’ He slaps me on the arm. I think he means thank you, but I’ll let it slide. I know we’re all playing this super-fun game of pretending that Slinks and I actually chose this fate. His eyes dart nervously to her and back. ‘Congratulations, Selena.’

My wife holds his gaze and stays silent a fair few seconds longer than is strictly necessary before she says simply, ‘Thank you.’

Fucking hell. Even I’m sweating. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of her. Though I’m not surprised she’s icing him out. She’s certainly entitled to make him feel her wrath.

Xav clears his throat and approaches the table. ‘Hello, Ma.’ He bends and kisses our mother on both cheeks.

‘Xavier,’ Ma says frostily. This guy will be out in the cold for a long, long time if the women in his life have anything to do with it. Luckily for him, our sister has the warmest heart imaginable and is an Ivy mega-fan.

‘Hiiii,’ she squeaks, pushing her chair back so she can round the table and get him in a bear hug that involves them swaying from side to side. ‘How’s Ivy?’ she stage-whispers. I snort. Trust Flora to open proceedings with the elephant in the room.

‘Er, she’s great, thanks,’ he says, releasing her gently. I can feel the awkwardness emanating from him. Poor fucker.

No.

He’s not a poor fucker. I am. He’s getting railed to within an inch of his life by his hot little girlfriend who used to actually have sex for a living. He is in seriously good hands.

I, on the other hand, have balls of actual sapphire blue. I meant what I told Slinky when I proposed: I intend this to be a real marriage, physically speaking. That means I won’t sleep with other women from now on. What it also means is that I’m completely dependent on my wife taking pity on me and putting out at some point—ideally in the very near future.

She understands this, while I understand that this is very new for her, that I don’t exactly have her trust, and that I will need to be patient until she feels ready to put herself in my hands.