Page 107 of The Wedding Menu

“Ian?” I whisper, unable to hide a pleased smile.

“Hmm.” He clears his throat, takes a sip of his beer, then another. Finally, he acknowledges Pamela. “Everything’s fine. I’m just a little warm.”

With a series of loud complaints about the weather, Pamela drags me to her table, Ian following right behind. I can feel his presence, his eyes back to the only thing they want to stare at.

Pamela takes her place beside David and Lucille, chefs at a local restaurant, and before I can grab one of the remaining chairs, Ian holds it out for me. I sit down, and he does, too, his body angled toward me so much, it’s almost as if there’s no one else at our table.

His eyes study me hungrily as I exchange a few polite remarks with David and Lucille, waiting for my attention to return to him. As soon as it does, he points at me. “That’s a—a very pretty dress,” he swallows. “It’s alsoveryshort.”

I shrug, then whisper, “I thought you might need ‘PFP’:pantyfor proof.”

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that I don’t know how tointerpret: somewhere between angry and turned on. Then I think of his words when we discussed this specific fantasy of his.

I stare at your thighs, hoping to see underneath, terrified that someone else will. Unable to think about anything else, obsessing over how ready you are, how close, but unreachable.

Ian’s beer is gone a minute after my panty-less entrance, but he semi-patiently waits for me to drink my wine. He’s not too subtle about it, either, pushing my glass closer every time the chatter distracts me.

Not that I’m truly distracted. No, sir. I can feel his leg bouncing under the table, see his fingers tapping on his coaster. And I torture him, spreading my legs an inch wider every time he looks down, until the panic in his eyes is so jarring, I take pity on him and close them. Then I start again.

Our knees brush against each other, and as he slides nearer inch by inch, his hand casually grazes the part of my leg hidden by my dress. I have to keep myself from grinding against the chair. If he slid his finger a few inches up, he would find that spot slick.

I drink my last sip, and, like a spring, he jumps up and announces we’re leaving. I think even the walls know what for. We walk upstairs, whispering words between kisses, but they’re confused, slurred, distracted.

Once we’re standing in front of the door to his room, he leans back and stares into my eyes. His knuckle trails along the shape of my jaw as he studies me hungrily. “What happens next?” he whispers. “Do I need to drop to my knees? Because I will. I’ll beg if you want me to. You win. Please let me do unspeakable things to you.”

I bite my lip to contain a grin, every single function in my body shutting off and a strange new awareness tingling through me. I’m drunk with power. Drunk with the idea of this man dying to touch me, craving me. No one’s ever craved me before.

This manneedsme.

He needs me, and he’s perfect, and I definitely want to spend the night with him.

I could say that I should have figured it out sooner, but the truth is that I knew all along and did nothing about it. Andthatis my biggest regret.

That, and everything that happened since the last time he asked me to spend the night with him.

You’re Mine, Amelie

— ONEWEEK TOAMELIE’SWEDDING—

I stumble past the door and slam it closed behind me. “Frank?” I shout as I drag myself through the corridor.

Tonight’s conversation is still echoing in my ears. I spent the better part of an hour of my birthday-meets-bachelorette party hearing about how romantic it is to be engaged. How Trevor and Ryan can’t keep their hands off Martha and Barb most of the time. How it’s like they’ve gone back to their first year together.

Frank and I haven’t slept together since before our engagement. I figured things would get better when he came back for Christmas, then I told myself we’d be okay once he moved back in, but neither thing has happened. Winter is almost over, the wedding is approaching, and still… nothing. He also forgot today’s my birthday, but I’m much more concerned about marrying a man who doesn’t love me or want me. The several bottles of wine the girls and I drank aren’t helping either.

I enter the dark bedroom and climb on the bed. It’s much easier when I’m sober, and I almost plummet to the floor twice before I squeeze Frank’s shoulder. “Frank?”

“Hmm?”

“Wake up.”

He opens his eyes and sucks a quick breath in. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just got back. We need to have sex.”

His eyes squint even more. “What?”

I move my leg over until I’m sitting on top of him, then press my lips to his, sticking my tongue in his mouth.