Maid of Honor Claims the Groom

I never meant for any of this to happen. At least that’s what I told myself as I stood barefoot on the moonlit terrace of the honeymoon villa in Bali, the warm night air thick with frangipani and salt. My name is Emily. I’ve been Leah’s best friend since we were six years old. I was her maid of honor yesterday when she married Ryan in a ceremony so beautiful it hurt to watch. And now, less than twenty-four hours into their marriage, Leah was on a red-eye flight back to Sydney because her father had suffered a serious heart attack. She’d begged me to stay behind and keep Ryan company so the honeymoon suite wouldn’t go to waste.

I should have said no.

Instead I poured us both another glass of the chilled Veuve Clicquot the resort had left in a silver bucket. Ryan stood at the railing in a white linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric glowing against his tanned skin. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy, crooked smile that had twisted my stomach for years. I’d watched him fall in love with my best friend. I’d smiled at their engagement party. I’d helped Leah pick out her wedding lingerie. And every single time he looked at me too long, I felt it. That dark, shameful pull low in my belly.

Tonight the pull had teeth.

“Poor Leah,” he murmured, staring out at the black ocean. “She was crying so hard when she left.”

“I know.” I stepped closer, the silk of my deep emerald bridesmaid dress whispering against my thighs. The dress was backless, held up by tiny straps that kept slipping off my shoulders. “She told me to make sure you didn’t drink alone.”

Ryan turned to look at me. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide. “You’ve always taken such good care of her, Em. Of both of us.” His voice had dropped an octave. “Even when you probably wanted to kill me for stealing your best friend.”

My pulse hammered against my throat. The champagne buzzed in my blood. I set my glass down on the wide teak railing and met his gaze.

“I never wanted to kill you, Ryan.”

He took one slow step toward me. Then another. The air between us crackled.

“What did you want, then?” he asked, low and rough.

I swallowed. The truth had been rotting inside me for three years. Tonight the rot felt like honey.

“You,” I whispered. “I wanted you.”

The confession hung there, naked and filthy between us. For one heartbeat I thought he might step back. Instead his hand rose, cupped the side of my neck, thumb stroking along my jaw like he’d been dying to do it for years.

“I’ve jerked off thinking about you more times than I can count,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even the night before the wedding. Especially the night before the wedding.”

My nipples tightened instantly against the silk. Heat flooded between my legs.

“We’re going to hell for this,” I breathed.

His smile was slow, wicked, and utterly without remorse. “Then let’s make it worth the trip.”

He kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t exploratory. It was three years of stolen glances and bitten tongues exploding all at once. His mouth claimed mine, tongue sliding deep, tasting of champagne and sin. I moaned into him, fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer. His hands roamed down my bare back, palms hot against my skin, then lower, gripping my ass through the dress and yanking me against the hard ridge of his cock.

“Fuck, Emily,” he growled against my lips. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

I bit his lower lip, sucking it into my mouth. “Then stop imagining and take what you’ve always wanted.”

That was the moment we both stopped pretending. No more guilt. No more best-friend loyalty. Just raw, mutual hunger.

Ryan spun me around so fast my head spun. He bent me over the wide teak railing, the ocean roaring thirty feet below us. The night air kissed my exposed back as he shoved the long skirt of my dress up around my waist. I wasn’t wearing panties; the silk lines would have shown. He groaned when he discovered that, his big hand immediately cupping my soaked pussy from behind.

“So fucking wet already. You’ve been dripping for me all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped, pushing back against his fingers. “Every time I watched you kiss her I got wetter.”

Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the waves. He finger-fucked me hard and fast, curling just right, his thumb finding my swollen clit and rubbing tight circles. My knees shook. The railing dug into my hips. I didn’t care.

Ryan pulled his fingers free, and I heard the metallic rasp of his zipper. Then the blunt, scorching head of his cock was sliding up and down my slit, teasing.

“Tell me you want your best friend’s husband to fuck you on her honeymoon terrace,” he demanded.