Shifting ever so slightly, he hit a spot inside her that felt so good it tore tears from her eyes. The position sensitized her to the point of madness and she urged him on with her hips as he drove them both into the stratosphere, the door biting into her back as she muffled her cries against his suit jacket, praying she wasn’t smearing makeup all over his shoulder.
That would be a dead giveaway to anyone who bothered to notice. And she liked the idea of keeping this encounter secret. Their own little wedding party.
Explosion imminent, she rolled her hips until the angle increased the pressure the way she liked it. Hendrix grabbed one thigh, opening her even wider, and that was it. The orgasm ripped through her and she melted against him, going boneless in his arms until his own cry signaled his release.
He gave them both about five seconds of recovery time and then let her legs drift to the floor so they could hold each other up. Which she gladly did because he’d earned it.
“That was great for starters,” she muttered against his shoulder because it felt expected that she should reiterate how hot—and not meaningful—this encounter was. “I can definitely report that took the edge off, but I’m nowhere near done.”
There was so much more to explore. Best part? She could. Whenever she felt like it, since they’d be sleeping in the same bed. Married sex had a lot to recommend it.
Someone rattled the doorknob, nearly startling out of her skin.
“You have the key?” a muffled voice from the other side of the wall called.
Oh, God. They were about to be discovered.
Seven
Where was her underwear? It was so dark in here. Had she kicked them to the left? Panic drained Roz’s mind and she couldn’t think.
The doorknob rattled again. Whoever it was probably had no idea that the bride and groom were in the closet. But they were probably packing a cell phone with a camera. They always were.
Stuffing her fist against her mouth, Roz jumped away from the door and knelt to feel around for her panties, dress impeding her progress like a big white straitjacket for legs. Hendrix fumbled with his own clothes. His zipper shushed, sounding like an explosion in the small room. At least he’d gotten that much covered. Any photographs of this tryst would be of the dressed variety. But still not the commemorative moment they’d like captured digitally for eternity.
The door swung open, spilling light into the closet, and Roz had a very nasty flashback to a similar moment when she was twenty, with the obvious difference this time being that she was wearing a wedding dress and the man tucking in his shirt behind her had recently signed a marriage license.
Two white-coated waiters stared at her and Hendrix and she’d like to say her years of practice at being caught in less-than-stellar circumstances had prepared her for it, but it was never as easy as tossing her hair back and letting the chips fall where they may.
Besides, she refused to be embarrassed. Everything was covered. Married people were allowed to be in a locked closet without fear of judgment—or she wouldn’t have bothered to go through with all of this. The wait staff was interrupting her, not the other way around.
She shot to her feet and it was a testament to her feigned righteous indignation at being disturbed that she didn’t break an ankle as one of her stilettos hit the ground at an awkward angle.
“Um, sorry,” the one on the left said, and he might as well have hashtagged it #notsorry.
His face beamed his prurient delight, like something naughty was showing, and she had half a moment of pure horror over not actually locating her underwear. She tugged on her skirt to make sure it wasn’t caught on itself, but then Hendrix came up behind her, snaking an arm around her waist. Claiming her. They were a unit and he had her back.
She leaned into him, more grateful than she had a right to be.
“Can you give us a minute?” he said smoothly to the interrupters and actually waited for the one waiter’s nod before he shut the door in their face. Brilliant. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
Hendrix flipped on the overhead light, the white lace scrap on the floor easily identifiable at that point. But instead of letting her fetch her panties, he tipped her chin up and laid a kiss on her lips that had nothing to do with sex. Couldn’t. There were people outside who wanted inside this closet and they’d been busted.
“I wasn’t finished, either,” he murmured against her mouth by way of explanation.
She nodded, letting his warmth bleed through her via their joined lips, mystified why that sweet, unnecessary cap to their closet hookup meant so much. Eventually, he let her go and they got everything situated well enough to mix in polite company again. Hendrix reopened the door and they slipped past the waiters hand in hand.
Her husband’s palm burned against hers. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had held her hand, like they were boyfriend-girlfriend. Or whatever. They were married. Nothing wrong with holding hands. It was just...unexpected.
“You okay?” Hendrix said softly, pulling her to the side of the short hallway that led to the reception area. His attention was firmly on her, but before she could answer or figure out why his concern had just squished at a place inside, more people interrupted them.
Why couldn’t everyone leave them alone so she could spend about a dozen hours exploring why everything with Hendrix felt so different now that she’d signed a piece of paper?
Hendrix’s arm went tense under her fingers and she turned. Her father. And Helene. They stood at the end of the short hall, varying expressions of dismay and relief spreading across their faces.
Oh, God. The very people they were trying to help with this scandal-fixing marriage. Now it was obvious to everyone that she couldn’t resist Hendrix, that she had something wrong with her that made it impossible to wait for more appropriate circumstances before getting naked with the man.
“We got a little concerned when we couldn’t find you,” Helene said with a smile. “But here you are.”