We paused, both breathing heavily, the air thick with desire between us. God, I wanted her so badly it was a tangible ache. Her dark eyes glittered with trepidation and her breath caught as she gazed up at me. If she kept looking at me like that, I was going to have the driver take us home and skip the reception altogether.
“You want me,” she said. She’d said this before and each time it seemed to surprise her.
“I do,” I said.
She hesitated. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell. You’re very…stoic. Maybe a little cold.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” I said.
“It just surprises me when you want me,” she whispered.
“You’re beautiful. Any man would be a fool not to want you.” I picked up her hand and slid it between us, pressing her palm against the hard ridge beneath the front of my pants. Her eyes widened and a pink blush crept up her throat and stained her cheeks. She looked beautiful like this, her hand on my hard cock and her face flushed with arousal and embarrassment.
“I can take it out if that’s not enough proof,” I said.
“Lucien!” she gasped.
The limousine slowed to a halt and I leaned over and pulled the curtain aside. Our families and the rest of the outfit waited by the hotel entrance. Sighing, I turned back to my new wife and brushed the strands of her bangs from her face.
“They’re waiting for us,” she said softly.
I nodded, lifting her from my lap so she could check her hair and makeup in the fold down mirror. There was something oddly erotic about watching her lean forward, her focus on her reflection. Her middle finger reached up and dabbed a bit of gloss onto her lower lip and then she pressed her lips together to spread it. She had a beautiful, full mouth and I found myself imagining her going down on her knees before me, her fingers unfastening the front of my pants.
Pull it together, Lucien.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
She nodded and I opened the door, taking her hand, and we stepped out onto the strip of white carpet waiting for us. I hated this, all the formality, and I could tell my nervous wife wasn’t pleased about it either. The crowd broke into applause again. They were eager to eat, drink, and dance all night, far away from their problems for a little while. After all, life in the outfit was fragile and we had to enjoy the time we had.
At the head table, I kept my hand on my wife’s thigh. She was quieter than usual and her pale hands worried at her food, cutting her chicken into smaller and smaller pieces. She did that a lot, picked apart her meal until it was a mess across her plate. I wasn’t sure why and I hadn’t bothered to ask her because the subject of meals sent her into spirals of anxiety.
She reached out and picked up her champagne flute and drained it. The waiter moved up to the table to refill it, but I put my hand over the glass and shook my head.
“No, thank you,” I said firmly.
“I wanted more,” Olivia said.
“If you eat some of the food that you’ve been mutilating, you may have more.”
She sighed and shoved a spoonful of sweet potatoes into her mouth, chewed wearily, and swallowed. Unswayed, I sipped my beer and watched as she trudged through half of her plate of food, her eyes downcast. She kept glancing up and then down again as though she expected me to snatch her plate away. I looked over and caught a fleeting disapproving look on her mother’s face from across the room and it clicked into place.
“She said something to you, didn’t she?”
Olivia nodded. “On the way in. She grabbed my hip and said I’d gained weight.”
I studied her body for a moment. Her mother was right, Olivia had gained about a half-size, but that was a net positive in my book. Her waist was still slender, but her breasts had filled out a little and her ass and hips were firm and rounded. The hollows around her collarbones had finally filled in. The way her leg had felt when I’d pushed my hand beneath her dress in the car had conjured a series of images of thrusting into her hard enough to make her hips and thighs quiver. I shook my head quickly and looked back down at my plate.
“You needed to gain weight. Your mother is a bitch who unfortunately crawled out of hell to be here today, but that doesn’t mean she gets to talk to you that way,” I said coldly.
Olivia gasped, her mouth falling open, and then she started laughing hard. Her shoulders shook and her silverware clinked on her plate. A few of the nearby tables turned to stare. I squeezed her thigh briefly and she got the message, taking a gasping breath, and composing herself.
“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that,” she whispered.
I looked up and the wedding planner was gesturing at us and pointing to the dance floor. It took me a moment to understand what she was trying to tell me, and then it clicked. It was time for our first dance. Olivia looked up at me as I pushed back my chair and took her hand. Taking their cue, everyone stood and gathered around as I led her out to the center of the floor.
She was frozen in place, her face paler than ever. It was dawning on me that my wife had stage fright.
“Can you waltz?” I asked quietly.