Her pupils blow wide, chest heaving. “You’re insane.”
“You remember what you told me that first morning we fucked?” I whisper, spinning her gently toward the mirror as I unzip my jeans. “That you wanted a lesson in public? Wanted me to rail you in a dressing room while anyone could hear?”
Her lashes flutter. “A lesson in… public.”
“You begged for this,” I murmur, dragging my cock through her pussy until she’s panting. “In a dressing room. My hands on you while anyone could walk by.”
She nods at my reflection, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. I dust a kiss to her bare shoulder, to the back of her neck, then push into her inch by inch until we’re both groaning.
“Lesson Ten.” I thrust slowly, dragging a soft moan out of her throat. “Watch yourself fall apart in the mirror. Watch what I do to you.”
Her forehead presses to the glass, but I slide a hand under her chin, turning her face so she can see. “No, keep watching. Look how perfect you are.”
She whimpers but obeys, staring at the glass as I start to move. The reflection is obscene—her tits bouncing, the dress bunched at her waist, my cock slamming into her while her breath fogs against the mirror.
“Look at you,” I groan, thrusting faster. “Taking my cock so deep and fucking perfect. This pussy’s mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she moans, voice breaking.
“Again.”
“Yours. Always—Oh god, I’m gonna come again…”
I tug her mouth to mine, kissing her as she spasms around me and comes apart a second time. Her cry is swallowed between our mouths, her body shaking, but she keeps her eyes open, watching herself unravel like I told her to.
“Good girl,” I rasp, pounding harder, filth spilling out between ragged kisses. “Mygirl. My pussy. My everything.”
Her reflection blurs and streaks, and when I finally lose it, groaning into her hair, it’s with her reflection burned into me—wrecked and radiant in the mirror.
This girl, who once asked me for lessons on how to come, has no idea she’s the one teaching me how it feels to belong to someone.
Chapter twenty-nine
In my bride era
Lulu
The karaoke club is a riot of neon and sequins, as if someone tipped a disco ball over Denver and told it to never stop spinning.
Our VIP booth glows under hot pink lights, the table already cluttered with champagne and jewel-bright cocktails, each one crowned with sparklers, umbrellas, or fruit skewers stabbed in at all angles.
Charlie sits in the center, tiara slipping in her long red hair, a satin “Bride” sash cutting across her sparkly dress. She keeps insisting she’s “too classy for karaoke,” which is hilarious considering this is the same woman who once tackled Zoe in a Taco Bell parking lot over the last nacho fry.
Tonight, though, she’s radiant—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, sipping champagne, and one hand pressed to her chest, repeating how she can’t believe this night is for her.
Which is exactly when the cake arrives.
Heart-shaped and delicately decorated with pastel icing, carried in by a server who looks like he’s questioning all his life choices, and set right in the middle of the table. In looping letters across the top:In Her Bride Era.And beneath it, piped in pink and glittery silver, the outline of a hand giving the finger—except it’s the ring finger, with an iced ring big enough to shame the Hope Diamond.
Charlie makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob, clutching at her tiara to keep her from dissolving into the floor. “Lulu. Oh my god, I love you.”
“What?” I say innocently, though I’m already giggling. “It’s accurate. Era-specific. On brand, especially the ring.”
Zoe leans over to snap photos, cackling. “This is art. Actual art.”
Claire nods in agreement. “This issopretty!”
“I love this.” Tamara turns it to take a better look. “You’re now on cake duty for every single occasion.”
