She sits in one of the gondolas that glide through the pool toward the terrace, beside figures neither of us know. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her hands in her lap. I hate that I couldn’t escort her, for everyone she’s even mildly acquainted with is in the wedding party. Still, she assured me she’d be fine before I left her hotel room. Before I forced myself away from her when all I wanted to do was kiss her, take her to bed, and make love to her for the rest of the day.
I should win an award for my restraint.
Or perhaps I should be punished.
Her gondola arrives at the dock, and she and the other passengers disembark. My eyes remain on her as she climbs the steps onto the terrace. As soon as she reaches the aisle, her gaze finds mine. My chest tightens. My mind goes blank.
Fucking hell.
Iambeing punished.
Because there she is in that same yellow dress I made her come in just hours ago. Her legs are covered in white stockings, her hair no longer mussed from the pleasure I gave her, but every inch of my body remembers how she looked, how she felt, how she smelled. How hot and slick she was around my fingers. How soft and languid she was against me.
“Are you going to answer my fucking question?” Thorne’s whispered words have my spine going rigid. He stands facing the growing audience with his head angled toward me.
“Hmm?” I blink at him.
“I asked if you’re all right. You’ve been absentminded all goddamned evening.”
I shake the lust and…and the warmer feeling from my head. “I’m great. Besides, I should be asking you that. You’re the one about to be married.”
Thorne heaves a sigh that seems to relax his entire being. “I’m better than great. I just can’t wait to see her.” He meets my eyes, and I find tears in his as he gives me a shaky smile. “She’s going to be my fucking wife.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from tearing up myself. I’ve never seen Thorne like this, and I’ve known him almost my whole life.
He faces forward again, and my eyes dart back to the aisle just as Daphne reaches her row and takes a seat. Our eyes connect again, and she gives me a warm smile and the smallest of waves.
I’m glad everything is still normal between us. Comfortable.
“Who’s the girl in yellow?” I bristle at the voice that comes from the groomsman on my other side. I met him during Thorne’s stag party and again earlier this evening as we helped the groom prepare for his ceremony. He’s one of Thorne’s newest friends, and they’ve already grown close enough that he’s a fucking groomsman.
I may have a slight jealousy issue when it comes to my friends making new friends, but that’s neither here nor there. Not when he’s asking about Daphne.
It’s all I can do not to snarl at him as I arch a brow his way. What is his name? Paul? Paolo? No, it was Patrick. Patrick Wright.
He meets my eyes without falter. “Do you know her?”
“Yes,” I bite out.
Thorne angles his head toward us. “She’s Monty’s newest victim in his so-called matchmaking,” he whispers.
Patrick’s eyes widen. “Matchmaking?”
“He’s helping her find a husband.”
I turn a perplexed look to Thorne. How the fuck does he know that?
“Briony told me,” he says, answering my silent question.
My chest tightens. Daphne must have told Briony, then. It’s true; I am helping her find a husband. So why does it make me so uncomfortable that Patrick knows? So irritable? Why does it make me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin?
“Can you introduce me?” Patrick asks.
I pointedly ignore him. Thankfully, I’m given the perfect excuse.
The music shifts to a new song. The last of the guests have arrived and a single gondola floats toward this end of the pool.
Thorne sucks in a breath and stands up straighter. The boat’s occupants are hidden behind an enormous lace parasol, but as the gondola arrives at the dock, the parasol lowers to reveal Briony and Tilly. Hand in hand, they disembark the boat and climb the steps to the aisle. Briony is dressed in a curve-hugging gown of white silk, her golden hair spilling over one shoulder, adorned in pearls and white roses. Tilly wears a ruffly lace dress, a crown of pink and white roses nestled on her pale hair around her bunny ears. As they proceed down the aisle, Thorne wipes a hand over his jaw, and I hear the telltale shudder of his breath. He’s trying not to cry.
