“Do you need to rehearse with the new setup? We have maybe ten minutes before?—”
“No.” I shake my head, feeling the weight of my hair against my bare shoulders where they’ve curled it into waves that smell like heat and product. “I’ll improvise that part.”
“Girl,” she says, her voice dropping into that warning tone that’s half amusement, half genuine concern, “this better not cause chaos. Charles will literally murder me if something goes wrong with his baby sister’s performance.”
Five minutes later, we’re gathered in the staging area like soldiers before battle, all of us ridiculous and gorgeous in our matching costumes with slight variations — Sienna’s has white accents for the bride, mine has the deepest red, the others in various shades between. The energy crackles between us like static electricity, nervous giggles and last-minute touch-ups, someone’s hands shaking as they reapply lip gloss, and Madison’s going on about how she couldn’t find any of the actual groomsmen after rehearsal, how they had to substitute with Charles’s college friends for the audience participation section.
“I wanted the tattooed one,” Jen complains, adjusting her cleavage in the mirror one final time. “But they all just vanished, like they knew we were coming for them.”
My stomach clenches even as I force myself to smile, to nod along like I’m just as disappointed, like my entire body isn’t vibrating with the knowledge of what I’m about to do. My palms are slick with sweat despite the powder I dusted on them, my heartbeat so loud I’m certain everyone can hear it over the music bleeding through the walls, and every instinct screams at me to run — to fake an injury, claim sudden illness, crawl back to my suite and hide beneath the Egyptian cotton until this week ends and I can flee back to California where no one looks at me like they’re trying to solve an equation written in my bones.
But Sienna’s glowing beside me, radiant with excitement and love and the kind of joy that makes everything else feel small, and I won’t be the reason that light dims even for a second.
The transition happens too fast — suddenly, we’re walking into the ballroom that’s been transformed into something that belongs in a fever dream, all purple lights and smoke that curls around our ankles like beckoning fingers, the crowd already drunk and roaring as Charles takes the microphone with that easy confidence that makes him a natural leader.
“Ladies, gentlemen!” Charles’s voice booms through the speakers, already three drinks in and loving every second of this. “Before you get too comfortable, my beautiful bride-to-be has prepared something that’s going to make you question your life choices. And yes, that includes you, Marcus — put down that whiskey, you’re going to need both hands free to clutch your pearls.”
The crowd roars with laughter, someone yells something inappropriate, and Charles grins wider.
“Now, I’ve been told there are rules,” he continues, pacing the stage like a ringmaster. “No touching unless invited, no pictures — looking at you, Derek — and absolutely no marriage proposals. That last one’s specifically for you, Ryan. We all remember Vegas.” More laughter, more catcalls. “So without further ado, I present the future Mrs. Carter and her absolutely devastating bridesmaids. Gentlemen...try to survive this.”
The curtain rises, and the music hits like a physical force, bass so deep it reverberates through my chest cavity and makes my bones ache. The stage lights blaze down, their heat immediate and overwhelming, turning the air thick and electric. I can taste the vanilla-sweet fog from the smoke machines on my tongue, feel it curling around my ankles as six circular platforms rise from the floor.
My body moves with the choreography, but I’m hyperaware of everything. The sheer panels of my costume cling to my damp skin with each movement. The rhinestone clasp between my breasts catches the lights and throws fractured rainbows across the stage. The whisper of silk against my thighs as I roll my hips sends sparks of sensation straight to my core.
The crowd roars, but underneath their cheers I can hear something else. My pulse. Thundering so hard it drowns out everything else, a primal rhythm that matches the music beat for beat. My blood sings in my veins, hot and electric.
When the DJ cues the transition, my heart slams against my ribs. The other girls descend their platforms with confident smiles, but I stand frozen at the edge of mine. Three curved benches sit empty in a perfect circle, waiting. I’m about to dancefor three men who’ve haunted my dreams since I was seventeen. Men who are about to see exactly what they do to me.
A hand catches mine, warm and sure, spinning me back so fast the world tilts. Cal’s amber eyes meet mine, that devastating grin spreading across his face, and the scent of his cologne cuts through the stage smoke and makes my knees weak.
“Surprise, angel,” he murmurs against my ear, and fire races down my spine.
The crowd explodes as he sweeps me up, but all I can focus on is the heat of his hands, the way his fingers press into my skin like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
Cal tosses me through the air, and I’m caught by different arms. Silas. His hands span my ribs, broad and warm through the mesh of my costume, and his laugh rumbles through his chest into mine. For a heartbeat, he holds me against him, and I catch the scent of smoke and something darker. His eyes meet mine, storm-gray and intense, and I see raw want flicker there.
Then he’s tossing me again, this time into Jace’s steady grip.
Jace catches me like he’s been starving for this moment. His hands are sure, controlled, and when he sets me on my feet atop my platform, they linger at my waist. The heat of his palms burns through the silk. He leans close, his breath hot against my ear.
“Show me you’re not a princess,” he murmurs, his voice cutting through the bass.
The challenge ignites something wild in me. He steps back, joining Cal and Silas on the benches, and suddenly I’m trappedin a circle of pure want. Three sets of eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel like it’s on fire.
The spotlight narrows to just us. The music transforms into something slower, heavier, more dangerous. Heat from the lights mingles with the heat radiating from their bodies, creating a cocoon of desire that makes me drunk on more than adrenaline.
I dance.
This isn’t choreography. This is something primal, something that comes from the deepest part of me. I step between the benches like I’m walking through flames, my movements liquid and predatory.
I start with Cal because he’s grinning at me, but when I approach him, his breathing goes shallow, and his knuckles turn white where he grips the bench. I straddle him slowly, my hands sliding into his sandy hair. It’s softer than I expected, warm from the stage lights. His pupils blow wide, and when I roll my body against his, I feel his sharp intake of breath.
His hands fly to my thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. His fingers press into the soft flesh just below the costume’s edge, and the contact sends electricity racing through my entire nervous system.
“Fuck, Parker,” he breathes, and the word sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
I arch back, and his amber eyes go dark with want. His fingers flex against my skin like he’s fighting not to pull me closer. When I pull away, he makes a sound low in his throat that I feel in my bones.
