Page 76 of The Wrong Groom

“So you liked it,” I say. “You’ll leave me a good review, I hope.”

“Sure. Five stars. Would fuck again.”

I snort a laugh, turning back to the toaster to remove the sourdough. I start to butter one side of each slice.

“I guess I don’t really care about my ‘virginity,’ or anything like that,” she confesses. “I wasn’t saving myself for marriage on purpose. It just never happened for me before.” She pauses, then adds, somewhat sheepishly, “I’ve read a lot of spicy scenes in my books. It wasn’t like those, and that was pretty much all I had to go on, in terms of expectations.”

“Was it better?”

“Yeah.” I can hear the smile in her tone. “Much better.”

“Good.” I scoop avocado slices onto the toast and begin to smear them across the rough surface. “Because if it wasn’t, I was going to have to take it up a notch.”

She giggles, the sound light and airy, but then it fades, and in its place, a thoughtful silence settles between us. I can feel the shift as clearly as if the air itself has changed. She fidgets slightly, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve, and when she speaks again, her voice is tentative. “How was it for you?”

I pause, the knife hovering over the toast. I can tell by her tone, by the way her laughter died down, that this is weighing on her mind. That the answer to this question is of utmost importance to her.

“For me?” I glance at her, lifting the knife to lick avocado from the flat of the blade. I raise an eyebrow, and she lets out a quiet breath. “It was incredible. But I think you knew that.”

Her eyes flicker to mine, and her lips part as she exhales a quiet, shaky breath. “Yeah,” she murmurs, almost apologetic.

I give her an almost wicked grin. “Could you not tell I came so hard I was seeing stars?” I tease, savoring the slight flush that deepens on her cheeks at the reminder.

Her eyes widen just a fraction, but then I see it—that subtle release of tension. Her shoulders drop, her posture softens, and the faint furrow between her brows smooths out. She looks relieved, and that confirms exactly what I suspected. This question wasn’t just curiosity. It was her seeking reassurance. She wanted to know she’d satisfied me, like my pleasure was something she was responsible for, something she had to earn.

And that doesn’t sit right with me. At all.

I want her to feel desired for who she is, not because she hit some invisible mark of performance. I want her to know that what’s happening between us isn’t a test she has to pass, or some standard she has to live up to. It’s not something she has to earn. She already has me completely undone, just by being herself.

“Hey.” I set down the knife and turn toward her, wiping crumbs from my hands on a kitchen towel. “You don’t ever have to think about that, okay? You don’t have to measure it or keep score. Just enjoy yourself.”

Her teeth worry at her lower lip. “But I—I mean, it was my first time. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, and⁠—”

“You were amazing,” I tell her, tossing the towel aside to give her my full attention. “Seriously. You’re a natural. There’s no reason to doubt yourself.”

She glances away, a shy smile gracing her lips. “Glad I met your standards,” she says. “I imagined they were pretty high, what with your… experience.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “Well, I haven’t actually had sex in a while,” I admit.

Her head jerks up, and the look she gives me is pure incredulity. “Wait. Seriously?” Her brows lift, eyes wide.

I shrug, stretching up to the cabinets above my head to search for a plate. “Yeah. It’s been a minute.”

Her expression shifts from surprise to something else. Curiosity, maybe even a hint of disbelief. Like she’s trying to reconcile the image she has of me with what I’ve just said. She blinks a few times, processing my words, then looks away as though to gather her thoughts.

I find a simple white plate and set it down on the counter. The kitchen is quiet except for the small noises of my movements as I start arranging the slices of toast. I reach for the diced tomatoes, sprinkling them over the creamy avocado spread, then add a few sprigs of cilantro for garnish. It’s not exactly up to Liora’s usual standards, but it’ll do for now. For this strange, intimate, post-sex meal we’re sharing.

“The truth is,” I say after a beat, my gaze still fixed on the plate, “after Melanie died, I was in a fog for a while. A long while. I didn’t really… do much of anything back then. Didn’t feel like I could.” My throat tightens, but I keep going, forcing myself to give her this truth. “And when I finally started to come out of it, my focus was all on Peyton. Making sure she was okay. Trying to do right by her.”

“Of course,” Alexis says.

“I guess I put my own needs on the back burner. For years, really,” I confess as I finish arranging the toast. I turn and bring the plate over to the central prep table where she’s perched, setting it down with a little clink. “I took care of myself in the shower sometimes when I wasn’t too exhausted. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t about anything more than that. Just survival mode.”

I didn’t mean to make my meaning obvious—that Alexis is the first person I’ve had sex with since Melanie—but she seems to pick up on it regardless. I can see the realization dawning on her, and her lips part as though she’s about to say something. Instead, she leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to my cheek, her lips warm against my skin.

The simple tenderness of it undoes me in a way nothing else could. I turn my head, capturing her lips with mine before she can pull away, savoring the sweetness of her breath and the softness that feels like it’s wrapping around all the raw places inside me.

When we part, she exhales shakily. Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of my shirt, anchoring herself.