The lace was eating me alive.
I’d been shifting in front of the mirror for ten minutes, tugging uselessly at the skirt, biting down on a curse every time the fabric scratched higher against my thighs. Nobody ever told me that wedding dresses were basically torture devices—tight where I didn’t want them to be, heavy everywhere else, and worst of all, the panties I’d squeezed into this morning had somehow rolled in a way that left me raw and desperate to peel them off.
I hiked the skirt just enough to get a hand underneath, hissing when the layers scratched my skin, trying to tug the lace edge down. It was useless; there were too many damn buttons and too many underskirts. My knuckles brushed against my own p***y, smooth and freshly shaved, and I clenched, swallowing a frustrated sound. If
