I sat at breakfast with his c*m dried between my cheeks and a smile my mother called glowing.
The dress she’d picked was pale yellow, thin, too short to be decent if I bent. Nothing under it. Every time I crossed my ankles I felt last night leak a little more. Declan sat two seats down, black shirt, wedding-ring hand around a coffee cup, talking to his brother about the photographer like he hadn’t bent me over a guest bed five hours ago.
Mom passed me the jam.
I passed it back with a steady hand.
Under the tablecloth, a shoe found my bare foot. Then a hand. Declan’s. He didn’t look at me. He laughed at something the best man said and slid his palm up the inside of my thigh until his knuckles rested against my naked cunt.
I kept eating fruit.
He pressed. Two fingers opened me under a
