Tom's standing at the altar. It's the first time in ten years that I've seen him and my stomach leaps up into my chest cavity. The faces on either side of me blur into a mass of toothy smiles as the church organ roars into life.
I try to focus on my job as maid of honour. I straighten out the train of Zoe's dress and press my lips together into what I hope looks like a smile. He's the best man, and my ex--the one that got away, I guess.
We're told to sit down after the opening hymn and I steal a look at him. He's grown more handsome with age. Now, at thirty-five, his back is broader than it was, his arms more muscular, and his jaw stronger. He looks tanned. I know he travels a lot, jets all over the world for work and takes his fiancée on exotic holidays to far-flung locations. Once or twice a year, when I'm wasted, I check his Instagram account from my sister's phone. I know his fiancée is called Kristy and works in a boring corporate job. I know too much for my own good.
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the elderly priest says half an hour later, raising his arms up. David and Zoe are kneeling in front of him, heads bowed.
We clap and cheer as they stand up and walk down the aisle, grins wide and eyes shiny with emotion. I couldn't make it to last night's rehearsal, but I know from Zoe's instructions that I'm supposed to link arms with Tom and follow them down the aisle, with the other bridesmaids and ushers doing the same. I file out of my row and try to steady my breath.
Tom gives me a small lopsided smile. I feel him look me up and down and a shiver comes over me. How can he still have that effect, even after all this time?
"Hey," he whispers, offering his arm. "You look amazing."
I link my hand through. I can see Kristy now, feel her eyes burning into me as we near the door. My bare arm is resting against his suit sleeve and I have goosebumps.
Outside, the sun is blazing and everyone is busy complimenting the bride and groom, taking selfies and greeting old friends.
Tom turns and gives me a proper hug now, his arms sliding around my waist and his lips brushing my cheek, and whispers, "So good to see you, Em." He pulls back and looks me up and down again, like he can't believe what he's seeing.
His brown hair is tousled and there's light stubble on his face. I can't believe what I'm seeing either: the skinny college graduate who used to fuck me - three or four times a night sometimes - and eat my pussy like no one else ever could, is all grown up now.
"You too. It's been so long." I have no idea what to say. I've been over it in my head a million times, trying to imagine how this moment might play out.
I try to ignore the ache between my legs. I've slept with dozens of men over the last decade, but no has ever come close to Tom. I wonder if it's the same for him. I wonder if Kristy lets him fuck her in every way imaginable, like I did. Judging by the frumpy pink dress she's wearing and the pissed-off look she's giving us from the other side of the churchyard, I'm guessing she doesn't.
---
It's almost midnight and the party is in full swing now. I'm doing shots with the other bridesmaids and posing for selfies. Our duties are done and we can finally relax. Zoe and David have gone to bed and the older guests have left.
The marquee is bathed in pink disco lights and the round tables are littered with glasses, handbags and scarves. A few elaborate headpieces hang off the backs of chairs. I can see Tom and Kristy arguing across the room. She's tucking her silver clutch under her arm and holding her hand out for the room key. He passes it to her and she flounces off, briefly pausing at the door to see if he's following her. He isn't.
I can't help myself now; I catch his eye and tip my shot glass at him before knocking it back. A fat droplet of the clear liquor misses my lips and snakes down my chest. I can feel my pussy dripping in the same way, dampening the white cotton of my thong.
Tom crosses the room as I knew he would, shaking hands with a few people on the dancefloor as he does so. Everyone wants his attention. He's just in his shirt and trousers now, the first few buttons are open and his sleeves are rolled up a little. He digs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
"So..." he laughs nervously. I laugh too.
"You look really fucking good," I say, signalling to the barman that I want two more drinks. "Ageing suits you. Seriously."
"Suits you too," he says, leaning in close, even though the music isn't even that loud.
He's hard; I can feel his cock on my thigh. I nudge my leg closer, so he knows that I know. The barman slams two shots down and the DJ plays a Beyoncé medley that gets everyone else onto the dancefloor.
Things didn't end on bad terms between us, not really. Tom's seven years older than me and used to be friends with my older brother Brian. Let's just say that Brian hadn't been too impressed to discover that his twenty-five-year-old grad school friend was fucking his eighteen-year-old sister senseless every weekend. Looking back, I suppose I can't blame him really.
I down the shot and think back to those times, all the weekends when Tom would visit, pushing the college applications on my desk to one side and watching the top of his head move up and down between my thighs, my parents asleep next door and my brother stoned in the garage. Maybe it was the danger that made it so intense, the thought that at any point, someone could walk in and find him eating my pussy out or fucking me whilst I was on all fours, kneeling on my bedroom floor, cum dripping down my thighs.
Things ended when my brother found us in the kitchen one night. We thought everyone was asleep and Tom was fucking me for the second time in as many hours, pressed up against my ass, me bent over the kitchen counter. Suddenly I could hear my brother's footsteps on the stairs and knew we were going to get caught, but there was no point running, so instead of pushing him away, I let him finish, smiling to myself as he came. I knew the game was up after that.
Brian hit the roof and called me a slut, but I didn't see what the big deal was. I was about to start college, almost nineteen, and should have been able to screw who I wanted to.
