"We really appreciate you paying for the wedding, Ben," Amy said. "You didn't have to."
"Of course I did. I'm your father," he said.
"You're my stepdad."
"That may be, and you may be 25, but you're still my girl," Ben said. "Besides, your mom would've wanted me to."
The two sat quietly. Amy stared at her white Russian, stirring it slowly with her straw. "Do you remember how mad you used to get when I blew bubbles in my milk?"
"I remember telling you that I was going to swat your butt if you didn't stop," Ben said. Amy leaned forward, puckered around the tip of the straw, and blew until her cocktail threatened to bubble over.
"You're not too big for me to turn you over my knee," he laughed. "Finish that up and let's get you home. Big day tomorrow."
***
The pickup truck bounced and jostled along the back road leading to the cabins Ben rented for the wedding party. Maybe it was the humid summer evening, maybe it was the vodka in her belly, but
Amy felt warm, comfortable, familiar. How many times had she ridden shotgun in her stepdad's truck? The feed stores, the 4H meetings, the fairs. He never complained about any of it. All of those blue ribbons they brought home, and not once did Ben let on that he had anything to do with it. He always made sure she felt special, that she was the winner.
She looked at him, hands on the steering wheel, a slight smile on his lips. Even in the dim evening light Amy could make out the muscles in his thick forearms. He earned them. She reached over and placed her hand on his arm. "My girl," he said. "My girl."
***
The sound of the engine cutting off stirred her awake. Her head leaned on Ben's shoulder. "Wake up, honey, we're here," he whispered. She pretended not to hear him. "Come on, Tiger, we need to get you to bed." She groaned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Okay, okay. I remember this game," he whispered, and he worked an arm around her back and another under her knees and lifted Amy from the truck's cab.
Ben unlocked her cabin and laid her down on her bed. He took off her shoes, and she rolled onto her side and hugged a pillow. "No more pillow hugging for you after tomorrow," he smiled. She pretended not to hear him. He patted Amy's thigh. The thin silk of her skirt slid across her smooth leg. He'd almost forgotten how good a woman feels: her skin, her delicate clothing.
He flattened his hand upon the skirt and rubbed the silk along her thigh, quickly glanced toward Amy's face. She didn't react. Back and forth he rubbed, hesitant, gently. The hem of her skirt rose, as did the goose bumps on her sleeping leg, as did the quiet fire within him. Ben could hear his own heartbeat as he pushed the fabric aside with his pinkie and touched Amy's thigh.
Her skin was so warm, her thigh so firm. The sight of it, the feel---almost like he was out of his body,floating, dizzy. He ran his hand further upward, her skirt bunching over her haunch. Amy pretended to stir. Ben jerked his hand away. She rolled onto her stomach, thighs slightly parted, skirt around her waist. All that stood between them was a thin layer of white satin pulled tautly over her ass. He sat still, afraid to break the spell, afraid to disturb her.
Minutes passed, or so it felt to Amy. She willed him to touch her again, but no matter how hard she thought he didn't move. He just sat there on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. She began to rock her hips slightly, almost microscopically, barely clenching her firm muscles, hoping he would notice.
