Page 53 of Groomsman to Groom

“She lied to you in confidence.”

“I believe you,” I say, and I do. Something didn’t seem right about that from the moment she said it. “And now I know she’s not the honest person I hoped she was.”

I blink. “I wish I knew who. I want to know who’d make up such an egregious lie.”

“I’m sorry, Hayes. I can’t.”

I sigh. “I know. I get it. You can’t. You’re bound by the consequences of this show just as I am.” I meet her gaze again. “But I want you to know that this, what’s happening with you, isonlywith you.”

Brielle smiles, her eyes sparkling. “That means so much to me.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “And I want it all. With you.”

“Okay.” I slide my hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head with a tenderness that contradicts the desire surging through me. When our eyes meet, the last thread of restraint snaps. I pull her toward me, capturing her mouth with mine in a kiss nothing like the gentle one we shared in the hospital. This is hunger and relief and fear all wrapped together—the culmination of watching her nearly die and realizing what that would’ve meant.

She responds immediately, her uninjured arm wrapping around my neck, her body pressing closer despite the awkward angle of the seat. I taste mint on her tongue, feel the slight tremor in her lips that matches the shaking in my own hand.

“I’ve wanted this,” I murmur against her mouth, “since you quoted Asimov on that beach.”

She laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips. “I’ve wanted this since you knew it was Asimov.”

My hand slides beneath her blouse, finding the warm skin of her waist. The contact makes us both freeze for a heartbeat, the escalation suddenly tangible. I pull back just enough to see her eyes. “Your arm—”

“Is fine as long as you don’t grab it.” She presses a kiss to my jaw, then my neck. “The doctor said nothing about avoiding activities where I’m lying down.”

The rational part of my brain tries one last protest. “The cameras—”

“Are nowhere near us, for once.” Her eyes meet mine, desire mingling with something deeper, more vulnerable. “Hayes, I don’t know when we’ll get another moment like this. No show, no contracts, no cameras. Just us.”

She’s right. Tomorrow, we go back to the performance—me dating multiple women, her competing for keys, both of us pretending we haven’t already fallen harder than either of us expected. This stolen moment is all we have.

I reach for her again, this time with purpose rather than impulse. My lips find hers as my hands explore with newfound permission—the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin beneath her blouse. She sighs into my mouth, her body arching toward mine. Despite the cramped space, despite her injury, there’s an ease to how we move together, as if we’ve mapped each other’s bodies in dreams.

Her fingertips trace down my chest as she unbuttons my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders. The cool air against my skin contrasts with the heat building between us. I fumble with the hem of her blouse, careful to avoid jostling her injured arm as I help her out of it. When she sits back, dressed only in a simple black bra, the sight nearly stops my heart.

“You’re stunning,” I breathe. In the silvery moonlight filtering through the windows, her skin glows.

“You’re not bad yourself.” Her eyes travel over my chest and shoulders with an appreciation that makes me feel seen in the best possible way.

We’re skin against skin again, and electricity sparking through my nervous system. Her good hand explores my back, my chest, finding scars and freckles with curious fingers. I trace the constellation of a birthmark on her collarbone.

The constraints of the SUV force a creative reconfiguration as clothing disappears. We bump against the door, the center console, laughing at the awkwardness even as the urgency between us builds. When Brielle’s bra joins the growing pile of discarded clothes, I take a moment just to look at her, committing every curve and shadow to memory.

“This feels surreal,” she whispers, her hand resting on my chest, directly over my racing heart.

“Like we’ve stolen time.”

Her pants and underwear join the pile next, and then mine. The leather seat sticks to my skin as I position myself halfover her, careful of her injured arm. The sight of her naked in the moonlight steals whatever eloquence I might have had. She’s all soft curves and interesting angles, unexpected freckles and secret dimples. More beautiful than any staged photo shoot could ever capture. “I could never get enough of this.”

I let my hand travel down her body, between her breasts, across the curve of her stomach, to the heat between her thighs. When my fingers find her slick and ready, a groan escapes me. Her hips lift toward my touch, seeking more contact. “God, Hayes,” she breathes as I circle her most sensitive spot with deliberate pressure.

She whimpers, her head falling back against the seat. “Don’t stop.”

I continue exploring her with my fingers, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her eyes flutter closed. Then I position myself, rubbing my hardness through her folds until she cries out with need, her good hand gripping my shoulder with surprising strength. “I want you inside me now.”

I reach for my pants, fumbling through the pockets until I find my wallet and the condom I’ve carried—more out of the show’s protocol than expectation—since arriving in Spain.

Brielle watches me roll it on, her eyes dark with desire. The vulnerability of being fully exposed before her makes me pause, suddenly hyper aware of the weight of this moment. This isn’t just physical—it’s a turning point we can never take back.

“Are you sure?” I ask, needing verbal confirmation.

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