The lobby is over-warm, coats steaming as people rush in from the snow. She’s dragging her suitcase, muttering at the slush on her boots, when his voice cuts through the crowd.

He’s smirking as he drawls, “Didn’t think you’d actually show. Guess miracles do happen.”

She stiffens instantly. Of all people. He’s leaning against the check-in desk, broad-shouldered in a tailored coat, scarf looped casually around his neck, looking completely at ease while she’s flustered and freezing.

Through gritted teeth, she snarls, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the bride, not you.”

He gives her a lazy once-over, eyes flicking from her messy hair to the suitcase barely holding together. “Sure. Though judging by that entrance, they’ll be thrilled you made the effort.”

She wants to snap back, but the receptionist interrupts, “Apologies, the rooms are oversold. We only have one left.”

Before she can speak, he’s already leaning in, too smooth. “We’ll take it.”

“We will not—”

But the keys are on the counter and the receptionist is smiling too brightly. He sweeps them up with a smug little flourish, gestures for her to follow. She debates sleeping in the lobby.

---

She marches in first, ready to claim the good bed, but stops dead. There’s one. One very large, very plush bed.

You’ve got to be kidding.

“They said twin beds.” She stomps. “Ugh.”

He drops his bags and saunters to the bed. Leaning back, he stretches like a cat.

“Guess they changed their minds. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

“Yet another miracle. I’ll take the floor.”

He raises a brow, lounging back on the mattress, boots still on.

“Be my guest. Don’t expect me to call an ambulance when you wake up with hypothermia.”

She glares, yanks her suitcase toward the farthest corner, and promises herself she won’t survive the weekend without committing murder.

---

The restaurant for the rehearsal isn’t overly formal—dim lighting, long tables crowded with family and friends, chatter and clinking cutlery filling the air. She slips in late, tugging at her coat before draping it over a chair revealing a dress that hugs her in all the right places.

As the dinner goes on, she becomes animated, laughing at some story, head tipped back, and for a moment he just watches. She’s not the bratty, sharp-tongued nuisance he’s painted her as. She’s… vibrant. And he hates how much he notices.

Then her eyes catch his.

The smile vanishes. Her laughter dies. She scowls across the table like she can burn a hole straight through him.

He feels it—the jolt of being caught. But instead of looking away, he smirks, lifting his glass in a mock toast, as though he’s been watching to mock, not to devour.

“Careful,” he calls across the table. “Keep smiling like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

Her friend blinks, confused. She rolls her eyes, mutters something sharp under her breath, and turns her shoulder to him, effectively cutting him out.

But he keeps watching. From the corner of his eye, between conversations. The way the dress shifts when she crosses her legs. The way her laugh slips out again when she forgets he’s there.

And every time, when she senses him looking, she throws him another dagger of a glare—which only makes him want to keep doing it.

Later, at the bar, she’s ordering a drink when he approaches.

“You could’ve at least brushed your hair.”

Her cheeks flush hot. She snaps back, sharper than intended.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing about your personality.”

He just grins, glancing at the wine list, eyes glinting like he enjoys every second of her irritation.

The dinner winds down with hugs, goodnights, and promises about tomorrow’s chaos. She slips on her coat and heads for the door, hoping to make a clean escape. No such luck.

He falls into step beside her, hands shoved in his pockets, looking irritatingly casual. Snowflakes drift down from the dark sky, crunching under their boots as they cross the short stretch from restaurant to hotel.

“You don’t have to walk with me.”

“Relax, I’m not escorting you. I just happen to be going the same way.”

She huffs, pulling her scarf tighter. He glances sideways at her—at the curve of her cheek flushed pink from the cold, at the way the dress peeks from beneath her coat when the wind catches it. He feels that tug in his gut again, and it irritates him more than he can say.

So he does what he always does. He pokes at her.

“Interesting choice of dress tonight.”

Her head snaps toward him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His lip twitches, but his tone remains innocent.

“Nothing. Just… bold, considering you’ll be surrounded by family tomorrow. Figure you were hoping to turn some heads.”

She scowls.

“You’re vile.”

He leans in, lowering his voice, his warm breath on her ear.

“I didn’t say it didn’t work.”

Her step falters, just for a moment, before she speeds up, heels clicking on the pavement.

“You’re insufferable.”

He grins, watching the way her coat sways as she storms ahead.

“And yet you keep ending up in my company,” he calls after her. “Wonder what that says about you?”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look back, but he sees the stiff set of her shoulders, the heat in her stride. He tells himself it’s victory—winding her up, making her bristle.

But the truth? It’s the flush in her cheeks he won’t be able to stop thinking about when they get back to that one, too-small bed.

---

The elevator ride is thick with silence. She stares at the glowing floor numbers, arms folded, while he lounges against the wall, smug grin firmly in place. When the doors open, she storms out first, dragging her heels down the hall.

The keycard almost bends in her grip as she jams it into the door. The lock clicks, and she pushes inside, tossing her coat over a chair like she can throw him off with it.

He saunters in behind her, unhurried, dropping his jacket neatly on the back of the sofa.

“You don’t have to follow me in like a shadow,” she snaps.

He shrugs. “It’s our room. Unless you’d rather I sleep in the hallway. I’d still get more peace there than listening to you huff and stomp around.”

She glares, clutching her overnight bag like she might hurl it at his head.

“Unbelievable.”

She stalks into the bathroom and slams the door. He chuckles under his breath, stripping off his shirt and stretching like he owns the place.

By the time she emerges—hair damp, face fresh, wrapped in a long t-shirt and shorts—he’s stretched across the bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling on his phone as if she isn’t even there.

“Would it kill you to use the bathroom to change?”

Without looking up, he retorts, “Would it kill you to say please?”

Her jaw tightens. She storms to her side of the bed, yanking the duvet over herself like a barrier. He flicks his phone dark, rolls onto his side, and with a little grin she can feel even through the dark, murmurs, “Sweet dreams, princess.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

The lamp clicks off. Silence swells. She lies there rigid, fuming—at him, at the day, at the fact that the bed is too warm, too small, and he’s too close.

---

The room is pitch dark, the only sound the steady hum of the radiator and his annoyingly even breathing. She’s been tossing for an hour, too hot under the thick duvet, too wound up from the rehearsal dinner, too aware of him stretched out beside her.

Finally, she huffs, throws back the covers, and pads across the carpet.

She pours herself a glass of water from the carafe, the cold hitting her throat like relief. Her damp t-shirt clings, the cotton shorts sticking uncomfortably. She peels them off, muttering under her breath.

To hell with it.

She takes off her t-shirt too until she’s down to bralette and panties, cooler at last, ready to crawl back under the blanket—

Except a shift in the dark stops her cold.

He isn’t asleep. He’s propped on one elbow, watching her.

She freezes, glass still in hand, pulse skipping.

“What? Ever heard of boundaries?”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were putting on a show.”

Her face burns. “You’re disgusting.”

She can still make out his grin in the dark.

“You wanted me to see. Why else would you strip down in the middle of the room instead of the bathroom?”

She opens her mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. Because maybe a tiny part of her had wanted him to notice. And now she knows he did.

He chuckles softly, the sound dark and intimate in the quiet room.

She spins back toward the bed, heart hammering, and slips under the covers without another word. But sleep doesn’t come. Not when she can still feel his gaze lingering on her skin.

---

The next morning the bride is a bundle of nerves as she hands out assignments: errands, decorations, deliveries. She’s whisked off one way; he’s sent another. Hours pass with them circling the same event but rarely colliding — until fate (and the cramped old inn hosting the wedding) throws them together.

---

She’s tucked away in a storage room, rifling through boxes of candles, when the door swings open and he steps in.

“Occupied,” she snaps.

“Relax. Just looking for a missing groomsman. Didn’t realise I’d stumbled into Aladdin’s cave.”

The space is narrow, shelves close. Instead of moving on, he lazily swings the door shut behind him, sealing them into the cozy room. They’re inches apart, warm breath clouding the air between them. She shifts, squeezing her thighs together, chasing a friction she hadn’t realised she was craving.

His hand brushes her side, drifting upward to the swell of her breast. Her breath hitches. Much to his smug delight, her nipple peaks against the thin fabric, and he stalls there, thumb grazing the hard bud before pulling away.

Heat floods her cheeks.

Barely a whisper, she manages, “What the hell are you doing?”

His reply is low, rough, threaded with satisfaction. “Confirming what I already knew.”

She’s about to demand what he means when her phone blares. The bride—frantic, demanding to know where she is. She stumbles back, fumbling her answer, and by the time she hangs up, he’s gone—as if nothing happened.

She leans against the shelves, pulse racing, furious at herself for reacting, furious at him for knowing.

---

Hours later, after the ceremony and lavish meal, they reunite at the reception. The ballroom is glowing, music bouncing, everyone swept up in celebration. She’s busy with bridesmaid duties, he with his own, until they collide again—and he’s back to his mocking self.

“Try not to trip in those shoes. Wouldn’t want you to make a scene.”

Her eyes flash. “You’re unbelievable. One minute you’re—” She cuts herself off, cheeks burning. “—and the next, you’re back to acting like an arrogant bastard. You’re so hot and cold, it’s pathetic.”

He smirks, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—caught.

“I’m done playing.” She hisses the words, spins away, and grabs a drink. Champagne fizzes in her chest as she storms the dance floor. The music takes her, and soon she’s laughing, flushed, leaning close to a handsome friend of the groom who’s all easy charm and broad smiles.

She feels his eyes on her long before she sees him—across the room, drink forgotten in his hand, that insufferable smirk tugging at his mouth.

The band is loud, the dance floor crowded, and she finally lets herself relax. The groom’s friend twirls her under his arm. She laughs, bright and unguarded, head tipped back.

Across the room, he sees it.

At first, it’s just a glance, then a stare, then his smirk sharpens. He sets his glass down with deliberate calm, weaving through the crowd, gaze locked on her like she’s the punchline to a joke he’s already written.

“What?” she calls over the music, defiant. “Glaring at me isn’t going to make me stop dancing.”

“Enjoying yourself, princess?” His tone is low, amused—mocking, like he’s waiting for her to admit what they both know.

Her dance partner chuckles, oblivious, spinning her again. She goes with it, too stubborn to back down, even as heat prickles at her spine from the weight of his stare.

When she comes out of the turn, he’s right there. One hand catches her wrist, firm, unyielding.

“Let go. You’re making a scene.” She tries to pull free, but his grip only tightens as he leans close, voice curling with smugness.

“Relax. Just curious how long you planned to keep pretending he was the one making you smile.”

Her breath stutters. The friend blinks, finally realising something’s off, but before he can speak she’s being tugged off the floor. His grip isn’t bruising, but it’s absolute.

“You’re insane. You don’t get to tell me who I can dance with.”

He smirks, not breaking stride. “Tell yourself that if it helps. But you and I both know—this isn’t about dancing.”

The music muffles behind them as he pushes open a side corridor, quieter, dimmer. Before she can spit back the retort burning her tongue, he’s already pulling her firmly toward an empty room.

---

She eventually wrenches her wrist free and backs into what appears to be a spare entertainment room.

“What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He grins, stepping inside after her. “I’m not the one grinding up on strangers in the middle of a wedding.”

“Jesus, you’re acting like a caveman. I don’t belong to you. You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Then tell me to stop.”

She hesitates.

“That’s what I thought.” He takes a step forward, closing the space between them.

She tries to spit something back—“You’re vile, you’re—”—but before she can finish, his fingers catch her chin, tipping her face up just enough to cut her off.

“That mouth,” he drawls, smirk tugging at his lips. “Always so quick with an insult. You really think it makes you less fun to mess with?”

Her breath stutters. She shoves at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. He lets her push, lets her waste her fire—then catches her wrist again, spinning her just enough that her front meets the wall and her arm is pinned behind her back. The jolt knocks the wind out of her protest.

Humiliation burns hot in her chest, but beneath it, something traitorous flickers low in her stomach.

He leans in, body pressing against hers, voice hot against her ear.

“You wanted to play, princess? Fine. But don’t pout when you lose.”

With one hand holding her in position, he slides the other lower. His fingers graze the back of her thigh, trailing heat in their wake. She gasps, instinct making her thighs press together.

He nudges a foot between her heels and kicks them apart, forcing her to part her legs.

“Don’t you dare.”

He chuckles. “Too late.”

And with deliberate slowness, he lifts the hem of her dress, exposing her inch by inch as he makes good on his promise.

Tucking the skirt of her dress into the band of her panties, he lets out a low growl and rubs his hands over the plump flesh of her ass.

His hand draws back and he spanks her.

“Ow!” She yelps in surprise. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He spanks her again.

“Ow.” The word slips out tangled with a moan, and her cheeks flame in mortification. God—why did that sound come out of her?

“There it is. So tell me—why’d you dance with him?”

“Because he asked me to.”

Another sharp smack. “Cute excuse. Try again.”

“Because I wanted to have some fun.”

“Fun?” He laughs, low and smug, before delivering another. “Princess, you wouldn’t know fun if it bit you. Try again.”

Barely a whisper escapes her lips. “…I wanted you to see.”

The sting pauses; instead, his hand rubs over the heat of her skin, soothing and mocking at once.

“Knew it. All that twirling around, all that fake laughing—you just wanted my eyes on you. Didn’t care about him at all.”

Her silence is answer enough, but he leans closer.

“What did you want me to feel?”

The word clings to her tongue like fire, shame flooding her veins. Saying it feels like stripping bare—and worse, the rush low in her stomach betrays just how much the humiliation turns her on. “…Jealous.”

His grin is audible in his voice. “There we go. You wanted me jealous. Wanted me watching. Wanted me to remember exactly who you belong to.”

Heat crawls up her throat, shame and arousal tangling until she can barely breathe. The admission spills out anyway, broken and breathless.

“...Yes.”

“Finally.” His tone is pure gloat, dripping with smug triumph. “Knew you’d catch up eventually, good girl. You wanted my attention? Well—now you’ve got every bit of it.”

His hand slides between her legs and skims over her soaked thong. Pulling it to one side, he grazes his middle finger the length of her folds.

A moan escapes her lips as he flicks the tip of his finger over her clit, once, twice, three times.

“You want me to make you feel good, princess?”

Her muffled groans encourage his deft fingers which slowly circle her clit and spread her wetness.

She pushes her hips back into him and he slides a digit inside of her.

“Please,” she whispers.

“What’s that, angel?”

“More,” she begs.

“More what? Use your words.”

“I need more, please make me come.”

“Since you’ve asked so nicely...”

He slides a second finger inside her and curls them at just the right angle to make her feel that delicious heat. His other hand drops from pinning hers behind her back and slides to her front. He barely touches her clit before she’s bucking her hips onto his fingers.

“Ride me, fuck my fingers like you would my cock.”

He stills his hand but adds a third finger and that’s just the encouragement she needs before she’s grinding herself on both of his hands.

“You want to come, princess?”

She lets out a breathy, “Ugh huh”

“That’s it. Show me how desperate you really are. Make a mess of yourself for me.”

She rides him as best she can in this position seeking the friction on her clit and the fullness of his fingers inside her. Wetness coats the inside of her thighs and she’s so close.

The sound of distant voices in the corridor has her slowing just a fraction.

“What’s the matter, princess—losing your nerve?”

Her pussy clenches at those words and her hips pick up the pace. Despite the chill from this unused room, sweat beads at her brow with the anticipation of being caught.

Her thighs shake as she reaches the sweet bliss of her climax. As the last waves of release crash through her, every nerve hums as her body trembles against the wall.

“Atta girl.” His voice is a low purr of triumph.

He withdraws his hand, slow and deliberate, then straightens her panties and smooths down her dress like nothing happened.

When she finally dares to glance at him, he’s already at the door, smirk firmly in place.

“Better fix your face, princess. Wouldn’t want everyone to know what you’ve been up to.”

And just like that, he’s gone—leaving her flushed, furious, and aching for more.