The Wedding - Reception - Part 2

They returned to their table as though nothing had happened.

Charlotte hated how obvious it felt.

As she pulled her chair out, it scraped loudly against the floor briefly drawing attention. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her glass to be refilled. Conversation carried on around them – laughter, storytelling, cutlery against plates – but it all sounded distant.

Muted.

She remained acutely aware of his presence.

He felt even closer, despite not touching.

Her skin buzzed where his hands had rested on her waist, the memory of that firm pressure lingering. She unfolded her napkin in her lap then folded it again.

Get a grip.

Someone spoke across the table. Grateful for the distraction she nodded, smiled, and answered when expected. She couldn’t have repeated a word of what she’d said.

His knee brushed hers again.

Deliberate this time.

She glanced at him. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. He carried the tables conversation, sharing stories of his work – exhibitions, funding, travel – his voice measured, calm, intelligent, occasionally enthusiastic.

She liked that.

It only made the small ache inside her worse.

Her fingers itched, restless despite her attempt to gather herself. She feigned attention while trying to regain some semblance of composure. Warmth rushed through her, leaving her light-headed and unsteady.

He had held her.

He had whispered to her.

What would she do if they were alone? Even briefly.

What would he do?

Her hands felt restless. She reached for her glass just to occupy them.

Empty. Of course.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” she said, quiet but decisive.

She didn’t wait for anyone’s response. Didn’t look at him. If she did, she would feel the urge to stay by his side, as though the moment would be lost the moment they separated.

The gardens outside the reception were blissfully calm.

Dusk had settled across the sky, turning everything a deepening blue. The last gold light caught in the tops of the trees. The air was cooler here. Cleaner. It brushed her flushed cheeks and slowed her breathing.

She pressed her fingers briefly to her face.

It was just a dance, she told herself. Just chemistry.

Nothing more.

Still, embarrassment mixed with something close to disappointment swelled inside her.

She refocused on her breathing.

In.

Out.

“You run away from all your conversations like that?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Holy shit, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.

She turned.

He stood closer than expected, jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened. Less polished. More real. The garden lights caught the edges of his face.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched.

“Needed air,” she said, trying to ease the tension.

“Mm.”

He watched her like he could see through every half-truth.

“You’re not very good at pretending you’re unaffected,” he said gently.

A shallow exhale escaped before she could stop it. “I wasn’t pretending.”

A slow smile tugged at his mouth.

“So,” he said quietly, his eyes not leaving hers, “when I told you later…”

She swallowed. “Yes?”

His gaze flicked toward the path curving deeper into the gardens – away from the music, and light.

Then back to her.

“…did you think I meant now?”

Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

The question wasn’t a demand.

It was an invitation.

For a second, she considered the sensible option. Go back inside, finish the night politely, pretend this was nothing.

But her body had already decided.

She stepped closer.

Close enough to smell his cologne. Warm, clean, something woody beneath it.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “I was hoping you did.”

They didn’t take each other’s hand. They just started walking.

Side by side down the path, shoulders brushing now and then, each accidental touch sending a spark through her nerves.

Gravel crunched softly underfoot as the music faded behind them, replaced by crickets and rustling leaves.

Neither spoke for a while.

The movement eased the tension just enough to breathe.

“You know what hasn’t changed about you?” he asked eventually.

“What?”

“You still get really quiet when you’re thinking too much. When you’re in your head.”

She took a moment to consider his words.

“Mmm. Only when things get a little overwhelming,” she said. “Or distracting.”

He glanced sideways. A soft, knowing hum. “Ah.”

The path curved toward an old stone rotunda half-hidden by overgrown vines. Soft lights glowed at its base, illuminating a circular bench and a heavy stone table at the centre.

It looked almost forgotten.

Private.

She slowed without meaning to.

Inside, the air felt warmer, sheltered.

Charlotte perched on the edge of the stone table, smoothing her dress as if the gesture might calm her nerves. He stepped in between her knees without quite touching her.

“So… curator,” she said, grasping for something normal to say. “Do you always lure women into historic structures, or is this a special occasion?”

He smiled. “Only the interesting ones.”

Her pulse skipped.

They talked – small things. More work stories. The wedding. Anything except what was actually happening between them.

He moved his hand slightly, resting it lightly on her thigh.

Polite. Harmless.

Then his thumb began tracing slow, absent-minded circles through the fabric.

Testing.

Her words faltered mid-sentence.

He pretended not to notice.

His fingers drifted to her waist, then lower, then back again, like he was mapping her by memory. Each touch sent heat skimming across her skin.

“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” he murmured.

“Thinking,” she managed.

“Dangerous.”

His hands settled more firmly at her waist, grounding her there.

Or maybe grounding himself.

Every breath felt shared between them.

He moved closer.

Her mouth went dry. She tilted her head slightly, inviting.

He closed the gap.

The kiss came fast and certain, all the restraint from earlier finally breaking.

A soft sound escaped her, swallowed by his mouth as she kissed him back just as fiercely, fists bunching in his shirt, pulling him closer. The world narrowing to heat and breath and the solid press of him against her.

His hands slid back to her thighs as they clung to each other, nudging her dress higher, inch by inch, until cool night air brushed her skin. His touch slipped beneath the fabric, slow and deliberate.

She bit his lip – playful, daring – a silent challenge.

Without breaking the kiss, she began undoing the buttons of her dress, taking her time, revealing herself piece by piece. He followed her lead, helping the fabric loosen.

As her dress fell open, he kissed her harder.

She could feel the tension in his pants tighten against her exposed thighs and leaned back on the stone table for balance, one arm braced behind her, the other sliding down his front, rubbing him. Teasing through the fabric.

He let out a short, strained breath.

“You like that?” She murmured.

“Yes,” he breathed, equal parts relief and frustration.

She smiled, then caught his hand and guided it to her hip, to the edge of lace.

“Help me,” she whispered.

As his fingers traced lower and her thong slowly slid between her legs, Charlotte felt it – that fluttering, reckless certainty.

Whatever happened next, nothing about it would be accidental.