The hallway outside the bridal suite was a cathedral of quiet money.
Ceiling high enough to swallow sound, walls paneled in dark, glossy walnut that drank the light. The carpet was so thick and between the sconces the shadows pooled cold and velvet.
From far below drifted the ghostly laughter of three hundred guests, the bright pop of champagne corks, the low thrum of a string quartet warming up.
His hair was still dripping, cold rivulets racing down the groove of his spine.
The cotton clung damp to his thighs, clung to the heavy, half-hard shape of his cock that refused to soften completely, outlined in obscene detail.
A darker patch spread near the head where Serena's release and his own had soaked straight through.
His chest and stomach carried the fresh red artwork of her nails, long, angry streaks that caught the gold light every time he breathed. A faint smear of her lipstick sat high on his collarbone like a brand.
