Wedding Venue Snafu

Ryan Keely is about to marry into a new family, and the venue has to be flawless. She and Khloe Kapri, her fiancée’s daughter, step into the warehouse she booked sight unseen during lockdown. The moment the door grinds shut, the fantasy collapses. Rust bleeds across cracked concrete. Daylight leaks through gaps in the roof. The sleek sofa sets from the listing are gone; only a battered folding table and a single folding chair remain. Ryan’s heels scrape to a halt. She pictures the photographer’s proof sheets, the Pinterest boards, the deposit that cleared two months ago, and the color drains from her face. Khloe tries first with logistics. "Maybe the industrial vibe works with string lights. We could drape the broken skylight so no one sees the sky." Ryan’s answer is a tight, soundless shake of the head. Khloe shifts closer. She brushes a strand of hair off Ryan’s cheek and lets her fingertips linger against warm skin. "You’re shaking," she murmurs. The pad of her thumb drags across Ryan’s bottom lip, slow, deliberate. Ryan swallows; her pulse flutters under Khloe’s hand, but the resistance is paper-thin. Khloe’s mouth is already against her ear. "She’s not here. No one’s here. Just us and whatever we decide to ruin." Ryan’s breath hitches, half protest, half permission. Then Khloe kisses her—open, wet, purposeful—backing her against the cold metal siding until the clang reverberates up Ryan’s spine. Fingers slip beneath silk; fabric whispers over hips. Khloe sucks a mark just below the collarbone, tasting perfume and sweat. Ryan’s thighs part without thought, the heel of one shoe hooked around Khloe’s calf to pull her in harder. Khloe drops to her knees on the gritty floor. She drags lace aside and licks once, slow, savoring the shiver that ripples through Ryan’s stomach. The second lick is firmer, the third greedy. Ryan’s hand fists in Khloe’s hair; the other braces against a rusted pipe that groans under the pressure. Every breath she drags in smells like damp concrete and sex. Khloe works two fingers inside her, curls them, finds the exact angle that makes Ryan’s hips jerk forward. A low, helpless sound slips out—too loud for the hollow space—echoing back to them like proof that the lie of perfection is already gone. Ryan comes with her teeth buried in her own wrist, thighs trembling around Khloe’s shoulders. Khloe rises, kisses her again, lets her taste it. For a moment they stay pressed together, breathing hard. The ruined venue, the missing furniture, the wedding still weeks away—all of it feels suddenly, deliciously irrelevant. Ryan’s lipstick is smeared. Khloe’s chin glistens. She wipes it with the back of her hand and grins. "Venue crisis later," she whispers. "First we deal with you."