Coat Check

Madison slips into the empty bedroom, perching at the very edge of the bed to spare the coats spread across it. The door creaks open again—Whitney, wide-eyed and ready to bolt—until Madison waves her in with a grin. Neither buys into wedding vows, so the talk turns quick and dirty. Eyes flicker, panties grow damp. Whitney climbs onto Madison, skirts shoved up, mouths open and greedy. They grind against the pile of cashmere and wool, making wet spots bloom wherever thighs slide and fingers thrust. A sudden knock rattles the knob. They freeze, bodies locked together, juice slicking down over the collars and linings below. Laughter, then silence. They flatten the rumpled coats the best they can, but the patches of arousal shine darker than anything spilled from a drink. Later, the bridesmaids will wonder who left rain marks on cashmere in summer.