Masseuse Of Honour

Gal Ritchie paced her dressing room, veil trembling with every shallow breath. Maddie Wren caught the motion at the mirror and stepped behind her. Her hands settled warm on Gal’s bare shoulders, thumbs digging deep. Tension melted, but another heat bloomed under Gal’s skin. Maddie moved lower. She coaxed Gal onto the chaise, slid her palms down silk stockings, then freed each foot from its heel. Oil glistened on her fingers. She worked the arches, rolled the ankles, pressed up to the calves. Each stroke pulled a softer sigh from Gal’s throat. When Maddie’s knuckles grazed the inside of the knee, Gal’s hips lifted an inch off the velvet. “I need more,” Gal whispered. “Finish me before I walk down that aisle.” Maddie’s lips parted. For a moment she only stared at the damp lace between Gal’s thighs. Then she slid forward, gown whispering open, and her mouth met the heat already waiting for her. They shifted together, turning until Gal’s tongue found Maddie’s dark curls and Maddie’s fingers pressed inside, curling slow and sure. The room filled with wet sounds and the low, hungry hum of two women who had stopped pretending. Gal came first, thighs shaking against Maddie’s cheeks. Maddie kept licking, kept stroking, until her own release crashed through her, muffled against Gal’s open mouth. They lay tangled, flushed and slick, until the first notes of the processional floated under the door. Maddie smoothed Gal’s veil, kissed the corner of her lips, and whispered, “Go get married, gorgeous. I’ll be right behind you.”