Wedding Stress

Ryan Ryans stands barefoot in her living room, blonde hair loose and wild, phone pressed to her ear. Weeks until the wedding. Dress not coming. Fiance gone again. The panic sits high in her chest. Tara Morgan hears every tremor in her voice and offers a single, wicked suggestion. She hangs up, steps behind her friend, and begins to knead the tight muscles along Ryan’s shoulders. Her thumbs press deeper, sliding the straps of Ryan’s tank top down inch by inch. Quiet remarks about the missing fiance drift between them. Ryan’s body softens. The tank top falls. Her bra follows. Full, natural breasts spill free, nipples already tight from the cool air. Tara keeps working lower, hands gliding over smooth skin and inked ribs until Ryan’s leggings and panties lie crumpled on the floor. Ryan lies back on the couch, legs parted, blonde curls framing her pussy. Tara’s fingers trace closer, barely skimming the soft thatch before sliding between slick folds. Ryan’s breath catches. She starts to speak, but Tara’s mouth is already at her ear, murmuring yes, urging her open. Ryan’s hips lift. Tara’s tongue replaces her fingers, slow and certain, and every protest melts into a low, helpless moan. Later, the question of what to tell the man she’s supposed to marry hovers, unanswered, in the warm, quiet room.