Chapter 7B: The Wedding at Willow Lake - Part 2 - the finale

I was still sore from last night, the groom’s father had taken me in ways I wasn’t prepared for, leaving my body aching, tender in places I didn’t dare think about too closely. But it was morning now, and the wedding day had arrived, so I pulled myself out of bed and stepped into a hot shower, letting the water wash away as much guilt as it could.

I stood in front of the mirror, fresh from the shower, water still clinging to my bare skin in slow, shining trails. My body felt tender, alive in ways it hadn’t before; every nerve seemed raw, every inch of flesh sensitive to the touch. Bruises bloomed faintly on my hips and along my ribs where he’d held me too hard. A purplish mark lingered on the side of my breast, a possessive bite I hadn’t noticed until now.

My skin glowed faintly pink from the heat of the water, my nipples tightening in the cool air. Between my thighs, I was still a little sore, the memory of him buried so deep inside me that I couldn’t quite close my legs without feeling it.

I ran a fingertip over my stomach, flat and lightly toned, then over the curve of my hips, familiar, but suddenly foreign, as though he’d claimed them. A single shiver coursed through me.

After drying off, I reached for the outfit I had laid across the chair the night before. A pale lavender slip dress, cut on the bias, soft silk that clung to every line of my body. Underneath, a fresh pair of white lace panties, no bra, because the dress was structured enough to support me, and I wanted to feel light.

I eased into the panties carefully, mindful of my soreness, then slid the dress over my head. It hugged my curves, skimming along the faint bruises. I turned slowly in the mirror, smoothing the silk over my hips, trying to see myself as whole again, rather than marked.

For a moment, I hesitated, seeing the faint love-bites along my collarbone. I pulled my hair forward to hide them, letting the soft curls tumble over my shoulders in a deliberate cascade.

Then I stepped back from the mirror, took a breath, and forced a smile.

Today was my friend’s wedding.

I wouldn’t let him, or what happened last night, define me. Not here, not now. Today, I wasn’t a hooker. I was someone else entirely.

A woman with a life, with choices, with a fragile sense of dignity still intact.

I clenched my jaw, drawing strength from that truth, fighting the pull of the past that threatened to swallow me whole.

By the time I made my way downstairs for breakfast, I’d pulled myself together. My hair was still damp, my skin warm and flushed from the steam, and I was trying to look composed even though every step reminded me of the night before. The soft chatter of guests drifted around the dining room, clinking cups and plates, the scent of coffee filling the air.

I straightened my dress, took a deep breath, and forced a polite smile, ready to face a day that was going to demand everything I had, including the secrets I was still keeping to myself.

As I stepped into the breakfast room, sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching on the glitter of silver cutlery and fresh white linens. Around me, guests in half-formal clothes laughed lightly over plates of fruit and croissants, still riding the excitement of a wedding morning.

I spotted Sandra, the bride, radiant in a floral robe, practically floating around greeting everyone, her hair pinned up in soft curls. My heart twisted a little, the memory of last night like a bruise blooming deeper every time I shifted in my seat.

Then, I saw him, the groom’s father, his presence cutting through the night like a shadow I couldn’t escape. The memory of last night hit me like a jolt, raw and unrelenting.

He was standing by the coffee urn, pouring himself a cup, talking easily to another guest. His suit jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His watch glinted. For a moment, he looked so harmless, so utterly normal, you’d never guess what he had done to me just hours before.

Our eyes met.

My breath caught, my thighs unconsciously clenching. Shame burned through me, mingled with a humiliating spark of desire I couldn’t kill.

My body betrayed me instantly. A flush of heat bloomed low and fierce, my pussy tightening and aching with the ghost of his touch still burning deep inside me. Every nerve screamed in sharp contrast to the walls I was desperately trying to hold up.

The pull of desire tangled with shame and fear, twisting inside me like a storm. My breath hitched, heart pounding, not just from the memory, but from the dangerous, undeniable connection that still lingered between us.

He nodded, so subtle no one else would notice, but I saw it. The acknowledgment. The quiet, possessive little smirk that made my stomach turn.

I forced myself to look away, sliding into a chair near the window. A young waiter brought me coffee, and I tried to steady my hands as I sipped. But I could still feel it, the soreness between my legs, the echo of his touch.

I watched him move through the room, social, confident, utterly at ease, while I sat there simmering with the raw ache of being used, still half wanting more.

I wasn’t sure how I’d survive the day.

The church was breathtaking, a centuries-old chapel of weathered gray stone that seemed to rise straight out of the rolling English countryside. Stained-glass windows shimmered in fractured morning light, casting jeweled patterns of ruby and emerald across the worn flagstone floors. The scent of beeswax candles and fresh white lilies hung heavy in the air, mingling with a faint trace of old incense soaked into the stones over hundreds of years of prayer.

Polished oak pews lined the nave in strict rows, each one draped with ribbons of soft ivory silk and tiny bouquets of pale roses. High above, a vaulted wooden ceiling stretched like the ribs of a ship, each beam blackened with age, creaking softly as the summer breeze slipped through narrow medieval windows.

At the front, the altar gleamed, dressed in pure white linen and a scattering of rose petals. Gold candlesticks glowed in the soft light, framing the carved crucifix above. Somewhere behind me, the first delicate notes of a string quartet floated through the air, tuning up for the ceremony.

I wore a summer dress perfect for a wedding, a soft, ivory silk slip dress that shimmered gently in the light. The fabric clung to my curves, hugging my waist and tracing the swell of my breasts with a delicate sweetheart neckline that showcased just enough to feel feminine and refined. Thin, satin straps rested lightly on my shoulders, while the dress fell gracefully to mid-calf, flowing with every step I took.

To complete the look, I wore strappy nude heels and kept my accessories minimal, a pair of pearl earrings and a simple bracelet. The whole ensemble was elegant, understated, and just the right balance of formal and summery.

Standing there, I felt both confident and aware of how the dress framed me, soft yet impossible to ignore.

My heart stopped.

But then, everything shifted the moment I stepped into the quiet, ancient chapel. The polished stone floors, the towering stained-glass windows, it all felt surreal, almost dreamlike.

My boss.

My heart was pounding for reasons beyond nerves.

Standing near the altar, speaking quietly with the groom’s father, the same man who had taken me last night.

A cold wave crashed over me.

If he found out about me, about what I did on the weekends to pay my bills, the double life I tried so hard to keep separate, there was no doubt. I would lose my job. Lose everything.

Panic clawed at my chest as I tried to keep my face composed, but inside, I was spiraling. The sacred silence of the church was shattered by the thunder of my own guilty thoughts. I was exposed, vulnerable, and terrified.

Every polished surface, every whispered prayer around me, reminded me that one wrong move, one glance from him, and my carefully guarded world could come crashing down.

My boss stood next to the groom’s father, a striking figure of polished authority. He wore a sharply tailored navy suit that fit him perfectly, broad shoulders, slim waist, paired with a crisp white shirt and a deep burgundy tie that added a subtle splash of color. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and his clean-shaven face held a calm, confident expression, though his eyes flickered briefly with something unreadable as they scanned the room.

The groom’s father was more traditional, dressed in a classic black tuxedo with a white boutonnière pinned carefully to his lapel. His silver hair was slicked back, and his posture was upright but relaxed, radiating quiet pride. The contrast between the two men was clear: one exuding modern power and precision, the other steady, dignified, and rooted in tradition.

His eyes locked onto mine, and that smile spread slowly, too wide, too sharp, like a predator’s knowing grin. My chest tightened, breath caught in my throat. The polished floor beneath me no longer felt solid; it might as well have cracked open and swallowed me whole.

He sees me. He knows. The thought crashed through me like a wave, cold and merciless. My weekend life, the secret I buried deep for so long, was suddenly exposed under his gaze. The late nights, the whispered deals, the way I transformed into someone else when the city darkened.

What if this smile was the start of the end? The silent confirmation that my double life had been found out? That he had connected the woman in the wedding dress to the one he’d never expect?

Panic surged, fierce and relentless. My hands trembled, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. I was raw, vulnerable, and utterly trapped beneath that knowing smile, like a deer caught in headlights, frozen and helpless.

All I wanted was to vanish. To disappear into the shadows and never face the consequences. But there I stood, exposed, trembling, caught.

His smile didn’t fade. Instead, he leaned in slightly toward the groom’s father, speaking in a low, deliberate voice that I couldn’t quite catch, but the subtle glance he shot in my direction was enough. The groom’s father’s eyes flicked toward me, a brief, puzzled look crossing his face before he quickly masked it with a polite nod.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a warning drum. Last night, the heat, the closeness, the secrets we shared, felt like a cruel joke now, hanging heavy between us in the light of day.

Did he say my name? Did he mention anything that would unravel the fragile mask I wore here? The fear tightened around me like a noose. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear before the weight of their shared knowing grew heavier and spilled over into whispered rumors.

I forced myself to stand still, but inside I was spiraling, caught between what had been and what could be exposed in this room full of strangers.

He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, but I caught every second of it. Then his eyes locked onto me again, and everything changed. The calm, confident man vanished, replaced by something darker, sharper. His gaze lingered on me like a predator sizing up its prey, cold and unblinking.

There was a hunger there, raw and unsettling, that sent a shiver racing down my spine. It wasn’t just the memory of last night anymore—it was something deeper, more dangerous. Like I was no longer just a woman he’d shared a secret moment with, but something he could claim, control, or maybe even expose.

I wanted to look away, to disappear beneath the polished floorboards, but I was frozen, caught beneath that intense, calculating stare, powerless and exposed.

After dinner, the room had thinned out, guests lingering in quiet clusters, laughter fading to murmurs. I was standing near a window, the cool night air brushing against my skin through the cracked pane, trying to calm the storm of thoughts that still raced through my mind.

Then he was there, sudden and commanding, closing the distance between us with deliberate ease. His eyes burned into mine, dark and fierce, swallowing all the polite restraint of the evening. The hunger I’d glimpsed earlier now roared beneath the surface, raw and urgent.

“I’ve wanted you,” he murmured, his voice rough, heavy with desire.

My breath hitched, a wild heat flooding through me, tightening every nerve. His presence was overpowering, every inch of him demanding, possessive. He reached out, fingers brushing against my arm with an electric touch that sent a jolt straight to my core.

His hand slid around my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. I could feel the heat of his body, the rapid thud of his pulse, the faint scrape of his stubble against my cheek as he lowered his head.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed, voice barely above a growl. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine.

The world shrank to just the two of us, breathless, dangerous, and raw. Every second was charged with the unspoken promise of what could happen if we gave in to the desperate need that had been simmering between us since that night.

Eventually, despite the storm raging inside me, I let him lead me outside, the same place where the groom’s father had taken me the night before. The memory of that night was raw and electric: the way his hands had explored me with an urgent, possessive hunger, how every touch had sent shivers racing through my body.

His gaze darkened, and without a word, he gently but firmly took my hand.

The warm night air wrapped around us like a secret, the quiet garden bathed in the soft glow of the full moon. Shadows danced at the edges, and the world felt stripped down to just us.

He stopped, pulling me close again, his voice low and urgent.

“You know what I want.”

The unspoken promise hung heavy between us, dangerous, thrilling. Every inch of me burned with the knowledge of what could happen here, away from prying eyes, away from the judgment waiting inside.

I swallowed, heart pounding, caught between fear and desire, knowing full well that stepping out here was crossing a line I might never come back from.

As he held me close in the quiet night, my mind became a storm of conflicting thoughts. Desire pulsed through my veins, raw and urgent, tempting me with the memory of last night, his touch, his breath, the way he made me feel alive in a world that so often felt like a cage.

But fear clenched tight around my ribs, cold and relentless. If I give in, if I let him fuck me, what will happen?

The weight of my secret life pressed down harder than ever. I wasn’t just risking a moment of pleasure. I was gambling everything: my reputation, my job, the fragile balance I fought to maintain between the woman I showed the world and the one I was in the shadows.