Thick & Thin (Thin Love, #3)(89)
“It’s a suitable description for how you look, baby.” I let him go on kissing me, pulling him close when he used his tongue to kiss a path just under my neck.
The dress had been on purpose. I’d never understood women who spoke about their wedding day as though they wanted some Disney fairytale poupou. I’d never once felt like a princess and I had no desire to start on my wedding day. I wanted to look like how Ransom made me feel: alive, wanted, desired and yeah, sexy as hell. So Lettie and Keira had gone with me to look for a dress, knowing that subtle wouldn’t do. Knowing that fluff and billowing skirts wouldn’t hold my interest.
We’d found a tiny shop called Kisten’s in Uptown, just a few blocks away from my new studio. I’d left Camp Street out of respect for Ethan’s feelings and Ransom’s notion that Ethan seeing me every day, knowing I hadn’t chosen him, was just mean. We had invited Ethan to the wedding, but he politely declined, sending in his stead a very old, very expensive bottle of scotch, and a lovely worded note, hand written, wishing us all the happiness that our lives could hold.
Kisten’s shop was no more than a thousand square feet and every inch of it was cluttered with wedding dresses, prom dresses, and outfits I was sure only a Drag Queen could pull off. All of them designed and made by a young team trying to get a little notice in a very dense market.
“I want something sexy. I want my husband to be panting over me all night.”
The owner’s big brown eyes had widened and the twitch of his mouth had told me he already had idea bouncing around in his head. “I got you, boo. Don’t worry.”
And I didn’t. Not once Kisten got out his measuring tape and sketch pad. Then we got to work, the result of weeks and weeks of fittings, consultations and just a few arguments was a dress that did have my husband panting. Like he was just then. Hands slipping over my waist, down to cup my ass.
“Nani, let’s do it right here. I’ll lock the door.”
“No, bata,” I laughed, slapping his fingers off my dress when he tried lifting it. I pushed away from him to stand in front of an ornate, aged scalloped mirror hanging from the cracked plastered walls. He came behind me, not touching, but those eyes moved quick, gaze fanning over my body. The look on his face made me smile bigger. Kisten was a genius, had worked real magic.
The dress was backless with a simple sweetheart bodice. At the back it dipped below my waist, was held up with thin spaghetti straps. The material was very fine silk, so thin that when I stood in direct sunlight, the clear silhouette of my body was visible. That’s what I’d wanted, refusing Kisten when he suggested a slip. The bodice was laid with an intricate pattern of loops and swirls weaving around my waist, the design circling down my hips and onto the back of the dress so that my ass was accented. That too, was intentional. Ransom loved my ass and often told me it was one of my best features. But my favorite part of the dress was the train, which continued the swirling design as it cascaded straight down and trailed behind on the ground.
The dress was for him. And I wore it with pride, but like Ransom, with him looking at me so hungry, so anxious, all I could think about was getting that dress off. “Alright, cheri,” I told him catching his gaze in the mirror, trying not to laugh when he smiled.
“Yeah?” He didn’t wait for me to answer or turn completely around before he had me against his chest, kissing me, fingers close to pulling the pins and the pretty gardenia and white Plumeria arrangement from the bun at the back of my head.
“Cheri…” I managed, moving my fingers to the front of Ransom’s pants just as the door behind us flew open and that damn assistant returned.
“Oh. Um, well, the guests are seated.” Two splotches of pink colored her cheeks as she looked down at her phone, not daring to watch us as we adjusted each other’s hair and clothing. “You’d be surprised, how often…” then the girl cleared her throat, as though she thought acknowledging what we were about to do wasn’t the most professional thing to say. Another low cough and the doors opened wider, the assistant handed me my bouquet and the loud announcement of “Mr. and Mrs. Riley-Hale” sounded from a microphone in the main rooms.
Then, everything happened so quickly—the pictures, the clutter of noise and activity, smiles and laughter, dances with my new brother-in-law, with Tristian, with every damn body, it seemed and the night continued on.
“Aly Cat,” I heard behind me, two hours into our reception and I gave Kona a grateful smile when he handed me a glass of champagne. I took two sips before he stopped laughing. We stood at the corner of the room, watching Ransom and Keira dance and for a second, I was reminded of the last time I’d seen them dance. The night of Keira’s birthday party. At my side, Kona nudged me, hesitating only a second before he smiled at me. “I’m not drunk this time,” he told, throwing me a wink. “You know,” he said, clearing his throat as though he was eager not to remind me of that conversation, “Keira and I tried to do all this.” He waved a hand around the room, nodding toward the band on the other side of the building, to the crowds of tables fixed with thick gold and white linen table cloths, the surfaces covered in a mix of beautiful China and several small lanterns with fat, white lit candles inside and the waiters weaving through the bodies of drinking, laughing bodies. “Well, I tried, I should say. It was a f*cking disaster.”