I’ve always thought she was beautiful, but now? Now she’s a fucking goddess. Her hair is falling over her shoulders in loose waves, dark makeup lining the top of her eyelids, while she’s wearing a tight black dress that makes my dick hard just at the sight of it.

Wren starts smiling shyly before I even say a word, as if she can read my mind. In a way, I think she often can.

“God, how do you always take my breath away?” I whisper over her lips before kissing her, my hands trailing down to cup her ass.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

I kiss her again, my tongue tangling with hers as I palm her. “What are you wearing under there?” I whisper as I pull back slightly.

She smirks. “What makes you think I’m wearing anything?”

Eyes closed, I let my forehead drop on her shoulder. “You’re killing me, Wren. Fucking killing me.” Telling me this before we have to leave, knowing I’ll be dreaming about this the whole night.

She chuckles, then gives my back two little taps before going to crate the dogs. “Come on. I hate being late.”

With a look that I hope conveys you’ll pay for this, I help her put her coat on, then grab mine and head outside.

* * *

The party is great.

Nothing is inherently wrong with it. There’s tasty food and great music and nice people. Sure, it’s very extra for a wedding anniversary, but no one could objectively say the party isn’t a success.

Yet Wren doesn’t seem to be having a good time. At all.

When Aqidah came to her and said, “Oh my God, Wren, I’m so happy you came!” while hugging her, Wren’s smile smelled fake from a mile away.

“Yeah,” she answered simply, giving her cousin a distant pat on the shoulder.

Aqidah tried to make small talk after that, and while Wren was pleasant, she wasn’t the woman I know. Nothing like the burst of energy and life she is when we’re alone. Even once Aqidah left, when Wren spoke with her nephews and nieces, it was clear something was wrong with her.

Case in point: she agreed to dance with me without any argument. However, no part of her was in it. It didn’t matter how much I teased her about her two left feet; she never laughed honestly.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask her over a piece of cake once we’ve left the dance floor.

“What?” she asks as if she’d been lost in thoughts and I took her out of them.

“I asked what’s up with you?”

“Oh. Nothing,” she answers too fast before bringing her gaze to Aqidah’s two sons, who are still dancing the YMCA on the dance floor. She pinches her lips between her teeth.