Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Best Man

Kloe's fingers clawed at Julian's shoulders, her body moving with a rhythm she didn't recognize as her own. The King-size bed creaked beneath them, the sound rhythmic and unmistakable, and she bit her lip until she tasted copper, trying to contain the noises building in her throat.

Julian's pace was relentless, designed to dismantle her piece by piece. His mouth traced the shell of her ear, his breath hot and deliberate. "Let go," he murmured, the command barely audible over the blood rushing in her ears. "I want to hear you."

She shook her head, stubborn even now, even here. Her teeth sank deeper into her lower lip, and a tear of frustrated effort tracked down her temple.

Julian's laugh was soft, dangerous. He shifted his angle, his hand sliding beneath her hip to change the pressure, and Kloe's restraint shattered. A sound escaped her-broken, desperate, nothing like the composed woman who'd walked down the aisle twelve hours ago.

"Better," he praised, and drove deeper.

Through the haze of sensation, Kloe became aware of the wall. The shared wall. On the other side, separated by perhaps six inches of drywall and insulation, was the suite where Justen had-where he was still-

The thought should have repulsed her. Instead, something dark and vengeful curled in her stomach. She was here. With his best friend. While he-

Julian's hand found her throat, not squeezing, just holding, his thumb tracing her pulse. "Thinking about him?" His voice was conversational, terrifyingly calm. "Wondering if he can hear?"

Kloe's eyes flew open. Julian's face was inches from hers, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his expression caught between cruelty and something that looked almost like tenderness.

He pulled back, then thrust forward with deliberate force, his hip bone colliding with the wall behind the headboard. The impact created a solid thud, vibration traveling through the studs, through the drywall, into the space beyond.

Kloe gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. "Stop-he'll-"

"Exactly," Julian breathed, and did it again.

---

In the adjacent suite, Justen Anderson collapsed onto the sofa's opposite cushion, his chest heaving. The silk robe he'd thrown on gaped open, revealing the tan lines from his tennis habit. He reached for the Marlboros on the coffee table, his hand not quite steady.

Candyce Salazar stretched like a cat, her red nails trailing patterns across his sternum. "That was delicious," she purred. "So much better than your little bride, I bet. She always looked like she'd need instructions printed out."

Justen's lighter flared, illuminating the hollows beneath his eyes. He inhaled, exhaled, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. "Kloe's... appropriate. For certain purposes."

"Appropriate." Candyce's laugh was sharp. "Is that what we're calling boring now?"

He didn't answer. His gaze had drifted to the door, to the corridor beyond, to the elevator that would take him to the suite where his wife-his wife, the word still felt strange-was presumably sleeping off her champagne.

Something felt wrong. The certainty sat in his stomach like bad shellfish, indigestible and growing.

"She's probably fine," Candyce continued, her hand sliding lower. "Probably dreaming about china patterns and-"

A sound came through the wall. Muffled, rhythmic, unmistakable to any adult with a functioning imagination. Justen's cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

Candyce heard it too. She frowned, her painted mouth pursing. "Rude neighbors. Don't they know this is a five-star hotel?"

Justen said nothing. He knew whose suite shared this wall. Julian's suite. Julian, who never brought women to hotels, who maintained apartments in three cities specifically to avoid this scenario, who'd once lectured him for forty minutes about the security risks of "emotional entanglements in unsecured locations."

The sound came again. Louder. A woman's voice, pitched high, cut off abruptly.

Justen's feet hit the floor. He was at the door before he realized he'd moved, his hand on the handle, his eye finding the peephole. The corridor was empty, silent, the sconces casting their amber pools on undisturbed carpet.

His phone showed 2:47 AM. He'd left the reception at 11:30. Three hours. Kloe had been alone for three hours.

The wall transmitted another impact, deliberate and solid. Justen's fingers tightened on the door handle until his knuckles whitened.

Behind him, Candyce sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. "Justen? Where are you going?"

He didn't know. He stood frozen, caught between the need to find his bride and the terror of what he might discover, while through the wall, the rhythm continued, relentless, mocking.