Wedding Stress

Ryan's heart pounds like she just outran a dragon riding a tandem bike. Wedding in three weeks and the dress still needs three weeks of sewing? Finn is MIA again, off chasing maple syrup or whatever hype fills his feed. Tara calls to check in, gets a sly ping from Danika mid-chat, and decides a massage might beat herbal tea for panic control. Her palms slide over Ryan's neck and the tension melts under thumbs that know every tight spot. "Guy hasn't ghosted the big day yet? Cute." Each squeeze loosens Ryan a notch more, sweater slipping down, bra snapping open before Ryan even clocks it. Pants vanish next. Ryan sprawls bare-assed on the cushions, pulse hammering. Tara’s fingers creep lower, circling the thick, unkempt curls that shield Ryan's slick center. Ryan shifts, half ready to slam the brakes, half already wetter. The moment Tara's tongue replaces fingertips, the internal debate folds faster than budget origami. Every languid lick forces a breathy whine Ryan can't bite back. Mind already circling future explanations to a husband who still believes tea and foot rubs are romantic, Ryan lifts her hips anyway, giving Tara every inch she can reach. Scruples stick to her skin like static, but hips keep moving.