Page 83 of Gym With Benefits

My cries of ecstasy filled the small cabin, the sound melting into the rush of the country wind. The friction of my finger combined with the hard bottoming out of his shaft pushed me straight over the precipice. A quick, intense climax clenched my inner muscles into violent spasms, and Hunter let out a loud groan, his body going stiff as he fell over the edge with me, emptying his load deep inside my walls.

The yellow cotton sundress dropped back into place softly, concealing the sticky warmth between my thighs. Hunter pulled his denim jeans up over his hips, tucked his length away, and secured the copper button with a quick, efficient twist of his wrist.

A single vault over the seatback placed him right back behind the steering wheel. The key turned in the ignition, and the V8 roared back to life, the steady throb returning to the floorboards.

The green digital numbers on the dashboard clock lit up, displaying a time that shattered my remaining post-coital calm. A rapid mental calculation confirmed the worst. The hotel check-in window closed forty-five minutes ago, and the prelude to Amberleigh’s grand procession started in exactly thirty minutes. There was zero time to utilize a proper mirror or a bathroom vanity. The vehicle represented the dressing room now.

"We are officially in a crisis zone," the words came out fast as my eyes locked onto the green display. "I'll have to change while you drive."

Hunter’s jaw set into a determined line as his foot mashed the accelerator. The tires squealed against the gravel shoulder, throwing a spray of small rocks against the undercarriage before the K5 peeled off onto Route 29, the speedometer needle sweeping rapidly to the right to try and make it in time.

"Don't worry about me," he called out over the roar of the wind, his eyes fixed on the empty highway ahead. "I perfected the Superman outfit change back in college. Just focus on getting yourself together. Once we pull up to the venue, I'll be dashing in three seconds flat."

The urgency required immediate logistics. A quick scramble over the seat placed my knees in the rear cargo area. My arms dove straight into the depths of the trunk space, fingers wrapping around the zipper of the garment bag to haul out my dress and makeup case before the next sharp turn.

36

Jess

The gravel of the Manford Mansion driveway crunched under our quick footsteps as we ran up the manicured stone path toward the towering brick facade. Hunter’s fingers worked double-time at his collar, adjusting a black bowtie that sat slightly crooked against his linen shirt. My own breath came in ragged puffs, the emerald silk dress rustling against me while my fingers made a futile attempt to tame the wind-swept curls, the pins refusing to hold them in place.

An usher in a pristine morning suit blocked the main entrance, his posture rigid as he held a leather-bound guest ledger. His arm shot out to halt our forward momentum. "Name, please."

"Jessica Seymore," the words left my lips in an out-of-breath rush.

The usher turned a page, his index finger tracing down a column of neat calligraphy. He perused the lines for a painful beat, his eyes moving left to right before he looked back up with a definitive shake of his head. He said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin, professional line.

"What? Why are you shaking your head?"

Hunter stepped up beside me, his shoulder a comforting weight against mine as his face split into an easy, disarminggrin. "I know we're late, but it's only by two minutes. I'm sure the bride is yet to make her grand entrance anyway. Aren't they always fashionably late?"

The light humor failed to diffuse the stern look on the man’s face.

"We won't cause a disturbance," I jumped back in, the panic beginning to coat the back of my throat. "Just slip us in the back row. Nobody will notice."

"Ma'am, you're not on the list," the usher said, his tone flat and unamused.

My stomach dropped into a hollow, freezing void. "I'm not?"

The man shook his head again, his outstretched arm gently but firmly pushing us toward the stone balustrade to clear the threshold. Another late-coming couple hurried past us, their perfume cloying in the midday heat. They offered a name, the usher’s pen checked it off instantly, and he waved them into the mansion with a stiff nod. "All the way through to the back garden."

Watching the double doors close behind them made the blood boil beneath my skin, a hot, red flush of pure embarrassment crawling up my neck. The physical evidence of my invitation sat in my purse at the flat. How could my name simply vanish from the registry?

Hunter’s hand squeezed my fingers, his eyes scanning the ledger from a distance. "Must be a glitch with the system, Jess. A printing error."

A silent, freezing knowing settled over my chest, cutting through the initial confusion. The puzzle pieces locked into place with a sickening click. "She did it on purpose. To fuck with me."

The realization left me crestfallen, a heavy sense of defeat weighting my limbs. The smart-mouthed, confident womanfrom the lounge vanished, replaced by the old, gullible version who fell for Amberleigh’s calculated bullshit all over again. The entire invitation functioned as a trap, a mechanism designed to ensure I drove two hours just to receive a public rejection on the steps of her kingdom.

Hunter noticed the internal collapse instantly, his easygoing demeanor evaporating into something altogether different. He stepped around me, crowding the usher’s personal space until the man had to tilt his chin up to maintain eye contact.

"Listen to me closely," Hunter said, and the tone of his voice made the usher’s eyes widen. "You let her in right now, or I swear to God I'll tear this perfectly perfect wedding to the ground. I'll make a scene that your security detail won't forget, and I'll start with that ledger."

The usher swallowed hard, his professional veneer cracking under the absolute certainty in Hunter's eyes. He stepped aside without another syllable, his arm gesturing toward the interior.

Hunter’s palm closed over mine, his grip warm and steady as he led me through the arched threshold of the mansion.

The interior screamed typical Charlottesville old-money style—soaring ceilings, white crown molding, and polished mahogany floors that reflected the glare of the crystal chandeliers overhead. Large oil portraits of people who probably owned plantations stared down from the silk-covered walls, their expressions as rigid as the usher outside.