I get as far as outside of Chandler's hotel room before collapsing against the wall next to his door.

That was…awkward.

I hate that it was awkward, but that's the only way to describe it.

Stupid Ross and his stupid bad timing.

I could tell that Chandler was already awake; he probably knew I was awake, too. Neither of us said anything; we were lying there, waiting for the alarm to go off. It surprisingly peaceful, though, just being there in bed with him, tucked almost completely under the blankets, our breathing synced.

Then there was Ross. Which was like being drenched in cold water.

What if he had shown up a few minutes later as I was crawling out of bed? Or ran in to me while I was trying to escape the room? What if Chandler and I had decided to try morning-after sex?

I cover my mouth with my hand, stifling a giggle. Might have been worth being caught just to see Ross run into a wall as he tried to get away.

With a sigh, I push myself away from the wall. Who knows if Ross will be back; it probably wouldn't do for him to see me sneaking out of his best friend's hotel room in the same dress I wore to my brother's rehearsal dinner.

I look back at the door for a moment, biting my lip. Part of me—a very large part of me—wants to go back in there, to hell with the consequences. I had the best sex of my life last night all thanks to the man in that room. What would be the harm in one more time? Or two?

A small part of me also hopes that Chandler will burst out in to the hall, searching for me. I know that's pretty far-fetched, though. He seemed pretty freaked out by Ross running in to the room. Understandable. I think there's probably some sort of guy code about not sleeping with your best friend's little sister, which is stupid. What if the little sister wants to sleep with said best friend, too?

I shake my head, pulling myself out of my daydreams and head down the hall to my room. I cringe a little with every step; I'm sore all over, particularly in my hips.

I smirk a little—they certainly got a workout last night.

I enter my room and sigh. I can't believe last night is actually over. Part of me still can't believe it actually happened, and that it was as incredible as it was. I strip out of my clothing, my dress and underwear falling to the floor, sadness threatening to overwhelm me.

Maybe this is why sleeping with Joey would have been the easier thing to do. Maybe somehow, I knew that being with Chandler would be deeper, more meaningful, more everything, than with wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am Joey. I wouldn't have come out on the other side of last night feeling like I'd been hit by an emotional truck.

I do know, however, that for all the talk about Joey's prowess with women, there's nothing he could have done to me last night that would have made me feel even a fraction as good as Chandler did. Nothing. If the trade-off for mind-blowing sex is awkwardness the next morning instead of feeling just all right after sleeping with Joey, I'll take awkward every day of the week.

I just wish the awkward wasn't combined with what I'm pretty sure is heartbreak.

I drag myself into the bathroom, pulling the bobby pins out of disheveled hair as I go. I bend down to turn on the water and I can smell Chandler on me. I sit down on the edge of the tub and put my head in my hands, groaning in frustration.

Why is this so hard?

Because it's Chandler, I answer myself immediately. It's Chandler with all of his issues and fears and jokes and sweetness and caring. No matter what happens, I'm going to have to tread lightly. Pretty much anything could send him running, and no matter what, I can't lose him as a friend. I can't. He's such a part of my life—such a part of me—that I can't imagine a world where we're not in each other's lives.

I just wish I had known that one night with him would make me realize how much more I actually want, that being with Chandler, being his girlfriend, actually sounds like the best thing ever.

I reach over to the knobs, turning the water on, and stand up with a groan and stretch out my sore limbs. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and stop short.

"Whoa," I whisper, turning around in the mirror, craning my neck to see all angles. My hips, my lower back, my ass, the backs of my thighs, the front of my thighs are covered in tiny, fingertip-sized bruises. I twist my hips a little, and sure enough, bruises grace my inner thighs as well.

"Wow." I look like someone who had a hell of a time last night. I can't say as I'm surprised, either, all things considered—we did have a lot of sex. It's really more surprising that there's not more. Though, maybe there will be—some bruises take a while to show up.

I feel a grin spreading over my face. Maybe it's sick, but I kind of like knowing that a little bit of Chandler will be hiding right under my bridesmaid's dress. It doesn't bother me in the slightest to have a physical reminder that, at least for one night, he had his hands all over me.

I lean closer to the mirror, inspecting my neck, throat, collarbone, shoulders, anything that will be visible through the dress. Not a mark. Not so much as whisker burn. I have no idea how he managed that, but I'm definitely impressed.

I inspect my torse—aside from what looks like could be a thumbprint at the bottom of my ribcage, all is normal. Then I notice my breasts. My smile grows, followed by a giggle. They're covered in tiny little bite marks, and…yeah, that's definitely a hickey around my nipple.

I shake my head to myself, climbing in to the shower. A part of me is loathe to wash off Chandler, even though I know that not showering would be pretty disgusting. I did a lot of sweating last night, not to mention various other…fluids that are probably present.

But, I have my tiny little marks that will remind me of last night.

Like I need a reminder.

As I bathe, I can't help but wonder what Chandler would think if he could see me right now. Would he be upset at having left little bruises? Or would he be as turned on as I am, knowing that the passion between us last night was so great that we couldn't help but leave a few marks?

I wonder if he has any.

He probably has a few welts on his back from my nails scratching at him.

That thought makes me feel a little smug, even as I feel vaguely disgusted at myself for being proud of essentially marking my territory.

Do I consider Chandler my territory now?

If I'm honest, didn't I really kind of think of him as mine before last night, even if it was in a significantly less than carnal way?

I sigh and tilt my head back to let the conditioner run out of my hair and flinch a little as my neck twinges a bit, and am briefly overwhelmed by the memory of the many times I threw my head back last night.

God, he's good.

I wince as I bend over to shave my legs. This is not working at all. Abruptly, I turn off the shower and plug the bath drain, deciding that I have the time and I've more than earned a bubble bath. I pour some of the complimentary bubbles into the rapidly rising water. I start to lower myself into the water and wince again, slowing my descent into the tub.

I sigh as the hot water hits my overused muscles, already feeling the positive effects, and stretch out my leg to turn on the water with my toes, then lean back and relax for a moment.

I take care of my right leg, then gasp out as I bring my left leg up to shave. What the hell did I do…

"Oh, yeah!" I exclaim out loud, pretty sure that even in my solitude, I'm blushing at the memory—my leg thrown over his shoulder and Chandler pounded in to me…I feel my heart speed up just thinking about it.

I carefully lower my leg back into the water, and lean back once more, staring at the ceiling. But entire body aches, but pleasantly so. I feel pretty damn fulfilled.

Well, mostly.

As much as I ache, if given the chance, I'd take him again right now.

My eyes drift shut as I let out a little moan, smiling as the image of the two of having sex in the bathtub runs through my mind.

That would be incredible.

I want him again. I want him so much it actually hurts.

I make up my mind—if he's game, I'm bringing him back to my room tonight.

We'll stay long enough at the reception to be polite, then I'll bring him back here, rip off his fancy clothes and…ride him until his eyes roll back.

I think he'll let me.

I hope.

A horrifying thought grips me—what if he thought it was all a mistake and has no interest in me whatsoever?

That wouldn't happen…right?

I mean, I know for a fact that he had a good time last night.

That doesn't mean he might not regret it.

I feel sadness welling up inside of me once more; he can't regret it.

Please don't let him regret it.

I realize that I'm completely at his mercy. I'll have to follow his lead.

I just hope that he leads us back to this room.