Check out my twitter (isarahdrew) if you're curious about what April's dress and bracelet look like!

…

JACKSON

I hear April talking to herself in the next room like she's been doing for the past half hour. I gave her the bathroom to get ready while I took the bedroom, but I'm not sure what she's doing that could be taking so long. She already got her hair and makeup done; what else could be left?

"April," I call, adjusting my cufflinks as I stand near the door. I've been ready for a good chunk of time and patiently waiting. That patience will soon run out, though. "Is everything alright?"

"Um," she says, her voice higher than usual. "Um… well…" She pauses. "No?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure," she says. "But don't expect to see anything great."

I push open the door to find her standing in front of the mirror wearing only a slip. It clings in the right places and flows in others, and her hair and makeup are impeccable. The look in her eyes doesn't match the state of glamor, though, as they're glistening and wide with fear. My stomach sinks as I wonder if she's about to cry.

"What's going on?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. I'm being stupid… just stupid about it."

"You're not stupid," I say. "Tell me what's bothering you."

She clasps her hands and chews on a perfectly painted lip, eyes darting up and down my body as she takes in my suit. It's Dolce and Gabbana, she should take it in. "I'm really nervous," she says. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up. This is too much for me."

"What's too much?"

She lifts her hands, palms up. "All of it," she says. "The people getting me ready, the fact that we're going to a gala meant to celebrate our fake marriage, everything."

"Well, it's technically not fake," I say.

"You know what I mean," she says. "I just don't know if I can do it."

"You don't have much of a choice," I remind her.

"I let you in here because I thought you were capable of calming me down," she says, eyebrows furrowed. "If all you're going to do is make me feel worse, you can leave."

"Breathe," I say, stepping closer with a small smile on my face. "There will be so many people there, barely anyone's focus will be on us."

"But we're the whole reason it's happening," she says. "Which, by the way, you could've told me sooner."

"And have you worry like this sooner?" I say.

She scrunches her nose. I love it when she does that, though I haven't told her. I probably won't ever tell her, lest she stop. "And you telling me there's going to be a ton of people there doesn't make me feel any better either," she comments.

"Well," I say, skimming my hands down from her shoulders all the way to her fingers, holding them in my hands for a brief moment. "I know something that might."

"Half a Xanax?" she asks, a playful lilt in her voice.

"No," I say. "Wait here."

I leave the bathroom and retrace my steps to the bedroom, where I pull out the nightstand drawer to find a long, slender box. It was a box meant for her on our wedding night, but the sparks between us then were nonexistent. At the time, I hadn't wanted her to have it. I told myself she didn't deserve it, a commoner like her would have no idea what to do with something like it. But now, even if she has no idea what it means to wear it, the gesture won't go unnoticed. She'll love it; it was made for her, after all.

I reenter the bathroom to find her standing in the same spot, calculating my next move. She studies me, wondering what I'm up to, and I like the fact that I've kept her on her toes. I hold out the velvet box and she stares at it, eyes round, but keeps her hands to herself. Any other woman would've reached out instantly and taken it, the curiosity gotten the better of her. But April always waits until something is offered; that's something I've noticed. She never takes.

"It's yours," I say. "It's for you, I mean. Go ahead and open it."

She doesn't move. Her eyes stay centered on the box resting between my open palms, but she doesn't make a move. Her eyes flit to my face as she decides her next move, but I don't want to wait any longer. I reach forward and open the lid myself to expose a piece of jewelry inside worth more money than she has probably ever seen. It's a thin, white gold bracelet with two rows of diamonds. It has a break in between to show the skin underneath and I know without a doubt that it will look perfect on her wrist.

"Jackson," she says, barely able to speak. She presses a hand to her heart and blinks hard, staring at the piece of jewelry like it might burst into flames. "Jackson… what is this…"

"It's for you," I say again, then set the box down as I take the bracelet out very gently. "Hold out your wrist," I tell her.

"I couldn't," she says, shaking her head. "It's too much. It's so beautiful."

"Then you are most definitely deserving," I say subtly. "Come here, please."

She doesn't fight. Instead, she extends her arm and lets me clasp the bracelet onto her wrist, then turns her hand this way and that under the light to catch it. It sparkles brilliantly, reflecting off the amazement in her eyes. "It's the prettiest thing I've ever seen," she says, still awestruck as she looks back up at me. "Isn't it?"

Instead of the bracelet, my gaze catches on her face and the myriad of expressions she's allowing me privy to. Right now, her heart is visible and it's one of the only times she's bared it for me. "Yes," I say, though I'm not referencing the bracelet at all.

"How much… no, I don't want to know," she says, creasing her forehead while looking sincerely troubled. She worries her lower lip, contemplates for a moment, then looks back up. "Yes, I do. I need to know. How much did this cost?"

I clear my throat. I've always been taught that it's not polite to talk about money in gross amounts and it makes me uncomfortable to do so. Spewing numbers isn't attractive. I don't have to brag about the amount of money I have for people to know I'm wealthy. They know just by looking at me and that means much more. "The cost doesn't matter," I say. "What matters is that it makes you feel good, and gives you confidence for tonight."

I turn to walk away, but she grabs me by the forearm and flips me back around. "Jackson, I'm asking, as your wife, to tell me how much this bracelet costs," she says, very seriously.

I look her dead in the eyes when I say, "Thirty-eight thousand eight hundred dollars," I say, holding her hand with both of mine and lifting it so the bracelet hits the light. "And believe me, it's attractive to see that amount of money on you, April."

Her lips part in a silent gasp, eyes gone unblinking as the price sinks in. Her hand trembles in mine but she doesn't pull away, instead she grips my fingers tighter. "Just for tonight," she murmurs, slowly as if moving through a thick haze. "I'll only wear it tonight."

"It's yours," I say. "You decide how and when you wear it. And you should put your dress on, else we'll be late to our own party."

"My dress…" she says, looking to where it hangs in the closet. I look at her with scrutiny, wondering what the pensive tone is about. "That's kind of the reason why I'm standing here in a slip."

"What?" She takes a few steps towards it, brushing past me so I smell her perfume. It's not anything from her old life - it's deep and rich with differing notes. Le Bouquet de la Mariée by Guerlain, if I'm not mistaken. It suits her perfectly.

"It's too much, Jackson," she says, extending her arms but stopping before she can touch the fabric. It's like she's afraid to. "I can't wear this. It isn't me."

I turn around with an eyebrow cocked. "What, would you rather something from the mall?" I ask, lightheartedness underlying my tone.

She shoots me a look. "Stop it," she says. "You have to understand how it feels putting stuff like this on my body when I'm so used to…" She trails off, unfinishing as she shrugs. "I don't know. Rags sounds like an exaggeration, but it's really not."

"I keep telling you that this is what you should get used to now," I say, lifting the dress from its hanger.

"And you can tell me that until you're blue in the face," she quips. "It doesn't mean it'll sink in. My life flipped on its head over the course of one day. You can't expect me to adapt so quickly." Her face falters, chin dipping. "You have such high expectations of me, and… I'll never meet them."

"I'm not asking you to go above and beyond," I say. "But tonight, you have to wear this dress. This dress is expected at the gala with your beautiful body inside it." Her head lifts, eyes holding a bit of confusion and something else I can't read. "So please," I say. "For me. And for yourself, too. You'll feel different once it's on."

For once, she doesn't argue. She blinks a few times, takes a deep breath, then nods. "I need help then," she says. "It's complicated."

It's a design by Monique Lhuillier - a blush pink dress with a deep V and a low back, flutter sleeves, jewel decals and tulle under the skirt. In it, I assume she'll look like a modern day princess. That was my aim, anyway, when I picked it out.

"The slip won't work," I say, looking at her pointedly. "The neckline is too low. You'll have to remove it." I notice her hands are quivering as she goes to lift the feather-light material over her head. Soon, she's left in a bra and underwear, but still that's too much. I clear my throat and say, "The bra will have to go, too."

"Oh," she says, a little caught off guard.

"I won't look," I say, respecting her privacy though I've had my mouth on her before. I'm not sure where we stand in regard to that night, though, so I don't want to overstep. I direct my eyes to the floor as she disrobes, then hold the dress out for her to step into without lifting my gaze. Once it's over her shoulders, I spin her slowly and zip the short zipper in the back, spending a moment to let my eyes trail over her lightly freckled skin.

"So?" she says, voice wavering. "Is it bad? It's horrible."

"No," I say, turning her around. The view from the front takes my breath away - she's all slopes and curves and glowing skin. She looks nothing short of otherworldly, like something I've never seen. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe.

"Then what?" she says, on edge. "Say something."

"You look radiant," I say, unable to think of a better word or one that holds enough weight. "Stunning, absolutely stunning."

"Oh," she says, and the apples of her cheeks turn a color that comes close to that of the dress. "Thank you."

"How do you feel?" I ask, still having not torn my eyes away from her. She's a vision simply standing in the bathroom, so I can't imagine how she'll look juxtaposed next to the beautiful decor in the ballroom.

She sets her shoulders straight and lifts her chin to say, "I feel powerful."

…

As we make our entrance, April trembles. I keep one hand on the small of her back and stroke her skin in small circles to soothe her, but I'm not sure how well it works. We're well-versed in how tonight should look; we have to act more married than ever before. Everyone will be watching expectantly, and there's no room for mistake.

"Breathe, sweetheart," I say, speaking with my lips against to her ear.

"I'm trying," she says, pressing herself close.

"I'm going to introduce you to a few people," I say. "But after that, we can do whatever we want."

"Don't make me talk to them," she says, looking to me desperately. "I know I'll say something wrong. They'll know I'm not from… please, just don't make me say anything."

"I can do the talking, if that's what you want," I say, acting on impulse and reading up to stroke her cheek with the backs of my knuckles. If I'm not mistaken, she leans into my touch and relaxes because of it.

"Please."

So, I do. While speaking with other high-powered couples, I sense the nerves coming off of April in droves but know others can't. She smiles, shakes the hands that she needs to, and by the time it's over she's clearly and visibly relieved.

"You were wonderful," I tell her as we head towards the dance floor, hand-in-hand.

"Barely," she mutters, refusing as usual to accept the compliment.

"Do you remember the steps I taught you?" I ask, leading the way towards the middle.

"I think so."

The waltz starts and I take my wife in my arms. I hold both her hand and the dip of her waist, and she allows herself to dance close to me. I breathe in her scent, closing my eyes for a moment while soaking it in, and while in that position she turns her head to press a kiss to the corner of my jaw. I solidify the hand on her waist, rubbing it up and down, and she squeezes my opposite hand. I've never had such a strong nonverbal connection with another person before, but April and I are seemingly on an entirely different level. I know exactly what she's thinking; that was a kiss of thanks. I've done my best in grounding her tonight and she appreciates it. I appreciate much more than that - her presence has completely overwhelmed and overtaken me in a way I'm not familiar with. Being around her intimately has forced Pandora's box open and I feel my heart softening, even if by a fraction.

The song simultaneously lasts forever and not long enough. Once it's over, a friend of the family - Robert Stark - comes and taps me on the shoulder. "May I cut in?" he asks.

It takes me by surprise; this wasn't something I'd been expecting. In my mind's eye, I pictured April and I glued to each other's sides for the duration of the night; the thought of another man wanting a dance from her wasn't even on my radar. But it would be impolite to say no, no matter the look of subtle alarm in her eyes. "Of course," I say, then toss him a boyish grin. "Behave yourself, Stark. Remember, she's my wife."

"Avery, please," he says, laughing along.

I step off of the dance floor and watch my wisp of a wife dance with a man I've known for the majority of my life. He has no ill intentions, I know, but I grow antsy the longer April and I are apart. I'd gotten used to the feel of her body at my side and suddenly, I realize she wasn't the only one calmed by the two of us being together. I'd taken a sort of solace in it, too. I can't remember the last time I felt more at peace with being in the company of another rather than by myself.

When the song ends, I return to the dance floor and spin her out of Robert's grasp. She twirls against my chest gracefully, both hands flat on my lapel, and smiles up at me with those sparkling eyes. I trace an eyebrow with my pointer finger and give her a soft kiss, stomach jumping as our lips meet. I don't know when I'll feel comfortable enough to admit that she has me wrapped around her finger.

"Would you like a drink, Mrs. Avery?" I ask, my voice low and smooth.

"That would be lovely."

We make our way through the crowd and I pluck two champagne flutes off a passing tray and hand one to her. We clink our glasses together and make knowing eye contact, then take the first sip.

"Wow," she says, eyes widening as she swallows. "This tastes so good. This tastes… this is so amazing."

"It's Dom Pérignon Rosé," I say. "It should be amazing."

"Can I have another?" she says, but just as I'm about to tell her she doesn't have to ask she grabs a second and puts her empty glass in its place. She downs the liquid in one gulp, much to my amusement.

"April," I say, smirking a little. "Pace yourself."

"Sorry," she says, cheeks reddening as she sets down yet another empty glass and grabs a third, drinking it quickly. As soon as I blink, it's gone. "I've just never had anything like this."

"Any alcohol at all?" I ask, watching her discard yet another glass and pick up a fourth.

"Rarely," she says, and in that moment I realize this probably shouldn't go any further. Just as she lifts that fourth glass to her lips, I reach a hand out to swipe it from her, which causes about half of the flute to dribble down the front of her dress. "Jackson!" she exclaims.

"Shit," I say.

"You made me spill," she says, wobbling on her feet. She's tipsy, the champagne having gone straight to her head. I should've been more proactive and known better than to let her down glass after glass. One was enough. Nearly four was excessive. "On this beautiful, beautiful, beautiful dress! What am I gonna do now?!"

"We," I say, gently taking her arm and cupping it by the elbow. "Are going to go somewhere and fix this."

I lead her away from the party and the attention she was beginning to attract with her caterwauling and find a secluded room. Once the double doors shut, the air stills and the silence is nearly too much to bear.

"I thought we were going to a bathroom," she says. "Or a powder room, as you wealthy people would say." She giggles at herself, thoroughly amused. "Powder room."

"I'm not putting water on this dress," I say, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at her front.

"Hey, you at least gotta take me to dinner first," she slurs, still laughing.

"Shush, you."

She snorts to try and quell her laughter, but it only makes her giggle harder. If she were anyone else, I'd be past the point of annoyed. But with April, I can't help but find this inebriated state a bit endearing. She never lets loose, and it's nice to see her do so.

I pull back and look at my handiwork, knowing that though I did the best I could, it still wasn't enough. The stain is visible and we both know it. "I still see it," she says, looking down at herself. Then, she sighs exaggeratedly and lets her shoulders crumple forward, stumbling for dramatic effect. Or maybe she's just that drunk, I can't be sure. "Now I'm really the hick of the party!" she wails. "I already stuck out in the first place, now I'm the poor moron who can't go five minutes without spilling on herself. Except you spilled on me," she says, pointing a wobbly finger in my direction.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I really am.

"I didn't deserve this dress anyway," she says, closing her eyes and speaking too loudly. "You can dress me up, but you can't take me out. Point. Proven."

"Stop being degrading," I say. "It was a mistake. Not even your mistake."

"What do they say about putting lipstick on a pig?" she mumbles.

"April," I say, then pick up the flute of champagne where it had been resting on the piano beside us. "Look." In one swift motion, I dumb the last quarter of the liquid onto the front of my shirt, where it sticks to my collar and tie. "Now, I've spilled on the both of us."

Her eyes widen to the size of saucers as she stares at me in open-mouthed disbelief. "You…" she stammers, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. There's a beat before she breaks into musical laughter so intense that she doubles over. When she stands back up, she takes a deep breath and continues to smile. "I can't believe you just did that!" she shrieks.

"What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine," I say, in a bit of shock myself.

"You just quoted a marriage thing…" she says, leaning forward with sweet champagne breath. "Hubby."

I smirk a bit. "You use that moniker as if it's new information."

She leans forward with her elbows on the piano and I sit on the bench, eyes focused on her. With the way she's standing, the swells of her breasts spill over the V of the neckline and she looks absolutely delicious. I love the loose way about her, the twinkle in her eyes, the fluidity of the way she moves.

She flattens out over the piano with one arm outstretched and I take in the shape of her body and all that it is. She closes her eyes for a moment as she stretches, then opens them right back into mine, smile reappearing on her lips. "I always wanted to play the piano," she says. "I asked for piano lessons for years and years and years… but I stopped."

"Why'd you stop?" I ask.

"Realized I was rubbing salt in the wound. We couldn't afford it. I stopped asking for anything. Everything. All things."

My fingers poise atop the keys, familiar energy surging through my wrists as the memories flow inside my brain. I press my thumb down on middle C and the sound resonates throughout the cavernous room, ringing in my ear and reminding me of what I once was able to do. I wonder if I'm still able.

I shut off my brain and let my hands start moving over the keys, fingers pressing down of their own accord, moving up and down to capture the right octaves. And without my permission, a song comes from the notes and I'm playing an old favorite of my father's without consciously realizing it.

April straightens, watching my hands with intense fascination as they glide. She's still and quiet as I play, at least at first, totally gobsmacked by the music coming from my fingers. Then, a smile inches onto her face and she stands up even straighter and starts to sing.

"'Cause baby there ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough… to keep me from gettin' to you, babe."

If I weren't so practiced in the song, I might have frozen. Her voice is high and sweet, lilting and on perfect pitch. I play slowly and she matches my pace, never breaking her eyes from mine as she rests her chin in her hand and completes the song.

"My love is alive way down in my heart, although we are miles apart. If you ever need a helpin' hand, I'll be there on the double just as fast as I can… don't you know that there ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough… to keep me from gettin' to you, babe."

When the music stops, she continues to stare. I almost don't know what to do with her eyes so set and a drunk smile on her face. If she were anyone else, I might stand up and kiss her, maybe even have my way with her on the piano. But this is April, and she is much more layered than that. This look makes me feel more, makes me feel like I am more.

"I didn't know you could play," she murmurs, lips moving just enough.

It's not an important talent or one that will get me anywhere. It's an old hobby, cultivated by someone who is long gone. It wasn't something that was necessary to tell her, but she's looking at me like I'm made of gold. "Well, that's my entire repertoire," I say. "So, enjoy."

She shakes her head a bit, looking at me with amusement. "Liar," she says, then slides in next to me on the bench. "Makes me wonder what else I don't know about you." She swipes her fingers over the keys; I listen to the small bumping sounds they make and get chills when she presses her pinky down on a high F. "There are things I haven't told you…" she trails off, not meeting my eyes now but instead concentrating on the ivories. "I really should… I should," she slurs. "But I just can't."

I watch her profile, studying the turn of her jaw, the light peach fuzz dusting her cheeks. I rest a hand low on her back, then lean in to press a kiss to her temple. I close my eyes and nuzzle her skin, relishing the beat of her heart under my lips. "Everyone has secrets," I say.

She doesn't look at me when she responds and I stay where I am, leaving no space between us. She takes a breath and her chests lifts, saying, "But they're not usually so painful."

…

Against my advice, April has two more flutes of champagne in the car because she insisted the effects from before had worn off and she was fine to have more. I didn't bother arguing because I knew I would lose, but given the fact that she's laughing at nothing and tripping over her feet on the way into the house is enough to let me know that I was right.

"Oops," she says, much too loudly. Then, she whispers it. "Oops! Antonio… he's gonna hear, then we'll be in trooooouuu-ble."

"Come on, let's get upstairs," I say, watching her hang onto the banister and throw her weight back as the earth seems to tilt on its axis. "We still have to pack. Our plane leaves early tomorrow."

"Pack…" she groans, tossing her head to the side. "Carry me."

"April."

She lays a hand on her forehead dramatically, thoroughly amused with herself. "Carry me over the threshold, husband," she says. "I demand you to!"

She's still speaking much too loud, and she was right before - Antonio might come out and an interaction with him is not something I want. So, I walk over and swiftly lift my wife into my arms to carry her up the stairs, one arm braced on her shoulder blades and the other tucked under her knees. She squeals with glee, one wrapped around me to steady herself, and lets her neck go slack as she laughs. "You are something else," I murmur, setting her down in our room.

She sits on the bed and takes her shoes off one by one, still careful with them even while drunk. Next, she stands to unzip her dress, stepping out to gently lie it across a chair like it's a living, breathing thing. Then, in just a pair of underwear and nothing else, she flops onto the bed with her arms extended wide and lets out the loudest sigh I've ever heard.

I close my eyes and suppress a smile. I think I might like drunk April, but it's still not right to look at her when she hasn't given me permission.

"Jackson," she says, as I'm in the process of getting my suit off.

"Yes," I say.

"That's 'yes, wife,' to you," she says, giggling at herself.

I catch my own eyes in the mirror to see that I'm grinning. I don't bother with wiping it away as I amend my response to say, "Yes, wife."

"Come here. I have a question for you."

In sweatpants now, I walk back into the bedroom thinking she might have more clothes on, but she doesn't. She sits up shirtless, tiny rolls on her belly, and shoots me a thoughtful expression. "You ever think about what happens when you die?" she asks.

"April," I say. "It's hard to concentrate when you're not wearing a top."

"Get over it," she groans, flopping back again. "I'm not putting one on. We're married and I'm naked. You should be celebrating, big boy."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wondering what this all means. "When you die, your organs shut down and your brain stops working. The heart ceases to pump-"

"Not like that," she says, fed up with me. "I mean, after you die. Where do you go? Do you think there's a heaven?"

I stay quiet. This is a conversation I've never been comfortable having, and I have a feeling that if I don't talk, she'll continue. I'm not wrong.

"I used to think there was one," she says. "But now I'm not so sure. What's the proof, you know? And what about God? If He's supposed to be this great guy, how come he does such shitty things to people?" She rubs her face with her hands, probably smudging her makeup past the point of no return. "I don't get it."

"We should pack," I say, unzipping two suitcases and setting them on the bed next to her. "We're headed to The Maldives, so bring bathing suits and light clothes."

"You avoided my question," she says, bending her knees up and moving one to smack me in the arm. "You're too good at that." She sits up. "The Maldives, you said?"

"Yes," I say, already folding the clothes that will go inside my bag.

"Wow," she muses, then scoots off the bed to run shirtless into the bathroom, trotting while laughing at the same time. She comes back out with a small bag in tow, poised over her suitcase with a smug smile on her face. "You know what couples do on their honeymoon…" she says, ruffling the tissue paper while keeping my attention. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to look at her breasts that are sitting right there, small, pert and perfect. She pulls something out of the bag and holds it up, putting it on display for me. When I look over, I see she's holding a small lingerie set that's white and lacy. "Calliope got this for me. Isn't it gorgeous?"

I swallow hard while looking at the small articles of clothing in her hand. There's a see-through bra with pretty detailing and a thong that doesn't look like it'll cover much at all with a tiny, ruffled skirt around the waist. Picturing April in it is enough. I have no idea how I'd react if I saw the outfit come alive in person. I might have to take her on the spot.

"Calliope gave you that?" I say.

She nods, wiggling it in the air while getting closer and closer to me. I don't back away and soon she's in my personal bubble with a cheesy grin on her face, still trying to get me to break. Her breasts graze my arm and either she doesn't notice or doesn't care, but her nipples harden with the contact and something of mine hardens, too. "Don't smile, Jackson," she says. "Whatever you do! Just don't smile!"

Finally, I turn to firmly hold her waist and she drops the playful exterior. With nothing left between us, she's standing in front of me nearly naked holding a sensual garment in her hands, staring at me with lust in her eyes. I can only assume I'm looking at her in the same manner.

"Jackson," she says, then reciprocates the gesture and wraps her arms around my waist. Now, her naked chest is flush against me and I wish more than anything else that I was shirtless. I'm dying to feel her directly against me, erect nipples grazing my skin. "You know, I didn't wanna fall for you," she says, swaying on her feet. It's clear she's still drunk. "I told myself I wouldn't. I said it again and again and again and again… but I know it's gonna happen." She won't remember any of this. The bubbles have gone to her brain and loosened her lips; I can't believe I'm listening to this. This is something she wouldn't dream of admitting while sober.

I don't know how to respond. I'm not sure if I can. I touch her, though, swiping my thumb across her jawline and leaning forward to capture her lips. I move my hands to either side of her neck as I do and press my thumbs to the pocket of skin between her collarbones.

"Couples on their honeymoons…" she whispers, lips moving against mine. "Have sex."

"Mm-hmm," I murmur, eyes still closed as I kiss the corner of her mouth, cheek, then the space below her ear.

"I'm not a virgin, Jackson," she says, insisting on the fact yet again.

"Okay," I say.

"I'm not."

"Okay, April."

"I can prove it," she says.

"How?"

She takes in a quick breath that I feel beneath my thumbs before saying, "I don't know."

We kiss again and she pulls me forwards by two fistfuls of my shirt, signaling for me to lay overtop her body on the mattress. I push the suitcases to the floor and crawl over her, manipulating her in the way I want before crashing my lips to hers and kissing her senseless. She tastes like secrets and champagne, and I want to unlock everything within her. I've never felt this way about another person and I have no idea how to handle it. As a person, she's simultaneously too much and the only one who's ever satisfied me.

"Mmm…" she moans, grabbing my shirt again as I suck on her neck and lick the skin I've irritated. She pulls the material over my head as I continue to kiss her, then drags her nails across my naked skin. The act gives me goosebumps and forces me to bite her, which makes her whimper with surprise.

Her center is hot pressed against the top of my thigh, hips working in a subtle, but specific, rhythm. She spreads her fingers out as wide as she can over my back, trying to touch as much as possible, nails digging in when I suck on her earlobe.

"Oh, god," she breathes, the words nearly imperceptible as she lights herself on fire beneath me. "Oh, god, Jackson."

"That feel good?" I say, without lifting my head. "Tell me it feels good, baby."

"It does," she says, and I move a hand to her breast as a reward. I squeeze the supple flesh generously, stimulating the nipple with my thumb and rubbing in circles as it hardens. Unable to resist any longer, I pull away from her neck and cover her breast with my mouth, sucking on as much as I can while listening to her come unwound. Her voice shakes as she reaches above her head to grip the comforter, and her back lifts from the mattress as I gently bite her nipple and force it to a hardened peak. "Jesus!" she yelps.

I kiss my way down her sides, edging towards dangerous territory that I know I shouldn't go near tonight. It's a recipe for disaster, but so tempting. I decide that it won't hurt to do what we've already done since she clearly wants it, so I rub her over her underwear and watch her jolt in response.

"Oh!" she moans, eye shooting open as she widens her thighs. When she sees where I am below her waist, she uses her hands to cover the lower part of her stomach with her eyes still on me. There's something there that wasn't before, something that edges through the intoxication with shadows and sharp corners. It's so present that I'm sure she's going to tell me to stop, but she doesn't. She lets me continue, but keeps her hands in place and I don't try to move them. Instead, I bury my face between her thighs and cover her over her underwear, licking her slit in upward strokes as I dampen her already-soaked underwear. She curves her hips against my face, hands never moving as she gets closer to an orgasm, and I find her clit through her the fabric and suck on it the best I can.

She tastes amazing. I wish my mouth was on her actual skin, but for some reason that feels like something I'm not allowed to do. At least, not tonight. With April, life comes in steps and this was the next one. Anything further might have put her off, and I don't want to scare her.

"Jackson, shit!" she cries as it happens, thighs clamping around my ears. For a moment, the world goes quiet and all I can feel is her body trembling around me, and I smile against her heat.

When the come-down period starts, I lift my head and she doesn't waste any time. She reaches for the waistband of my sweatpants and starts to tug them down, but I don't let her. "Not tonight," I say, moving her wrists away. "You're too drunk."

"No, I'm not," she insists.

"Either way," I say. "You said you weren't ready."

"Jackson," she says. "I'm so turned on, and I want you. Don't you want me, too?"

I don't know how to answer that. She has the excuse of being drunk for being able to say such things, but I don't. "It's late," I say, kissing her lips while laying her back down. "We should get some sleep."

I hover over her, feeling her relax from what my lips are able to do. She kisses me back with fervor at first, but as we continue her lips grow slack and slow, then she stops kissing completely. I press my lips a few errant times to her cheeks, her nose, the side of her shoulder, before curling my body around hers and falling to sleep until morning.

…

"Oh, my god," is the first thing I hear when I wake up.

"Mmph," I grunt, pulling April closer. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, which means that it's incredibly early.

"My head," she groans. "My body. These underwear! I feel disgusting."

She unravels herself from my arms and I open my eyes to see her shedding the underwear and tossing them into the dirty clothes. I get a secret view of her ass before she finds a robe and pulls it on. "Come back," I murmur. "We still have time."

"I need a shower and about three hundred Ibuprofen," she says, disappearing into the bathroom.

Nerves flood through me as I think about how messy last night was. We shouldn't have done anything. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have let it go as far as it did. My mind is still whirring when April comes out of the bathroom, smelling fresh and clean with wet hair. "Last night," I say, getting right to the point.

"Yeah," she says, wringing her hair with a towel.

"Do you remember it?"

"You don't?" she says, sounding afraid.

"No, I do. I'm asking if you do because you were drunk on champagne."

Her face flushes. "I remember it, yes," she says. "Spilling on myself, listening to you play the piano, coming home and making out. You going down…" She glances to the dirty clothes hamper and something flashes across her eyes. "Yes, I remember."

"Okay," I say. "Good."

"Sorry," she says, unable to look at me. "I don't really drink. I did once, and the person I was with at the time told me I said a lot of stupid stuff. So please, if I said anything, don't take it seriously. And please, god, don't tell me what it was that I said."

I sit up, propped by an elbow, and nod. It's decided, then. I won't tell her. No matter if it was the truth or not that she spewed, I'll keep it for myself.

"We should pack," she says, pulling the robe tighter around her body. "We didn't quite finish last night." She looks at the lingerie set that she'd been teasing me with and tries to subtly shove it in a hidden pocket. She thinks I don't notice.

"Right," I say, getting out of bed to pick the suitcase back up. "Our plane leaves in two hours."