Lana Violet steps into the suite with two garment bags and watches while Gia DiBella and Ryder Rey peel off their street clothes. The second Ryder’s zipper hits the floor, Gia freezes. Her nipples tighten beneath white lace as she stares at her bride. Ryder’s pupils blow wide too, breath catching at the sight of satin hugging Gia’s hips. Both women shake like they’ve been waiting weeks for this moment instead of minutes. Lana just shrugs, opens a notebook, and starts checking off veil measurements. “Fuck the timeline,” Gia says, voice hoarse. She steps in, palms skating up Ryder’s bodice, and kisses her hard enough to smear lipstick. Ryder answers with a needy whimper, fingers already yanking the zipper at Gia’s back. Fabric falls; bare skin flashes. Lana keeps writing, asking if the bustle needs adjusting while the two brides grope and grind like the room’s on fire. Gia drops to her knees first, dragging Ryder’s panties aside with impatient teeth. Her tongue finds wet heat and Ryder’s knees buckle, clutching the planner’s shoulders for balance. Lana steadies her without missing a beat, pencil tapping, confirming boutonnière colors as Ryder’s moans rise. The bride’s hips roll against Gia’s mouth, shameless, grinding harder when Gia adds two slick fingers. Ryder pulls Gia up by the hair, spins her toward the mirror, and bends her over the velvet chaise. She lines up behind, pushes inside with a desperate thrust, palm flat on Gia’s spine. The wet slap of skin fills the room. Lana circles them with a tape measure, checking sleeve length while Ryder fucks harder, every stroke shoving Gia forward until her cheek kisses cool glass. Sweat runs down Ryder’s back. She reaches around, circles Gia’s clit, coaxes frantic little gasps from her. Gia’s cunt clenches visibly around Ryder’s pumping fingers; Ryder curses, picks up the pace, both of them chasing the edge with zero patience left. Lana flips pages, unfazed, confirming the string quartet’s arrival while the brides crest together, voices cracking, bodies locking in frantic rhythm. The second they finish, she hands them each a water bottle, tells them the officiant is five minutes out, and starts hanging the discarded gowns like nothing happened.
Lana Violet steps into the suite with two garment bags and watches while Gia DiBella and Ryder Rey peel off their street clothes. The second Ryder’s zipper hits the floor, Gia freezes. Her nipples tighten beneath white lace as she stares at her bride. Ryder’s pupils blow wide too, breath catching at the sight of satin hugging Gia’s hips. Both women shake like they’ve been waiting weeks for this moment instead of minutes. Lana just shrugs, opens a notebook, and starts checking off veil measurements. “Fuck the timeline,” Gia says, voice hoarse. She steps in, palms skating up Ryder’s bodice, and kisses her hard enough to smear lipstick. Ryder answers with a needy whimper, fingers already yanking the zipper at Gia’s back. Fabric falls; bare skin flashes. Lana keeps writing, asking if the bustle needs adjusting while the two brides grope and grind like the room’s on fire. Gia drops to her knees first, dragging Ryder’s panties aside with impatient teeth. Her tongue finds wet heat and Ryder’s knees buckle, clutching the planner’s shoulders for balance. Lana steadies her without missing a beat, pencil tapping, confirming boutonnière colors as Ryder’s moans rise. The bride’s hips roll against Gia’s mouth, shameless, grinding harder when Gia adds two slick fingers. Ryder pulls Gia up by the hair, spins her toward the mirror, and bends her over the velvet chaise. She lines up behind, pushes inside with a desperate thrust, palm flat on Gia’s spine. The wet slap of skin fills the room. Lana circles them with a tape measure, checking sleeve length while Ryder fucks harder, every stroke shoving Gia forward until her cheek kisses cool glass. Sweat runs down Ryder’s back. She reaches around, circles Gia’s clit, coaxes frantic little gasps from her. Gia’s cunt clenches visibly around Ryder’s pumping fingers; Ryder curses, picks up the pace, both of them chasing the edge with zero patience left. Lana flips pages, unfazed, confirming the string quartet’s arrival while the brides crest together, voices cracking, bodies locking in frantic rhythm. The second they finish, she hands them each a water bottle, tells them the officiant is five minutes out, and starts hanging the discarded gowns like nothing happened.
