Holy Matri-Moly: Baited Bride

April's nerves rattled like rain on tin. Whitney. The thought alone made her slick. She fired off the text before reason could step in: come fuck me. Now. Whitney stared at her phone, cocky grin cutting through the lace. April. Dirty little bride. But the old superstition clawed at her — can't see the dress before the aisle. Then the fix hit. Veils down. Eyes shut. Skin on skin without ever breaking the rule. She never made it that far. Bella swooped in with bad news about missing crab puffs and Whitney bolted, flustered. The phone glowed on the vanity. Bella saw it. Read it. Felt heat bloom low and fast. April, alone. Veil ready. Wide open for trouble. April waited with the lace pulled low, breathing shallow, already wet for what she thought was coming. Bella slipped in quiet, dropped to her knees, tongue working hot and steady between April's thighs. April moaned for her "Whitney," fingers knotted in Bella's hair, none the wiser. Whitney returned mid-sob. Saw everything. The shock melted when Bella just smirked and offered the real plan — strip the dresses, dodge the curse, chase the nerves with three bodies tangled until the ceremony. April laughed, breathless. Forgave her. Forgave them both. The dresses hit the floor, and the veils stayed on.