Wedding Jitters

Amy stares at the open bedroom door, tray slipping in her hands. Colin kneels between Martha’s spread thighs, lips locked around one heavy nipple, jaw moving slow and wet. Milk glistens on his chin. Neither of them hears the clatter when the plate hits the floor. Martha’s eyes flick up, calm as smoke. She strokes the back of her stepson’s neck, never pulling him off. “It started when he was small,” she says, low, as if explaining a weather report. “He never got enough. This—” she shifts so the other breast brushes Colin’s cheek “—is the only thing that settles him.” Amy’s stomach turns, yet she can’t look away from the quick, hungry pulls of his mouth. Her future husband. Her wedding day. Martha keeps talking—soft words about nightmares, about lullabies that turned into this nightly ritual, about a boy who grew into a man who still needed the taste of her to stop shaking. Colin finally pops free, nipple shiny and stiff, and looks at Amy with wet eyes. No apology. Just need. Martha’s hand slides between her legs and squeezes once, possessive. “Come here, sweetheart,” she tells Amy. “You’re going to be his wife. Learn how he likes it before you promise him forever.”