Leah reaches out and pulls his face to hers, parts his lips, shoves her tongue down his throat. She peels off his tuxedo jacket, and rips his shirt open when her thick fingers can’t make the buttons go through the holes. She rubs her hands up and down the tightly wound muscles in his chest, his arms. Leans into his neck. Leans on him for support.

And he lets her.

She’s using him, and they both know it.

He lets her do it anyway.

And when she hikes up her little black dress, and guides him into her depths he moans like he doesn’t mind.

He pins her to the wall and she wraps her long legs around his waist, drawing him into her again and again and again. She doesn’t swear this time, she doesn’t scream. Leah’s silent as that fire builds in her stomach and rushes out in every direction – into her fingers, her toes, the backs of her eyes. He’s there with her a second later, erupting inside her, and stretching out both their highs until he can’t hold them both upright anymore.

They break apart, collapsing on opposite sides of the hall, staring at each other until Embry regains the feeling in his legs (it doesn’t take that long, but he pretends like it does). She walks him to the door, and before he leaves he asks if she’ll be alright.

“Yeah, why?” she demands skeptically. As if she wasn’t a wreck, as if she hadn’t just used him for pity-sex moments earlier.

“Cause this isn’t healthy,” he tells her. “For you, I mean.”

She wants to yell at him, say something scathing in response, but the wedding has drained her of most of her energy, and he just took what little reserves she had left. “Why do you even care?” she mumbles, and the door closes softly in his face.

Embry spends the entire walk home wondering the same thing.