The Bridesmaid Dress

A My Sister’s Best Friend Bonus Scene
by Blair Lennox

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus scene takes place four months after the events of My Sister’s Best Friend. It contains major spoilers for the novel. Read the book first!

🔥 Content Warning: This scene contains explicit sexual content (graphic FF including oral, praise kink, mirror play). Intended for readers 18+.

The Bridesmaid Dress

Set four months after the wedding. Contains explicit sexual content. Intended for readers 18+.

I found the dress on a Sunday afternoon in November, while reorganizing the closet we now shared.

It was pushed to the far end of the rod, hidden behind Renee’s winter coats — the sage green chiffon bridesmaid dress I’d worn to Emily’s wedding. I hadn’t thought about it in weeks. Months, maybe. It had been dry-cleaned and returned in a garment bag I’d shoved into the back of the closet and forgotten about, because the dress belonged to a version of my life that no longer existed — the one where I’d stood at the altar next to my sister and pretended not to be in love with the woman across the aisle.

I pulled it out. Unzipped the garment bag. The chiffon spilled through my fingers, soft and light, that particular green that had looked so good against my skin. I held it up against my body and turned toward the full-length mirror Renee had mounted on the back of the closet door.

The memory hit me like a current.

Renee’s fingers on the zipper at my back. The fitting room at the bridal shop, seven months before the wedding, Emily chattering about hemlines while Renee stood behind me and pulled the zipper up inch by inch, her knuckles grazing my bare spine. Her breath against the nape of my neck. The way she’d paused — one beat, two — when her fingers reached the clasp at the top, and the silence between us had been so loud I’d been certain Emily could hear it.

That was the first time I’d understood that what I felt wasn’t one-sided. That Renee’s hands on the zipper of my dress had trembled. That the sound she’d made — soft, involuntary, barely a breath — was the sound of a woman holding herself together through an act of will.

She’d zipped me up that day. Five months later, on the night of the wedding, she’d unzipped me. Slowly. Deliberately. Standing behind me in the hotel room while the reception carried on three floors below, her mouth on my shoulder, her fingers dragging the zipper down with the patience of someone who’d been waiting years for exactly this and intended to make it last.

The zipper. Up, then down. The whole story of us in one small mechanism.

I looked at the dress in the mirror and thought: Put it on.

The rational part of my brain said this was unnecessary and possibly unhinged. I was standing in our shared closet on a Sunday afternoon in leggings and one of Renee’s old college t-shirts, and there was no reason to put on a bridesmaid dress I’d worn once and would never wear again.

I put it on anyway.

The chiffon settled over my body like a whisper. I hadn’t worn a bra — Renee’s t-shirt didn’t require one — so the dress sat against bare skin, cool and impossibly light. The neckline dipped across my collarbones. The back was open to the waist, held together by nothing but the zipper I couldn’t reach.

I stood in front of the mirror, barefoot, holding the dress up with one hand because the zipper was still undone, and the woman staring back at me looked like a photograph from someone else’s life. The girl who’d worn this dress to the wedding had been keeping a secret so enormous it had nearly crushed her. The woman wearing it now was standing in her girlfriend’s closet with her girlfriend’s Harvard Law t-shirt on the floor and nothing underneath the chiffon but skin.

I heard the front door open. Keys dropped on the entryway console. Running shoes kicked off by the door — the particular scuff-thud pattern I’d learned to recognize the way you learn someone’s heartbeat, through proximity and repetition and the quiet intimacy of sharing space with a person you love.

Renee’s footsteps came down the hall. She’d been on her Sunday run — six miles along the river, the route she did every week regardless of weather or fatigue or the fact that I’d tried, unsuccessfully, to keep her in bed that morning.

“Sadie?” Her voice carried from the hallway. “I picked up those bagels you like. The everything ones with—”

She appeared in the closet doorway and stopped.

I watched the recognition move across her face. Her eyes traveled from my bare feet to the hem of the dress to the open back to the hand I was using to hold it up, and something shifted behind her expression — a door opening in a room she hadn’t expected to enter today.

“That’s the dress,” she said.

“That’s the dress.”

Renee leaned against the doorframe. She was in her running clothes — black leggings, a zip-up fleece she’d unzipped to the sternum, her hair pulled back in a damp ponytail. There was a flush across her cheekbones from the cold. She looked sweaty and winded and completely devastating.

“Turn around,” she said.

The words landed in the center of my chest. Not a request. Not quite a command. Something in between — the particular register of Renee’s voice that had, over four months of being together, become the sound that made my entire body pay attention.

I turned.

In the mirror, I could see her push off the doorframe. Cross the closet. Stop close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her body, the cold air she’d carried in from outside clinging to her fleece.

Her fingers found the zipper at the small of my back.

“I’ve been thinking about this zipper for over a year,” she said, low, her mouth near my ear. “Did you know that? At the fitting, I pulled it up and I thought—” Her fingers closed around the tab. Drew it up one inch. The chiffon pulled tight across my ribs. “I thought, if I don’t let go of this zipper right now, I’m going to do something we can’t take back.“

Another inch. The fabric closed across my spine. Her knuckles traced the line of my vertebrae through the chiffon.

“And at the wedding,” she continued, pulling the zipper higher, each click of the teeth a small, precise sound in the quiet closet, “I pulled it down. And I thought—”

She paused. The zipper was three-quarters up. Her breath was warm against the back of my neck.

“What did you think?” My voice came out smaller than I intended. Breathless. The girl in the fitting room, six years of wanting distilled into a single word.

“I thought, finally.“

She pulled the zipper the rest of the way up. The clasp clicked into place at the nape of my neck, and her fingers lingered — her thumb pressing against the top of my spine, the spot where my hairline ended and bare skin began.

Then she pulled the zipper down.

All the way. One continuous motion, no pauses, no hesitation. The chiffon separated and the dress fell open against my back and Renee’s hands — warm from the run, slightly rough — slid inside the open fabric and pressed flat against my bare waist.

I made a sound. The kind I’d learned to stop being embarrassed about, because Renee collected my sounds like evidence — that one means she likes it, that one means she needs more, that one means she’s already gone and I haven’t even started.

“Every time I see this dress,” she said against the curve of my neck, “I think about the fact that I spent three years watching you from across a room and now I get to take it off.”

Her hands moved up. Skimmed my ribs. Cupped my breasts through nothing, because there was nothing between her palms and my skin except chiffon so thin it might as well have been air. Her thumbs brushed my nipples and I arched back against her, my head falling to her shoulder.

“Keep watching,” she said, nodding toward the mirror. “I want you to see this.”

I opened my eyes. In the mirror: me, in the sage green dress that was now open to the waist, held up only by the neckline and Renee’s hands. Renee behind me, still in her running clothes, her chin hooked over my shoulder, her eyes dark and focused and completely intent on what she was doing.

She slipped the dress off my shoulders. It pooled at my feet and I was standing in front of the mirror wearing nothing but underwear — pale blue cotton, nothing special, the kind of underwear you put on when your only plan for the day is closet reorganization — and Renee’s hands were on my hips and she was turning me around.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

She kissed me. Slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that made it clear she had no intention of rushing and every intention of making me wait. Her tongue slid against mine and I grabbed the front of her fleece and pulled, trying to close the gap between us, trying to get more of her.

She pulled back. “Patience.”

“I don’t want to be patient.”

“I know.” She unzipped the fleece and dropped it. Pulled off her running shirt. She was wearing a sports bra underneath — black, functional, the one that flattened everything and somehow made her shoulders look impossibly broad. I reached for her and she caught my wrists.

“Mirror,” she said.

She turned me around again and pressed herself against my back — her sports bra against my bare skin, the coolness of the zipper on her leggings against the small of my back, her mouth on the side of my neck. In the mirror, I watched her hands move — one flat against my stomach, fingers spread, holding me against her. The other sliding down the front of my underwear.

She didn’t rush. She never rushed. Renee touched me the way she did everything — with focus, attention, a total commitment to the task at hand that made me feel like the only thing in the world worth concentrating on.

Her fingers slipped inside the cotton and found me already wet — embarrassingly, absurdly wet, because I’d been wet since the moment she’d said turn around — and she made a sound against my neck. Low, satisfied. The sound of a woman who liked what she’d found.

“You put on that dress on purpose,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“You put on that dress because you knew exactly what it would do to me.”

“Maybe.”

Her fingers circled my clit and I gasped, my hips pushing forward into her hand, my back arching against her chest. In the mirror, I could see everything — her arm disappearing into my underwear, the flex of her forearm as her fingers moved, my own face flushed and open and lost.

“Good girl,” she murmured, and the words went through me like electricity. “Eyes open. Watch.”

I watched. I watched her pull my underwear down my thighs and let them drop. I watched her hand return between my legs, two fingers sliding through me, spreading me open with a precision that made my knees buckle. I watched her other arm wrap around my waist to hold me upright, because she knew — she always knew — exactly when I was about to lose the ability to stand.

“You’re so wet.” Her voice had dropped into the register that meant she was barely holding on to her own composure. “You’ve been standing in this closet thinking about me and this dress and you’re absolutely soaked.”

“Your fault,” I managed.

“My fault.” She pressed two fingers inside me and I cried out, loud enough that I’d have been mortified if I had any capacity left for mortification. Her thumb found my clit and her fingers curled forward and my vision went white around the edges.

“I want you on the bed,” I gasped. “I want — Renee, I want—”

“Tell me.”

“I want to feel you. I want — fuck, right there — I want your mouth.”

She pulled her fingers out. I whimpered at the loss — actually whimpered, which was a sound I hadn’t known I was capable of making until Renee Talbot started touching me — and then she was picking me up. Just — lifting me, one arm under my knees and one behind my back, like I weighed nothing, like carrying naked women out of closets was something she did routinely.

She set me on the bed. Our bed. The king-size they’d bought together because her old full-size wasn’t designed for two adult humans, one of whom was five-ten and took up space diagonally.

Renee stripped off the sports bra. Peeled off her leggings. She was standing at the foot of the bed completely naked, her body still flushed from the run, her hair coming loose from its ponytail, her chest rising and falling with a rhythm that was no longer about cardiovascular recovery.

She climbed over me. Hands on either side of my head. Knees between mine. The weight of her — solid, warm, real — pressing me into the mattress.

“The dress,” she said, kissing my jaw, my neck, the hollow of my throat. “At the fitting. When I zipped you up.” She kissed down between my breasts. “I went to the bathroom afterward and put my hands on the counter and tried to breathe.” She kissed my stomach. “Because I’d just spent ninety seconds touching your bare back and I couldn’t feel my hands.”

She kissed lower. My hips lifted off the mattress.

“And now,” she said, settling between my legs, her mouth so close I could feel her breath, “I get to do this whenever I want.”

Her mouth found me and the world ended.

There was no other way to describe it. Renee’s tongue, slow and deliberate, tracing the length of me with the focused attention of a woman who had studied what I liked and committed it to memory. She licked flat and slow, then circled my clit with the tip of her tongue, then sucked gently — the specific sequence that she’d discovered, through patient experimentation, made me completely incoherent.

I gripped the sheets with both hands. My back arched. I said her name — once, twice, a third time like a prayer or a profanity or something in between.

She slid two fingers back inside me without lifting her mouth and I felt the orgasm building like a wave — not the slow, simmering kind but the sudden, devastating kind, the kind that started at the base of my spine and radiated outward until every nerve ending was involved.

“I’m going to—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Her fingers curled forward, her tongue pressed flat against my clit, and I came so hard my vision went dark. My thighs clamped around her head. My hands found her hair and held on. I was making sounds I couldn’t identify — broken, desperate, the raw vocal evidence of a woman who had stopped trying to be quiet approximately four months ago and never looked back.

Renee didn’t stop. She eased me through it, her mouth gentling, her fingers slowing but not withdrawing, and before the aftershocks had fully subsided she was building it again — a second wave, impossibly, stacking on the first like she was proving a point about what happened when you gave a perfectionist unlimited access to the thing she was best at.

The second orgasm hit harder. I cried out — a real, full-voiced sound that the neighbors could probably hear and I could not bring myself to care about — and Renee held me through it, her free hand flat against my stomach, holding me against the mattress while my body tried to lift off it entirely.

When she finally surfaced, her mouth wet, her eyes dark, she climbed back up my body and kissed me. I could taste myself on her tongue and it made something primal and possessive flare in my chest.

“Your turn,” I said against her mouth. “Get up here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m right here.”

“Higher.”

Understanding crossed her face. The controlled composure cracked — just a fraction, a brief flash of the vulnerability she showed only me. “Sadie—”

“I said higher.”

She moved up. Knees on either side of my head. I gripped her thighs and pulled her down and her hands slammed against the headboard.

“Oh fuck—”

I licked into her and she was already dripping, already swollen, and I loved this — loved being underneath her, loved the weight of her thighs against my shoulders, loved the sounds she made when I had her like this. Renee, who was composed and controlled and deliberate about everything, completely undone above me because my tongue was inside her.

I found her clit and sucked and she moaned — the low, wrecked sound that meant she was close, that meant the careful architecture of her self-control had collapsed — and I reached up and pressed my hand flat against her stomach and felt the muscles trembling under my palm.

“Sadie — I can’t — I’m going to—”

I didn’t let up. She came with her head thrown back and her knuckles white against the headboard, my name breaking apart in her mouth, and I held her through it the way she always held me — steady, present, here.

She collapsed beside me. We lay in the tangled sheets, breathing hard, the sage green dress in a puddle of chiffon on the closet floor visible through the open bedroom door.

“I need to get that dry-cleaned again,” I said.

Renee laughed. The real laugh — the one that creased her eyes and showed her teeth and made her look ten years younger. “Or you could just leave it on the closet floor and put it on every time you want to destroy me.”

“Is that a request?”

“It’s a standing invitation.”

I rolled onto my side. Traced the line of her collarbone with my fingertip. She caught my hand and pressed it flat against her sternum, over her heart. The beat was fast. Slowing, but still fast.

“I love you,” I said. Not because the moment required it, but because it was true, and because saying it still felt like a privilege I’d earned.

“I love you.” She turned her head and kissed my palm. “And I love that dress.”

“More than you love me?”

“About equally.”

“I’m offended.”

“You’re naked and you just made me come so hard I can’t feel my legs. You’ll survive.”

I grinned. Pressed my face against her shoulder. Breathed in — sweat and soap and the particular scent that was just Renee, that I’d been chasing since I was nineteen years old and had finally, permanently, caught.

Through the open closet door, the sage green dress lay in a heap of chiffon on the hardwood floor. The zipper was down. It would always be down, now.

Some things, once opened, were never meant to close again.

Loved Sadie and Renee? The full novel is available now.

Buy My Sister’s Best Friend

← Back to Book Page