Meet Kat McKinney, Wedding Slut
"★★★★★! Seriously sexy, seriously smart, and frequently funny as hell!"
Kat doesn’t want to get married. She just wants to have a wedding. And to have sex with her husband — whoever the hell he is — on the altar. And have the orgy to end all orgies at the reception. And…
Instead, she plays bridesmaid to friend after friend. And she would be happy — if it weren't for the dresses.
Collected here for the first time are Kat’s complete adventures — funny, fantastical, sometimes sad, but always sexy. Get Kat anywhere near a wedding… and wild things are sure to happen.
Here are the complete chronicles of Kat’s nuptial naughtiness:
- Wedded Bliss
- Never a Bride
- Cold Feet
- A brand new prologue and epilogue
- Sneak preview of Mary Cyn's new paranormal BDSM erotic fantasy, Erlking.
(M/F, M/F/M, M/F/F, and orgy erotic romance. Polyamory and cheating. Adult readers only.)
Extract (from "Cold Feet"):
We go straight from the rehearsal to the rehearsal dinner. I’m still in this f___ing dress. I feel like somehow I will always be in this f___ing dress. They apparently don’t mind me walking down the aisle in a food-stained bridesmaid’s dress — because that is what’s going to happen. You can’t expect me to eat a whole meal and not drop food all over myself. Give me all the napkins you want, it won’t help. I’ve been alive long enough to know this about myself. And now we’re eating at this insane meat buffet? It’s like there’s a conspiracy.
I’m sitting near Dan, resisting the urge to swath myself in napkins, and I’m trying to eat my food, and talk like a human, and not drip meat juice on this stupid dress, and not stare at him, which takes a lot more effort than it ever should. There’s this jittery caffeine feeling in my body that’s somehow focused at him, like metal filings to a magnet. This tingle, this draw, is strongest in whatever body part is nearest to him and it draws our skin together. Someone must notice. I can’t be passing this off as just normal social awkwardness. I mean, I hope I am but there’s this subtext between me and Dan that’s just expanding, pushing the breath out of both of us. We’re talking about the restaurant’s décor or something but it’s like every breathless sentence is drowned out by this growing subtext monster. Our subtext is like this third person who hates being ignored so they just keep repeating their point over and over until someone responds to them.
“I really like these tables.” I say.
F___ me the subtext whispers.
“Yeah,” Dan agrees. “I’ve always been a fan of dark wood.”
F___ me! the Subtext insists. F___ me, it hums as our conversation barrels onward. F___ me, it demands and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. Our topic remains mundane, but with each uttered exchange The Subtext increases in pitch and volume. F___ ME it screams!
Our conversation breaks into awkward shards and, by the time someone else breaks into the conversation, the Subtext has created a parade marching up and down the main street of our minds. The brass band is playing. The bass drum is pounding. Elephants with F___ ME emblazoned across their sides stomp down the pavement. The Flying F___ Me Acrobats perform daring feats on the trapeze. The F___ Me Players erect a stage and perform bawdy commedia on it. The only coherent syllables that fall from our lips are sheepish yeahs and sures and the fakest of fake laughter. I fear the water on our table will boil, the bread will combust, and lives will be lost in our subtext explosion.
But no one notices. No one else cares. Everyone else is talking like this is some normal wedding and, dear god, it IS. It is a normal rehearsal dinner for everyone but me. I am the only one trapped in this romcom Julia Roberts nightmare. Except for Dan. He keeps looking at me like he’s trapped behind glass.