Ex-Wife's Wedding Night Temptation

Marcus stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, a flute of champagne untouched in his hand, watching the swirl of silk and laughter that marked Elena's second wedding. At thirty-two, he had built a reputation as one of the city's sharpest architects, all clean lines and unyielding steel, yet nothing in his carefully ordered life had prepared him for the sight of his ex-wife gliding across the marble floor in that white gown. The dress clung to her like a second skin, lace and satin hugging the full swell of her breasts and the dramatic curve of her hips. She was thirty now, more radiant than the day she had walked out on him three years ago, and the knowledge sat in his chest like a hot coal.

He had come out of politeness, a single name on the guest list, nothing more. The reception wound down around midnight. The newlyweds slipped away amid a shower of rice and cheers, heading upstairs to the honeymoon suite on the top floor of the same luxury hotel. Marcus lingered another twenty minutes, then took the elevator to his own room two doors down. He loosened his tie, poured a whiskey from the minibar, and stepped out onto the private balcony for air.

That was when he saw it.

The honeymoon suite sat at a perfect right angle to his own. Its floor-to-ceiling windows blazed with light, curtains wide open. Elena stood in the center of the room, still in her wedding lingerie. The corset was pure white lace, cups barely containing the heavy undersides of her tits, garter straps framing the smooth plane of her stomach and the tiny matching thong that disappeared between her ass cheeks. Sheer stockings climbed her thighs. She looked like every filthy fantasy he had tried to bury.

Her new husband—some finance prick named Daniel—paced near the bed with a phone pressed to his ear. Even from this distance Marcus could see the tension in the man's shoulders. Daniel spoke rapidly, glanced at Elena with an apologetic grimace, then grabbed his jacket and left the suite. The door clicked shut. Elena was alone.

Marcus stayed in the shadows of his balcony, pulse hammering. He should have gone inside. He should have closed his own curtains. Instead he watched her move. She poured herself a glass of champagne, took a slow sip, then set it down and turned toward the windows as if she already knew he was there.