Ex's Wedding Dare: Take My Ass Again

The champagne flute trembled slightly in Elena’s manicured fingers as she slipped away from the glittering throng of the reception. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the ballroom’s marble floors, where Jake—no, Marcus—her ex, the man who still haunted the edges of her dreams, stood at the center of it all in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. His new bride laughed on his arm, all white silk and effortless grace, but Elena felt the old pull like a hook behind her ribs. She was twenty-eight now, engaged herself to a steady, kind man who never pushed too hard, never demanded the raw surrender Marcus had once wrung from her body. Yet here she was, heart hammering, ducking into the private lounge off the main hall for a moment’s breath.

The door clicked shut behind her. Soft leather couches, dim amber lighting, the distant thump of the band muffled to a pulse. She set her glass down and pressed her palms to the cool mahogany bar, staring at her reflection in the mirrored backsplash—dark hair swept up, emerald dress clinging to the curves Marcus used to own with his hands and cock. Three years. She was over him. She had to be.

“Running already, Elena?”

His voice slid over her like warm oil, low and commanding. She spun. Marcus filled the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, that same intense gaze pinning her in place. The tuxedo jacket stretched across his chest; the white shirt open just enough at the throat to flash the hollow she once bit into. He closed the door with a deliberate turn of the lock. The sound echoed.

“Marcus.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Shouldn’t you be out there cutting cake or whatever newlyweds do?”

He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping close enough that the heat of him brushed her bare arms. “I saw you slip away. Couldn’t resist.” His eyes dropped, lingering on the deep V of her neckline, the way the dress hugged her ass. “You look fucking edible. Better than I remembered.”

Elena’s pulse kicked hard between her thighs. She remembered too—nights when he’d bent her over the arm of their old couch, spat on her tight hole, and worked his thick cock into her ass until she sobbed with pleasure. The stretch, the burn, the way he’d growl “take it” while he owned every inch. Her fiancé never went there. No one had, not since Marcus.

“This is your wedding,” she said, forcing a cool smile. “Congratulations. She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” He didn’t glance back. Instead he stepped in, caging her against the bar with one hand on either side of her hips. The scent of his cologne—dark spice and skin—flooded her. “But she’s not you. Not where it counts.” His mouth hovered near her ear. “I still dream about that tight little ass of yours, Elena. The way it gripped me. How you came so hard you’d shake for hours after.”

Heat flooded her face and flooded lower, soaking the thin lace of her panties. She should shove him away. She was engaged. He was married as of an hour ago. Yet her body betrayed her, nipples tightening against the silk of her dress, breath hitching when his thigh brushed hers.

“You’re insane,” she whispered. “We can’t—”

“One last time.” His hand slid down, palm rough against the curve of her hip, fingers digging in just enough to remind her who used to be in charge. “For old times’ sake. Let me take that ass again. Right here. No one has to know. You always loved the risk.”

The dare hung between them, electric. Elena’s mind raced—images of him splitting her open, the wet slap of skin, his balls tight against her as he buried himself deep. Her clit throbbed. She pressed her thighs together, but the friction only made it worse.

“Marcus… I’m engaged.”

“And I’m a married man.” His free hand rose, thumb brushing her lower lip. She tasted salt and want. “Doesn’t change the fact that your body still knows its master. Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me your cunt isn’t dripping right now just from the thought of my cock stretching that pretty hole again.”

She couldn’t lie. The chemistry crackled like a live wire, thick and mutual. His eyes were dark with the same hunger she felt twisting low in her belly. Memories crashed over her: the first time he’d claimed her ass, slow and relentless until she begged; the nights he’d held her cheeks open and watched himself disappear into her; the way he’d praise her afterward, voice rough, while he rubbed the ache better with clever fingers.

“I… I shouldn’t even be in here,” she managed, but her hands had already lifted, resting against the hard plane of his chest. Beneath the shirt she felt the hammer of his heart matching hers.