Her Husband's Best Man Return ONLY the title, nothing else.

Her Husband's Best Man

Sarah smoothed the silk of her deep emerald dress over her thighs for the tenth time, trying to ignore the heat already building low in her belly. The wedding reception was loud, the dance floor packed with drunk guests, and she was trapped at the head table between her husband Mike and the one man she had spent the last six years pretending she didn’t want.

Derek.

Mike’s best friend since college looked unfairly good in his tailored charcoal suit. The jacket stretched across broad shoulders, and the open collar of his white shirt revealed a tantalizing slice of tanned skin and dark chest hair. His sharp jaw was shadowed with stubble, and those stormy gray eyes kept sliding to her with open, shameless interest.

Mike, on the other hand, was already three sheets to the wind. He laughed too loud at his own jokes, sloshed whiskey over the tablecloth, and kept trying to stand up to make yet another incoherent toast. Each time he did, his thigh knocked clumsily into hers. Each time he slumped back down, Derek’s solid thigh pressed deliberately against her other leg and stayed there.

The contact was electric. Every slow brush sent sparks racing straight to her clit.

“You look like you need a real drink,” Derek murmured, low enough that only she could hear. His voice was rough velvet. “Mike’s not going to be any use to you tonight, is he?”

Sarah’s breath caught. She kept her eyes on the centerpiece of white roses while her pulse hammered. “He’s celebrating his best friend’s wedding. Let him have fun.”

“Uh-huh.” Derek’s fingers brushed the back of her hand as he reached for the bottle of red. “And who’s going to take care of you while he’s celebrating?”

The question hung between them, filthy with implication. Sarah’s nipples tightened against the lace of her bra. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The way her thighs instinctively parted a fraction under the tablecloth said everything.