Reception Best Man Fucks Tipsy Bride

The heavy bass from the reception hall vibrated through the marble floors as Elena slipped away from the crowd, champagne flute still clutched in her manicured fingers. The midnight wedding had been perfect on paper—crystal chandeliers, five hundred guests, a six-figure dress that made her look like sin wrapped in white silk—but her new husband’s wandering eyes had ruined it. She’d caught him in the coatroom with one of her bridesmaids, his hand on the girl’s ass while he laughed too loud at her jokes. The image burned behind her eyelids every time she blinked.

She needed air. Or another drink. Or both.

The side hallway was quieter, dimly lit by antique sconces. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor until a large hand caught her elbow and pulled her into an alcove.

“Looking for the groom, Mrs. Thompson?” The voice was low, rough, and far too familiar.

Elena’s stomach flipped. Marcus towered over her in his tailored charcoal suit, the same cocky smirk he’d worn back in college plastered across his face. At thirty-two he was broader than she remembered, shoulders straining the fabric, jaw shadowed with stubble. His dark eyes dragged slowly down the plunging neckline of her wedding gown before rising again.

“Don’t,” she warned, but her voice already sounded breathy.

“Don’t what?” He stepped closer, backing her against the wall. The scent of his cologne—cedar, whiskey, and pure male—flooded her senses. “Don’t remind you that your shiny new husband has a pathetic little prick compared to what used to wreck this pussy every weekend sophomore year?”

Heat flashed between her legs so violently she had to press her thighs together. The thin lace of her wedding panties was already soaked.

“Marcus, I’m married. This is my reception.”