Lena's Maid of Honor Reception Quickie

I saw her the second she stepped onto the dance floor.

Lena. Twenty-four, poured into that deep emerald silk bridesmaid dress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. The neckline plunged low enough to show the inner swells of her full tits, and the slit up the side flashed a long, toned leg with every step. Her dark hair was pinned up with loose strands curling against her neck, and her lips were that dangerous shade of red that always made my cock twitch.

Her husband, some tall finance guy named Ryan, sat at the head table laughing with my new stepsister—the bride—completely oblivious. But Lena wasn’t laughing. Her eyes found mine across the crowded reception hall and locked. That same filthy spark we’d been trading for years flared up instantly, hotter than ever.

I was twenty-two, the bride’s step-cousin by my father’s recent marriage, which technically made Lena my stepsister’s best friend and maid of honor. None of that mattered. What mattered was the way she bit her lower lip when she saw me, the way her thighs pressed together under that dress. I knew her. I knew exactly how slutty she got when that switch flipped inside her. Years of secret flirting, dirty texts, and one very close call in a club bathroom had taught me everything.

The tension was immediate and unbearable. She was married now. I watched her husband drape an arm around her shoulders during the first dance, but her gaze kept sliding back to me. Every time the crowd shifted we found excuses to drift closer. My hand brushed the small of her back as I passed behind her at the bar. She “accidentally” grazed my cock with her hip while reaching for a drink. Each touch sent electricity crackling between us until I was half-hard in my suit pants and she was breathing faster, cheeks flushed.

I was standing near the service hallway, pretending to check my phone, when she finally cornered me.

The music thumped loudly from the main hall, but back here it was quieter, shadowed. Lena stepped in close, the scent of her perfume and something warmer—pure aroused woman—hitting me like a drug. Her nipples were visibly hard against the silk.

“Marcus,” she whispered, voice low and shaking with need. “My husband hasn’t fucked me properly in months. He’s too tired, too drunk, too fucking vanilla. I’ve been soaked all day just thinking about your cock. I can’t take it anymore.”