Elena’s Wedding Night Bull

I still remember the exact weight of my wedding dress as I slipped away from the ballroom, the heavy silk whispering against my thighs with every hurried step. It was barely nine o’clock on my wedding night, and my new husband Mark was downstairs giving yet another toast to our “perfect future together.” His voice had that familiar, safe monotone that always made me smile politely and think about spreadsheets. I was twenty-four, flushed from champagne and the strange, restless ache that had been building in me for months.

The bridal suite was quiet, lit only by soft golden lamps. I’d come up to fix my lipstick and catch my breath. That was the plan, anyway.

The door clicked shut behind me, but I wasn’t alone.

Derek leaned against the antique vanity like he owned the place. Thirty-two, broad-shouldered, and radiating the kind of arrogant confidence that used to make me roll my eyes in the office. He had been Mark’s boss until the company shake-up last year, and the rivalry between them had always crackled with something sharper than professional dislike. Tonight he wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that stretched across his chest and arms. His dark eyes dragged over me slowly, from the diamond tiara in my updo to the delicate white heels peeking from beneath my gown.

“Well, Mrs. Elena Hargrove,” he drawled, voice low and mocking. “Looking for your husband? Or did the boring little groom finally put you to sleep already?”

My pulse spiked. I should have told him to leave. Instead I felt heat bloom low in my belly.

“He’s giving toasts,” I said, trying to sound composed. My voice came out breathier than I wanted.

Derek pushed off the vanity and stalked closer. “Of course he is. Mark’s very good at talking. Talking, planning, coloring inside the lines.” He stopped just inches away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark, woody, expensive. “But we both know he’s shit at fucking a woman like you.”

The crude words landed like a spark on dry tinder. I felt my nipples tighten against the lace of my strapless bra. Guilt and raw lust twisted together so tightly I couldn’t tell which was which.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” I whispered.

“Neither should you, if you were planning to behave.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, openly eye-fucking me in my own wedding dress. “Tell me, Elena. When Mark slides between those pretty thighs tonight, are you going to have to fake it? Are you going to close your eyes and think about all the times you caught me watching you in the office? All the times you wondered what my cock would feel like stretching that tight married pussy?”

My breath hitched. The filthy whispers were peeling away every layer of the good-girl bride I was supposed to be. Years of stolen glances, of pretending not to notice how Derek filled out a suit, of touching myself in the shower after particularly tense board meetings—all of it surged forward at once.