Lena's Backseat Craving For The Husband

The soft glow of the reception hall’s chandeliers spilled across the driveway as the black stretch limo idled at the curb. Lena smoothed her hands down the front of her lavender bridesmaid dress, the silk cool against her flushed skin. Inside, the band was playing a slow number and her best friend Claire was laughing in the arms of her brand-new husband. Lena should have been in there too. Instead she was climbing into the back of the limo with him.

Marcus held the door open, his bow tie already loosened, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. At thirty-two he looked unfairly good in a tux—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and those dark eyes that had been tracking her like prey for the last six months. Ever since the engagement party, when he’d cornered her by the bar and told her the bridesmaid dress she was wearing tonight made him want to ruin it.

The heavy door shut behind them with a expensive thunk. The driver, separated by a tinted privacy partition, pulled away from the curb without a word. They were alone.

Lena sat on the long leather bench, knees pressed together, heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it. Marcus settled beside her, close enough that the heat of his thigh burned through the thin fabric of her dress. For ten full seconds neither of them spoke. Then he turned, voice low and rough.

“I’ve been hard since I saw you walk down the aisle. Every time Claire kissed me today I was picturing your tight little pussy instead.”

Lena’s breath caught. The crude words should have shocked her. They didn’t. They soaked her instantly. She felt the slick heat bloom between her legs, her lace panties clinging obscenely.

Marcus didn’t wait for permission. His big hand slid onto her knee, then higher, pushing the silky hem of the bridesmaid dress up her smooth thigh. “Six months, Lena. Six months of jerking off in the shower thinking about bending you over every surface in my new house. Claire’s sweet, but she’s not you. She doesn’t get wet like this.” His fingers brushed the soaked crotch of her panties and he groaned. “Fuck. You’re drenched.”

Lena’s head fell back against the seat. The limo swayed gently as it merged onto the road that looped back toward the reception hall. Her pulse was a roar in her ears. She should stop this. She was married. He was just married. This was insane.

Instead she whispered the filthy truth that had lived in her mouth for months.