Office Party Wife Takes BBC

I smoothed the hem of my tight red dress for the tenth time as I stepped into the glittering ballroom of the downtown hotel. My husband, David, had begged off with a headache and a half-hearted kiss on the cheek, leaving me to navigate the company’s annual holiday party alone. At thirty-two, I told myself I was simply here to network. But the moment I spotted Marcus across the room, I knew that was a lie.

He stood near the bar like he owned the place, which, in a way, he did. As senior vice president, Marcus towered over everyone at six-foot-four, his broad shoulders filling out a charcoal suit that looked tailor-made for his powerful frame. Dark skin, sharp jaw, and those intense brown eyes that had quietly haunted my fantasies for two years. I’d never admitted it to anyone, not even myself on most days. He was the kind of man who made my stomach tighten and my thighs press together whenever he walked past my desk.

Tonight he saw me immediately. His gaze traveled down the clingy red fabric that hugged my breasts and flared at my hips, then back up. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. My white male colleagues were clustered around me, laughing too loudly at some joke about quarterly reports, but Marcus cut through them like they weren’t even there.

“Emily,” he said, voice low and smooth as bourbon. “That dress is criminal. You trying to start a riot tonight?”

The men around me chuckled nervously, but I felt the heat bloom between my legs. I laughed, a little too breathy, and thanked him. His eyes lingered on the wedding band on my left hand, and something dark and hungry flickered across his face. The tension between us snapped into place like a live wire. I could barely focus on the small talk after that. Every time I glanced over, Marcus was watching me, and every look felt like a hand sliding up my thigh.

Two glasses of champagne later, he appeared at my side again. “Dance with me.”