Accidentally Sexting My Wedding DJ

Chloe’s thumbs flew across her phone screen under the rehearsal dinner table, dodging another absurd spreadsheet cell about napkin folds and vegan options that made her want to scream. Twenty-eight, marketing coordinator by day, bride-to-be by chaotic night, she was drowning in white tulle and vendor emails. Her situationship—some guy named Tyler who ghosted more than he texted—had sent a half-hearted “u up?” so she hit record on a voice note, voice husky with leftover wine and pure frustration. “God, I need you to fuck me stupid tonight. Bend me over and ruin this stupid lace thong, make me come so hard I forget my own name and this entire circus of a wedding. Your cock, my mouth, no mercy—”

Send.

The whoosh sounded final. Then the name popped up: Max Rivera, Wedding DJ. Not Tyler. Max. The cocky, absurdly hot 32-year-old who’d been hauling speakers into the corner all evening, all broad shoulders and that stupidly charming smirk, dark hair falling into eyes that had already caught hers twice with a wink that felt illegal.

Panic flared hot. She nearly dropped the phone into her salmon. Before she could type a frantic “WRONG PERSON DELETE,” a reply voice note landed. She jammed an earbud in, heart hammering.

Max’s voice rumbled low, deadpan, laced with pure amusement. “Typos aside, ‘ruin this stupid lace thong’ is solid work. Though I’m guessing you meant ‘your’ cock, not ‘you’re.’ Grammar’s hot, Chloe. And since I’m already here setting up your forever playlist… want me to expand on the no-mercy part? Because that mouth of yours sounded hungry.”

She choked on her water. Across the room Max glanced up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching like he was in on the world’s best private joke. Heat flooded her face—and lower. Stupidly attracted. The giant diamond on her finger suddenly weighed nothing. The wedding was now the most awkward foreplay backdrop imaginable, and her pulse kicked into a rhythm that had nothing to do with the soft jazz he was testing.

She typed back under the table: “Delete that. Immediately. I will end you.”

His next note came fast, velvet and teasing. “Nah. Keeping it forever. Tell me more about forgetting your name. I’ll even fix the spreadsheet hell you’re clearly escaping. Corporate drone by day, filthy mouth by night. Dating apps wish they had this energy.”

Chloe bit her lip to kill the laugh, thighs pressing together. Self-aware tension crackled like static. She was getting married tomorrow. This was insane. And she already wanted more.

By the reception the next night the ballroom glowed with fairy lights and forced joy. Chloe’s dress clung like a second skin, champagne in hand, smile plastered while relatives hugged too long. Max spun tracks from the booth, looking unfairly edible in a black button-down rolled to his elbows, veins and tattoos flickering under the lights. Their phones burned.

Under the head table she thumbed: “If you play one more Ed Sheeran song I will walk over there and murder you with my bouquet.”

Max: “Threaten me harder, bride. That voice note’s still living rent-free. How’s the lace situation tonight? Still stupid? Still ruinable?”

She nearly snorted champagne. Another text: “Dating-app cliché bingo—‘looking for my partner in crime’ my ass. You’re the crime. And corporate hell? My boss once CC’d the whole company on his OnlyFans link. This is nothing.”

His reply lit her up: “Partner in crime accepted. Meet me in the green room in ten or I start the Macarena. Your call, future Mrs. Whoever.”

Eye contact nearly wrecked her—Max catching her stare mid-drop, slow grin spreading as he mixed seamlessly into something sultry. Near-misses piled up: her almost walking into a waiter, him faking a mic check just to say “testing, one filthy bride.” Banter skewered everything, every glitchy autocorrect (“duck me” instead of the real word) turning into hilarious foreplay until the tension snapped.

She ditched her own bouquet on a chair, muttered an excuse about powdering her nose, and slipped into the green room behind the stage. Max was already there, door clicking shut, both of them laughing the second it locked—raw, disbelieving laughter at the sheer absurdity.

“Giant ring,” he said, nodding at her hand, eyes dark and hungry. “Playlist still running. And I want to fuck you so bad my hands are shaking. Your move, spreadsheet queen.”

“I know,” Chloe shot back, breathless, backing against the door. “Worst idea. Best worst idea. We’re idiots. Kiss me before I remember I’m supposed to be toasting eternal love.”

He pinned her there, mouth crashing onto hers in a filthy, smiling kiss that tasted like stolen whiskey and bad decisions. Hands rucked up layers of silk and tulle. “Tell me to stop and I stop. Otherwise I’m eating this bride out until she ruins her own makeup.”

“Don’t you dare stop.” Consent rang clear, eager. She wanted this—him—right now.

Max dropped to his knees like the floor was lava and her cunt was salvation. He shoved the dress up, hooked her thong aside—yes, still stupid lace—and licked a long, precise stripe through her already-slick folds. Chloe clapped the bouquet over her mouth, smothering laughter that melted into moans. “Oh my god, the petals—Max—”

“Quiet, or the whole reception hears how wet you are for the DJ.” His tongue worked with filthy precision—circling her clit, dipping inside, sucking just hard enough to make her hips buck. Two fingers slid in, curling, finding that spot while he groaned against her like she was the best track he’d ever mixed. She laughed into the flowers, free hand fisting his hair, riding his face shamelessly. “Corporate hell never prepared me for this performance review.”

He pulled back just enough to grin up, chin shiny. “Five stars. Coming for me already?”

She shattered on his tongue, thighs shaking, bouquet muffling the cry as pleasure ripped through her intense and bright. He licked her through it, gentle then greedy, until she tugged him up.

“Your turn. Speaker cases. Now.”

They stumbled to the stack of black cases against the wall. Max shoved his pants down, cock springing free—thick, hard, perfect. Chloe pushed him to sit, straddled reverse cowgirl, sinking down in one slow grind that punched dual groans out of them. “Fuck, you’re big. Dating apps lie about this part.”

“And bridesmaid dresses hide nothing,” he shot back, hands gripping her waist as she rode. She bounced hard, grinding deep, dress frothing around them. They roasted each other in real time: “Is that your ‘forever hold your peace’ stroke?” “Shut up and take this playlist dick.” Laughter bubbled between moans, her ass slapping his thighs, his fingers finding her clit again to rub tight circles. The absurdity only made it hotter—ring glinting, distant music thumping her favorite drop right on cue.

She came again clenching around him, laughing helplessly, and he lifted her off before he followed. “Mixing board. Bend over. Competing for funniest while coming hardest. Rules are rules.”

Chloe braced on the glowing board, knobs and sliders cool under her palms. Max kicked her legs wider, thrust in deep from behind—frantic doggy-style that rattled the equipment and her remaining sanity. He fucked her hard, precise, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to keep her on edge. “Say something filthy and funny or I slow down.”

“Your—ah—BPM is perfect, you cocky bastard. Harder. Make me forget the seating chart.”

“Seating chart this,” he growled, slamming deep, and she pushed back meeting every stroke. They went back and forth, banter filthy and absurd—“This is better than any open bar”—“I’m gonna come on your wedding night like a cliché and love it”—until the competition peaked. Chloe shattered first, full-body orgasm ripping a muffled scream from her throat, walls milking him. Max followed with a broken laugh-groan, burying deep and pulsing hot inside her, both breathless, sweaty, delighted idiots riding the high together.

They slumped, half-dressed and giggling like teenagers who’d gotten away with everything. High-five mid-air, palms smacking. “Best worst idea ever,” Chloe panted, pulling her thong up with zero dignity.

“Agreed. Now go glow. I’ve got your song cued.”

She sauntered back toward the reception doors, just-fucked smile radiant, legs still wobbly, realizing she’d never laughed harder or come harder in her life. Max’s seamless drop of her favorite track filled the ballroom as she stepped out—

—and nearly collided with her maid of honor, eyes wide, phone camera still raised from recording a “cute behind-the-scenes” video of the green room door.