The Wedding Planner's Forbidden Client Craving

The Wedding Planner's Forbidden Client Craving

Elena Vargas stepped into the sunlit loft carrying her leather portfolio and a laptop bag that suddenly felt too heavy. The place smelled like expensive leather, fresh espresso, and something darker—pure male. Marcus Reed stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up, forearms corded and veined. At thirty-two he looked like he’d been carved for sin rather than boardrooms. His fiancée was in Milan for the week. Elena knew that because it was listed in the client notes. She hadn’t expected the information to make her thighs clench.

“Ms. Vargas,” he said, voice low and rough like he’d already tasted her name on his tongue. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

“Elena,” she corrected, setting her things on the massive marble island that dominated the open kitchen. “We’re going to be working closely for the next six months. First names make it easier.”

Marcus’s dark eyes dragged down her body—cream silk blouse, tight navy pencil skirt, four-inch heels—before snapping back to her face. The hunger there was so blatant it stole her breath. She was twenty-eight, good at her job, and had never once crossed the line with a client. She reminded herself of that fact while her nipples tightened against her lace bra.

They started with the basics. Venue options. Color palettes. Guest count. Elena kept her voice crisp and professional even as Marcus circled her like a predator. Every time she clicked to a new photo on her laptop, he leaned in closer. She could feel the heat rolling off him.

Half an hour in, the tension had thickened into something alive.

“These are the final three venues,” she said, opening a folder of high-res shots. “I think the rooftop garden at the—”

She didn’t finish. Marcus had moved behind her. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that his breath ghosted across the nape of her neck when he spoke.

“I can’t concentrate on rooftops, Elena.”

Her fingers froze on the trackpad. “Mr. Reed—”

“Marcus.” His voice dropped another octave. “Say it.”

“Marcus,” she breathed.

His hand settled on her hip, fingers splaying possessively over the curve. The touch burned straight through the fabric.

“I’ve been hard since you walked through the door,” he confessed, raw and unashamed. “Every time you cross your legs I think about spreading them. Every time you bite that plump bottom lip I imagine it wrapped around my cock. I’m supposed to be marrying someone else in six months and all I can think about is fucking you raw on every surface in this loft.”

Elena’s breath hitched. She should step away. She should close the laptop, schedule the next meeting, and leave. Instead she turned her head just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

“Then stop thinking about it,” she whispered, “and do it.”

The dam broke.

Marcus spun her around so fast her laptop nearly toppled. His mouth crashed down on hers, greedy and filthy, tongue sliding deep like he was already fucking her. Elena moaned into the kiss, fingers twisting in his shirt as she yanked him closer. He tasted like coffee and bad decisions. She couldn’t get enough.

He lifted her onto the island like she weighed nothing, shoving her skirt up her thighs in one rough motion. Expensive lace panties met his palm and he ripped them aside instead of removing them. Two thick fingers plunged into her soaked pussy without warning. Elena cried out, head falling back as he curled them perfectly against her g-spot.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled against her throat. “This tight little cunt’s been aching for me the whole meeting, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she gasped, riding his hand shamelessly. “God, yes.”

Clothes came off in a frenzy. Her blouse was half-unbuttoned, bra shoved down so her full tits spilled out. His shirt hit the floor. Elena’s hands mapped the hard ridges of his abs, then dropped to free his cock. When she wrapped her fingers around him she moaned again—he was thick, long, and already leaking at the tip. Perfect.

Marcus didn’t give her time to savor. He yanked her off the island, spun her, and bent her over the cool marble. The contrast between cold stone against her aching nipples and the scorching heat of his body made her whimper. He kicked her heels wider apart, fisted his cock, and drove into her in one brutal thrust.

Elena’s scream echoed off the high ceilings. He was so deep, stretching her perfectly, the slight burn only making her wetter. Marcus didn’t ease her into it. He fucked her like a man who’d been starving—hard, punishing strokes that slapped his hips against her ass and made her tits bounce against the marble.

“That’s it,” he snarled, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, the other fisted in her dark hair. “Take every fucking inch. This pussy is mine today.”

Elena pushed back to meet him, circling her hips, clenching around his thick shaft on every withdrawal. The angle was devastating. Each thrust ground his cockhead against her g-spot until she was shaking, babbling nonsense, begging for more.

Marcus pulled out suddenly, making her cry out at the loss. He sat on the huge leather couch and dragged her on top, impaling her again in one smooth motion. Elena straddled him, knees sinking into the cushions, and started riding like her life depended on it. Her tits bounced heavily in his face. He latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hands gripped her ass, spreading her cheeks as he slammed up into her soaked cunt.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “So goddamn beautiful taking my cock. Your fiancé’s never going to fuck you like this, is he?”

“He’s not my fiancé,” she panted, grinding her clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. “And no—he isn’t.”

The confession seemed to snap something in Marcus. He flipped them again, laying her out on the soft rug between couch and coffee table. Pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, he hooked her leg over his elbow and drove back inside her in a single devastating thrust. The new angle let him grind against her clit with every stroke. Elena’s back arched clean off the floor.

She came like that—shattering around his cock with a broken scream, pussy fluttering and gushing over his length. Marcus fucked her through it, hips snapping relentlessly, drawing out every pulse until she was trembling and oversensitive.

Only then did he let go.

He pulled out with a wet sound, fisted his glistening cock, and stroked himself furiously. Elena watched through heavy-lidded eyes as thick, ropey jets of cum lashed across her stomach, her heaving tits, even catching the underside of her chin. The sight of his seed marking her skin sent another aftershock rippling through her core.

For a long moment the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Elena lay there catching her breath, covered in sweat and cum, skirt bunched around her waist, blouse ruined. Then she did something that surprised even herself—she smiled. A slow, thoroughly satisfied curve of her lips.

She sat up, used two fingers to scoop a streak of his cum off her breast, and licked it clean while holding his gaze. Marcus’s spent cock twitched hard at the sight.

Elena stood on slightly shaky legs. She fixed her bra, buttoned her blouse with steady fingers, and smoothed her skirt back down over her hips. The torn panties she left on the floor like a trophy. She gathered her laptop and portfolio, checking her reflection quickly in the dark window to make sure she didn’t look completely wrecked. She did, but in the best possible way.

“Next meeting is Tuesday at three,” she said calmly, voice still husky from screaming. “We’ll finalize the catering and the florist. I’ll send the updated mood board tonight.”

Marcus stayed on the floor, naked, chest still heaving, watching her like she was the only thing in the universe.

Elena walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, glancing back over her shoulder. The satisfied smirk that curved her lips was pure sin.

“Try to behave until then, Marcus.”

She stepped out and closed the door behind her without another word, leaving the groom-to-be naked, marked by his own lust, and already hard again at the thought of Tuesday.

The elevator ride down gave her just enough time to fix her smeared lipstick and decide she was absolutely, one hundred percent going to fuck him again.