La Bodega de la Boda

I was standing against the wall with a glass of champagne when I saw him. Jesus, Igor. Ten years gone, and I knew him in an instant—those hands, the way he held his shoulders, that smirk that hadn't changed a bit. He spotted me too. His eyes ran over my dress, my collarbones, lingered on my lips. I felt heat crawl from my chest up my neck, and under my dress, I was already wet.

"No fucking way," he said, stepping close. Too close. A faint trace of expensive cologne, man soap, and something familiar that made my knees go weak. "Alina. You're even hotter."

"And you haven't aged a day," I answered, but my voice cracked.

His hand landed on my lower back. Just a light touch, barely there, but I felt it in every cell.

"Remember the last time we saw each other?" he asked, leaning in so his lips almost brushed my ear.

I remembered. The car, the dark road, his hands on my hips. And how he left the next morning, leaving me with his scent on the sheets and a stupid, stubborn hope.

"It's stuffy in here," I breathed out. "There's a staircase down. The cellar's probably cooler."

He grinned, and that grin said everything. We moved through the crowd of guests, past tables of appetizers and flowers, and I felt his palm on my back even through the thin fabric of my dress.

The cellar was a half-empty room with wine racks, an old couch, and a single dim bulb. The door clicked softly behind us, cutting off the wedding noise.

"So, Alina," he said, spinning me to face him, his hands sliding over my hips. "Ten years is a long time. Did you think about me?"

"Don't," I whispered, but I pressed into him, feeling his cock hard against my stomach. "Don't you dare say I thought about you."

"Didn't you?" He dragged his lips down my neck, and I arched, biting my lip. "You remember how it was? Remember how you moaned when I slid inside you?"

"Igor..."

"Say you don't remember."

I didn't answer. Instead, I grabbed his tie and yanked him to me. The kiss was greedy, angry, like we were trying to pour all those years into one move. His hands found the zipper on my dress, and a minute later the fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in lace underwear I'd put on that morning without a clue who it was for.

"Fuck," he breathed, staring at me. His fingers traced the edge of my bra, my stomach, lower. "You're even better than I remembered."

"Enough talking," I said, unbuttoning his pants. His cock sprang out, hard and thick. I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling it pulse. "I want you. Now. Here."

He hiked my leg up, hooking it over his hip, and I felt his fingers slide over my wet pussy through the lace of my panties. I moaned, digging my nails into his shoulders.

"So fucking wet," he whispered, pushing the lace aside. "Do you even know what you do to me?"

"Cállate y fóllame."

He lifted me, spun me around, and pressed me against a wine rack. Bottles clinked, one fell and shattered, but I didn't give a shit. I bent over, gripping the wooden shelf, and felt his cock slide over my ass, teasing.

"Come on," I breathed, pushing back. "Don't torture me."

He slammed into me in one deep thrust. I cried out—from surprise, from fullness, from how long I'd wanted this. He moved slow at first, stretching me, then sped up, pounding into me so hard the light bulb above us danced.

"Yeah, like that," he growled, gripping my hips. "You feel it? Feel me fucking you?"

"Yes... yes," I moaned, not holding back, feeling the wave building inside me. "More. Deeper."

He reached around, found my clit, and I nearly collapsed from the touch. His strokes got rougher, I heard his balls slapping against my pussy, felt myself getting wetter, the air thick with the smell of sex and wine.

"Come inside me," I begged, almost choking. "Please, come inside me."

"You first," he growled, speeding up.

I came—sharp, a wave flooding through my body. I couldn't scream, just howled, gripping the shelf, feeling the cellar walls blur. He fucked into me a few more times and came too, hot and deep, with a hoarse groan that sounded like a confession.

We froze. His forehead pressed against my back, his breath ragged. I felt his cum leaking out of me, running down my thigh, and it was the most right thing I'd felt in ten years.

He pulled out slowly, and I turned to face him. His eyes were bright, that smile back on his lips. I ran my hand over his cheek, feeling the stubble.

"So," I said quietly. "You gonna leave again?"

"Not this time," he said, kissing my forehead, light, almost gentle. "Not this time."

We dressed in silence, listening to the music and laughter upstairs. His hand found mine, and I squeezed it, holding on.