The Champagne Effect

The wedding tent smelled of jasmine and spilled prosecco, and I was already bored out of my skull. I'd been pouring drinks for four hours straight, and my wrists ached from twisting bottle caps. Then she walked up to the bar, all dark hair and sharper cheekbones, and slid a empty flute across the counter.

"Another one," she said, her French accent curling around the words like smoke. "And maybe something stronger. This wedding is making me thirsty."

"Camille," I said, reading the name tag she'd pinned to her silk dress. "I'm Leo. And I've got just the thing."

I poured her a measure of calvados I'd been saving for myself. She watched me with those dark eyes, unblinking, and when she took the glass her fingers brushed mine. The touch was electric, a jolt that went straight to my cock.

"You're not from around here," she said, taking a sip. Her tongue darted out to catch a drop on her lip. "Neither are you. So why are we both pretending to care about the bride's third cousin's toast?"

"Because my sister's the bride, and your date's the best man?"

She laughed, a low, dirty sound. "He's not my date. He's my ex. I came to watch him suffer." She set down the glass and leaned closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral and sharp, like night-blooming jasmine. "And you're the most interesting thing in this tent. So what are you going to do about it?"

I didn't answer with words. I just grabbed her hand, pulled her around the bar, and backed her against the ice bucket station. The tent flap was half-open behind us, and the music from the dance floor was a dull thump through the canvas. Her dress was thin, silky, and I could feel the heat of her body through it as I pressed against her.

"Your ex," I murmured, my mouth at her ear. "He's going to see us."

"Good." She bit my earlobe, hard. "Let him."

I kissed her then, not gentle—a real kiss, hungry and deep, my tongue sliding against hers. She tasted like calvados and something sweeter, and she moaned into my mouth, her hips grinding against me. I hiked up her dress, felt the damp heat of her through her underwear, and she gasped when I hooked a finger under the elastic.

"Fuck, you're wet already," I said.

"You talk too much." She unzipped my trousers, her hand finding my cock, stroking me through my boxers. "I've been watching you all night. Pouring drinks, flexing those arms. I've been imagining this."

"Imagining what?"

"Imagining you bending me over this bar and fucking me until I forget my own name."

I didn't need more invitation. I tore her underwear down her legs, lifted her onto the edge of the counter, and pushed inside her in one stroke. She cried out, a sharp, breathy sound, and her legs wrapped around my waist. She was tight and slick and hot, and I had to grip the counter to keep from coming right there.

"Jesus, Camille."

"Don't stop," she whispered, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Don't you fucking stop."

I fucked her hard, fast, the way she seemed to want it, the counter creaking under us. She met every thrust, her head thrown back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A bottle of prosecco tipped over and shattered on the floor, but neither of us cared. The music swelled outside, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming as she came, her whole body shuddering around me.

I pulled out just before I finished, spilling hot across her thighs, and she laughed, breathless and filthy.

"Messy boy."

"You're the one who broke the glass."

She slid off the counter, smoothed down her dress, and looked at me with those dark, knowing eyes. Her ex's voice boomed somewhere outside, calling her name. She didn't flinch.

"I have to go back," she said. "But I'll find you later. When this circus is over."

She walked out, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding, the taste of her still on my lips. The tent flap swung shut behind her, and I knew—I knew I'd be waiting.

CATEGORIES: [French woman, Wedding, Just the Two of Us, Hotel, Passionate Sex]