The Wedding Dare

The reception tent was a furnace of bodies and bourbon. I tugged at my collar, watching Jenna across the dance floor, her bridesmaid dress the color of a bruise, clinging to every curve. She caught my eye and bit her lip—a tiny, deliberate gesture that sent a jolt straight to my groin.

"Three years," she whispered later, pulling me into the shadows behind the bar. Her hand slid down my chest, fingers toying with my belt buckle. "Three years of missionary in the dark. Tonight, I want you to fuck me like I'm a stranger."

I swallowed hard. "Here? Now?"

"Now." She pushed me against a stack of empty crates, her mouth hot on my neck. "Pretend you don't know me. Pretend you just saw me across the room and you had to have me."

Her dress was already hiked up around her hips. No panties. Jesus.

"Jenna—"

"Shut up and fuck me, stranger."

I spun her around, bent her over the crates. Her ass was pale and perfect in the dim light, and I spread her open with both hands. She was already wet—slick, ready, her scent thick in the warm air.

"Like this," she gasped, reaching back to guide me. "Hard. Don't be gentle."

I pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust. She let out a choked cry, her fingers scrabbling against the wood. The sensation was electric—tight, hot, gripping me like a fist. I pulled back, watching myself slide out of her, glistening, then drove in again, harder.

"Yes," she hissed. "Like that. Don't stop."

I grabbed her hips and set a punishing rhythm. The crates creaked beneath us, the music from the tent drowning out the wet, slapping sounds of our bodies meeting. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her forehead pressed against the wood.

"You like that, stranger?" I growled, leaning over her, my chest against her back.

"Fuck yes. Faster."

I gave her faster. Deeper. Each stroke buried me to the hilt, and she pushed back to meet me, her thighs trembling. I reached around and found her clit—slick, swollen—and pressed hard, circling as I fucked her.

"Oh god," she whimpered. "Oh god, don't stop. I'm gonna—"

"Come for me. Come on my cock."

She shattered with a sharp, broken cry, her body clenching around me in waves. The sensation tipped me over the edge—I buried myself deep and came, hot and pulsing, my forehead against her shoulder blade.

We stayed like that for a long moment, panting, sticky, the tent music swelling around us.

"Okay," I finally said, my voice hoarse. "That was..."

"New," she finished, straightening her dress. She turned, her eyes bright, and kissed me softly. "Happy anniversary, husband."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Happy anniversary, wife."

We walked back into the tent hand in hand, her lipstick smudged, my shirt untucked. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

But for the rest of the night, every time she caught my eye, she smiled that same slow, wicked smile.

We found our seats at the corner table, half-empty champagne flutes sweating in the heat. Jenna's hand found my thigh under the tablecloth, her nails tracing lazy circles.

"That was fast," she murmured, leaning in close. Her breath smelled like mint and champagne. "I mean... good. But fast."

I coughed a laugh. "You caught me off guard."

"Good." She squeezed my leg, higher now, her palm warm through the fabric. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

Across the table, my buddy Mark raised an eyebrow. "You two okay? You look flushed."

"Hot in here," Jenna said smoothly, not removing her hand. "Isn't it, babe?"

I nodded, barely trusting my voice. Her fingers found my zipper, tugged it down an inch.

"Jenna," I whispered.

"Shh." She smiled at Mark, all innocence. "We're fine. Just celebrating."

Under the table, her hand slid inside my pants.