The Bride's Maid

The wedding tent smelled like roses and spilled champagne, and I was three drinks in when my boss grabbed my wrist. Elena Vasquez—my terrifying, immaculate, never-smiles-at-work boss—was wearing a burgundy dress that hugged her curves like it had been painted on, and her dark eyes had been tracking me all night.

"You're staring at my mouth," she said, pulling me toward the back of the tent. "It's unprofessional."

"You're not my boss tonight."

"Correct." She pushed me against the wooden pillar, her body pressing into mine. "Tonight I'm just a woman who's been watching you adjust your tie for two hours, wondering what those fingers would feel like inside me."

I couldn't breathe. "Elena—"

"Shut up and kiss me."

Her lips were hot and demanding, tasting of wine and something sweeter. Her hand slid down my chest, past my belt, cupping my hardening cock through my dress pants. I groaned into her mouth, my own hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.

"God," she whispered against my lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Since the quarterly meeting?"

She laughed, low and dirty. "Since your first day. When you bent over to plug in your laptop and I couldn't stop staring at your ass."

Her fingers worked my belt open, and then her hand was inside my pants, wrapping around my shaft. I bucked into her grip, my forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“Elena，我们正在参加婚礼——”

"They're all dancing." She stroked me slowly, deliberately. "No one's coming back here. And I need you to fuck me against this pillar before I lose my mind."

She turned around, braced her hands on the wood, and looked back at me over her shoulder. Her dress was already riding up her thighs, showing me the lace edge of her panties. She pulled them aside, and I saw her—wet, glistening, ready.

"Don't make me beg," she said.

I didn't. I lined myself up and pushed inside her in one smooth stroke, and she moaned—loud, unrestrained, a sound I'd never imagined coming from the woman who fired people over email. She was tight and hot, and she pushed back against me, taking me deeper.

"Fuck," I breathed. "You feel incredible."

"Faster." She reached back and grabbed my hip. "Don't be gentle. I don't want gentle."

I gave her what she wanted. I slammed into her, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and she cried out, biting her own fist to muffle the sound. The tent fabric rustled with every thrust. Her ass slapped against my thighs, wet and obscene in the dim light.

“对，”她喘着气说，“就是那里。别停。”

I reached around and found her clit, slick and swollen, and she bucked against my fingers like she was trying to escape her own skin. Her moans turned into a long, shaking whimper, and I felt her clamp down around me, her whole body shuddering as she came.

"Now you," she said, breathless. "Come inside me. I want to feel it."

I buried myself as deep as I could, my release crashing through me, and she groaned as I filled her, her inner walls milking every last drop. For a long moment, we just stood there, breathing hard, my forehead pressed to her spine.

Then she straightened, smoothed her dress, and turned to face me. Her lipstick was smeared. Her hair was a disaster. She looked like a woman who'd just been thoroughly, completely fucked.

"Same time next week?" she said, and walked back toward the dance floor.

I stood there, zipping my pants, watching her hips sway. Elena Vasquez looked back at me once, smiled—actually smiled—and mouthed three words:

*Your place. Friday.*