It isn't

The clinking of glassware began halfway through the salmon course—polite at first, then louder, egged on by giggles and whistles. Someone tapped a spoon against a wine glass and shouted, “Kiss the bride!”

Emily sat two tables away from the head table, watching as Derrick leaned in and kissed his new wife in front of everyone.

It should’ve meant something. It should’ve closed a chapter.

Instead, Emily felt her thighs twitch under the table.

Jason was mid-story beside her, retelling some workplace anecdote about someone’s kid and a misfired PowerPoint. She nodded along, smiled in the right places, but her body was elsewhere. Her nipples still rubbed stiff against her bra with every breath. Her panties had long since dried only to dampen again the moment Derrick caught her eye from across the room.

He hadn’t stopped.

Not once since that quick grope outside the church.

And now, every time she glanced up, she found him already watching her—openly, shamelessly, over the rim of his whiskey glass, fingers drumming idly against the white linen tablecloth like he had nothing better to do than undress her with his eyes. Every look was a reminder: he remembered everything they’d done. And he knew exactly how to make her remember, too.

The toasts began.

First the maid of honor, tearful and sweet, recounting their childhood sleepovers.

Then the best man—Derrick’s brother—who veered off script more than once and hinted at Derrick’s wild past. “We all thought he’d end up in handcuffs, but not for a wedding license.”

Laughter.

Jason leaned over. “These guys are a riot, huh?”

Emily kept her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t dare shift. Her skin felt too tight. Her whole body buzzed.

She tried not to look again.

She failed.

Derrick was still watching her.

Only this time, his hand disappeared beneath the table. Slow. Deliberate.

Her breath hitched.

His elbow flexed—just slightly. A slow pump. A pause. A pump again.

He was touching himself.

In the middle of a toast.

To his own wedding.

While staring at her.

Emily’s hand slipped under the tablecloth, gripping the edge of her chair so tightly her knuckles went white. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. Her mouth was dry and wet all at once.

Jason gave a polite clap. “Guess we’re up soon.”

“What?” she asked, voice raw.

“The table toast,” he said. “We’re supposed to say something nice to the bride and groom. You good?”

Emily swallowed hard.

“Totally,” she whispered. “Just give me a second.”

She stood too quickly, chair scraping. Jason looked up. “You okay?”

She **** a smile.

“Just need to freshen up.”

And she walked toward the back hallway without waiting for a response—every step slick and sticky between her thighs, her body overheated and wound too tight, her pulse pounding like she'd been edging on adrenaline for hours. She told herself she just needed a moment alone. To breathe. To cool down before she did something reckless.