Still at the church

The receiving line outside the church was long, slow, full of polite small talk and cold air. Jason had wandered off toward the parking lot with a couple coworkers to discuss carpooling to the reception venue. Emily stayed near the side entrance, arms crossed, nipples stiff against the inside of her bra as the breeze lifted the hem of her skirt.

She needed a minute. Her thighs were sticky. Her breath kept hitching for no reason.

“Still wear perfume behind your knees?”

The voice was low, warm, cruelly familiar. Right behind her.

Emily stiffened.

Derrick’s hand slid up the back of her thigh, under the fabric of her dress. No warning. No hesitation. Fingers brushed lace.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, amused. “Christ, Em. Did you start dripping in the pews?”

Her head snapped back, but her body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“We can’t—”

He hooked a finger inside her panties. Pulled them tight between her lips, dragging them slow across her swollen clit. Just once. It was enough to make her gasp.

“I’m married now,” he whispered, voice thick with mock-innocence. “Shouldn’t be doing this.”

Her knees buckled. She had to grip the stone wall beside her.

“Derrick,” she hissed. But it came out as a moan.

He let go of her panties. Smoothed her skirt down. Took a step back.

Jason’s voice floated toward them, calling her name.

Derrick didn’t wait for her to turn around.

“See you at the reception, sweetheart.”

Emily stood there, flushed, panting softly, thighs shaking.

Her panties clung wetly to her folds. She didn’t move for a full ten seconds.

Then she turned, smiled like nothing had happened, and walked back toward her husband—every step slick, tingling, electric.