Yes

The reception hall was everything the church wasn’t—dim, luxurious, and throbbing with energy. Strings of fairy lights hung from the ceiling beams like vines, flickering gold against white tablecloths and crystal glasses. A live band played something jazzy near the far wall, and the open bar was already drawing a crowd.

Emily stood by the edge of the dance floor, gripping her champagne flute a little too tightly, trying not to squirm in her soaked panties. Every movement reminded her of Derrick’s finger—how casually it had pulled her open, how quickly it had made her knees go weak.

Jason was chatting with a VP near the dessert table, going full “charming husband” mode. His suit fit well. His smile was clean. He hadn’t noticed her breathless return to the car. He hadn’t noticed the way she’d sat gingerly, thighs clenched, the entire ride to the reception hall.

She tried to sip slowly. Tried to breathe.

Then the lights dimmed.

A hush fell over the room as the band switched to something slower, more cinematic. The MC tapped the mic and smiled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time as husband and wife, please welcome Derrick and—” (Emily still couldn’t remember her name) “—to the floor.”

Applause. Smiles. Phones raised.

And then he was there again.

Derrick.

In the center of the room. Arm around his new wife’s waist. Leading her into the first steps of their dance like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t look nervous. Or reverent. Or even particularly happy.

He looked smug.

Emily couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He whispered something in the bride’s ear, making her laugh softly—then glanced up. Over her shoulder. Directly at Emily.

His gaze met hers like a hand to the throat. Heavy. Possessive.

The music swelled.

He spun his bride gently, hand still on her waist, but his eyes didn’t leave Emily for a full five seconds.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

Emily felt the air go tight in her lungs. Her nipples throbbed. She pressed her thighs together under the table, tried to will the wetness away, but the friction just made it worse.

“God,” she muttered under her breath, pressing her glass to her lips.

Jason returned with two cocktails. “Here. Something stronger. You looked like you needed it.”

She **** a smile and took it. “Thanks.”

He nodded toward the dance floor. “She’s beautiful, huh? You think he’s the romantic type?”

Emily’s laugh was sharp, bitter, involuntary.

Jason frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, taking a long sip. “I just think… some men are better at putting on a show than others.”

Jason shrugged, sipping his own drink, already distracted by someone calling his name across the room.

Emily watched him walk away.

And across the dance floor, Derrick watched her over his bride’s shoulder—his smile small, his eyes dark—like he already knew exactly how wet she was.