Yep. Toooootally safe.

The hallway outside the reception hall buzzed with muffled music, clinking glasses, laughter. But inside the single-stall bathroom, everything was still.

Emily slammed the lock shut behind her. Her breath came in ragged bursts, chest heaving beneath the tight stretch of her dress. Her nipples scraped raw against the inside of her bra, hard and aching. The damp heat between her thighs had soaked through her panties and beyond—stickier with every step.

She gripped the sink, trying to center herself. But the mirror gave her away.

Flushed cheeks. Hairline damp. Lips parted. Her dress clung to the curve of her hips, and her cleavage was obscene in the low light. She looked like a woman seconds from being fucked.

It’s fine, she told herself. You’re calm. You’re fine.

Just breathe. Hold it together. Get through the night. Smile. Toast. Go home.

But her pulse throbbed deep in her cunt. Her panties were drenched. She could feel the fabric sticking to her folds with every tiny twitch of her thighs.

She straightened slowly. Composed herself.

Then turned to the door.

Unlocked it.

And Derrick was there.

No knock. No pretense. Just waiting. Hard.

He stepped inside, locked it again, and the look in his eyes said everything she didn’t want to admit: she’d wanted him to follow.

No words. No hesitation.

He closed the distance between them in two strides.

“Still soaking?” he murmured, his voice like gravel over silk. “Or did you get yourself off in the mirror first?”

She didn’t get the chance to answer.

His hands gripped her hips, turned her effortlessly, bent her over the sink like her body remembered exactly where it belonged. Her tits mashed against the porcelain, breath fogging the glass. Her dress rode up over her ass. No teasing. No gentleness.

His fingers slid under the elastic of her panties, already clinging wet to her skin. They came down in a single motion, dragging over the curve of her thighs, catching around one ankle.

“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned. “You’re fucking soaked. You wanted this.”

He parted her folds with two fingers, and she gasped as her slick clung to him in long strings. He rubbed her clit slow and hard, watching her hips jerk, her thighs shudder. His thumb pressed to the hood, massaging tight circles until her knees buckled.

“Stay up,” he ordered, voice low and hungry. “You’re not done.”

His cock was already out—thick, hard, glistening at the tip. He rubbed it against her entrance, sliding it through her wetness, smearing her slick from her clit to the base of her spine.

Then he slammed into her.

Emily screamed into her arm.

He bottomed out in a single thrust, stretching her wide and full, her pussy squelching as she clenched around him. The sound was obscene—wet, messy, raw. He pulled back just enough to thrust again, and again, each slap of his hips echoing off the tiled walls.

She could barely breathe. Couldn’t think.

Her clit dragged against the edge of the sink with every hard stroke. Her tits ached. Her milk was threatening to let down. Her thighs were soaked with her own slick and his.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled, pounding into her harder, one hand on her hip, the other snatching a fistful of her hair. “Still my perfect little hole.”

She whimpered, breath broken, cunt fluttering around him.

“While your husband’s out there sipping champagne,” he hissed, leaning close. “I’m filling your pussy with my cock.”

Her orgasm ripped through her like lightning.

Her legs gave. Her body convulsed around him, cunt squeezing hard, clenching down in waves. She sobbed into the porcelain, biting her wrist, every nerve lit up.

Derrick didn’t slow.

He held her down and fucked her through it, fast and brutal. Her slick ran down her legs. His balls slapped wet against her clit.

Then he snarled and thrust deep, holding still as his cock pulsed inside her, flooding her with thick, hot spurts of cum.

She felt it pour into her—stretching her, coating her walls, dripping out around his shaft before he’d even moved.

When he finally pulled out, a thick string of his cum followed, dribbling down her thighs in slow, sticky trails.

He stared at the mess for a long moment.

Then smeared it between her cheeks with two fingers, dragging it up and painting her skin with it.

He zipped up. Adjusted his jacket.

And left her like that—used, dripping, shaking.

Emily cleaned up in silence. Her thighs were slick. Her pussy still tingled. Her bra was damp with milk. Her panties were ruined.

She wiped her face. Washed her hands. Put herself back together as best she could.

When she returned to the reception, Jason handed her a flute of champagne with a soft smile.

“You okay?” he asked. “You were gone a while.”

Emily took the glass.

“Just needed a minute,” she said softly.

And she drank it all—every last drop.