The reception was in full swing, champagne flowing under the twinkling lights. She'd been watching me all night - the bride's cousin, with her pinned-up hair and a red dress that hugged every curve.
Our first dance was supposed to be polite, but when she pressed against me, her thigh slid between mine with practiced ease. I could feel every breath she took as the music slowed, her perfume intoxicating.
Between the toasts, she 'accidentally' spilled wine on my shirt and offered to help clean it. In the empty hallway, her hands weren't cleaning anything. Instead, they were untying my bowtie with wicked precision.
"You've been staring all night," she accused, backing me into a coat closet. When the door clicked shut, her mouth was on mine before I could protest. The taste of her lipstick and champagne was addictive.
The coat room smelled like wool and her expensive perfume as she hiked that designer dress up her thighs.
The sound of her panties tearing echoed in the small space as I lifted her onto a shelf. "They'll miss us," I warned, but she just wrapped her legs tighter. "Then be quick," she challenged, biting my earlobe.
Outside, we could hear the best man starting his speech as we moved together frantically.
We returned separately - her smudged lipstick the only evidence. But the photographer caught us; in frame #47, you can see her hand disappearing under my jacket near the punch bowl.
The bride still doesn't know why her cousin 'accidentally' took my tux jacket home that night.
Now at every family event, she 'trips' into my arms. Last Sunday, she slipped me a note during dinner: "Your place. 8PM. Wear the tux."
Her husband has no idea why she's suddenly so eager to visit my side of the family.
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