Chapter 2: Champagne and Stolen Glances
The champagne flute felt dangerously fragile in Nancy’s hand. She watched, frozen, as Larry’s reflection distorted in the curved glass—his familiar shoulders in a tuxedo, the unfamiliar sight of his wife’s hand claiming his arm. Then Pam’s booming voice cut through the string quartet’s melody.
“Nancy! Over here! Look who I found!”
Pam descended on their table like a brilliantly plumed bird, all sequins and enthusiasm, towing Larry and a sleek, blonde woman in a silver gown behind her. Nancy’s husband, Mark, shifted beside her, his hand settling on the small of her back. The contact was proprietary, mundane. It made her skin crawl.
“Look at this,” Pam announced, her eyes glittering with matchmaker’s delight. “The whole gang, back together. Larry, Brenda, you remember Nancy and Mark.”
Larry’s gaze met Nancy’s. It was like a physical blow. The air between them crackled, thick with the memory of fogged-up windows and torn nylon. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. His wife, Brenda, smiled a tight, polished smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Of course,” Brenda said, her voice cool. “The lawyer. How are you, Nancy?”
“Fine,” Nancy managed, her own voice sounding thin. “You look lovely.”
It was all unbearable. The polite chit-chat, the way Mark’s hand remained on her, the scent of Brenda’s perfume—something expensive and floral that clashed with the primal, smoky memory of Larry that still lived in Nancy’s senses. She could feel the ghost of him inside her, the ache of that first, overwhelming stretch.
Pam chattered on, oblivious to the fault line she was standing on. “So, Larry was just telling me about the Costa Rica place. Sounds divine. You’ll have to give us all a tour sometime.”
Nancy’s eyes flicked back to Larry. Private pools. The words hung, unspoken, between them. A faint flush crept up his neck. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Excuse me,” Nancy said abruptly, standing. “Ladies’ room.”
She didn’t look back, weaving through the crowded tables, the music and laughter seeming to come from very far away. She pushed through the heavy door of the restroom, a sanctuary of marble and muted gold. Leaning against the cool sink, she stared at her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes looked wild.
The door opened. She expected another society wife, ready to touch up her lipstick.
It was Larry.
He locked the door behind him with a soft, definitive click.
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. The silence was louder than the ballroom.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said, his voice rough. “About you. About my cum dripping out of you in the back of your car.”
The crude, filthy words, spoken in this opulent, sterile space, shattered the last of her control. She crossed the room in two strides and grabbed his face, kissing him with a ferocity that was all teeth and desperation. He groaned into her mouth, his hands fisting in the silk of her dress.
“This is insane,” she panted against his lips, her hands already working at his cummerbund, his bow tie.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he growled, spinning her around and pressing her against the cold marble counter. His hands shoved her dress up around her waist. She heard the rip of fabric as he tore her panties aside. There was no finesse, no gentle prelude. He unzipped his trousers, his cock springing free, thick and already leaking. He was still soft from the last time but hard as iron now, eager.
“Do it,” she hissed, bracing her hands on the sink, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Fuck me right here.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He drove into her from behind, a single, brutal thrust that filled her completely. A sharp cry was torn from her throat. He clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound.
“Quiet,” he breathed into her ear, his hips already setting a punishing rhythm. “Or they’ll all hear what a dirty slut you are for my cock.”
The vulgarity, the risk, the cold marble against her belly and his hot, hard length plunging into her—it was all too much. She was already close, her orgasm coiling tight and low. He fucked her like he was trying to exorcise a demon, his grip on her hip bruising, the slap of his skin against hers echoing in the tiled room.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice strained. “You feel how deep I am? This cunt is mine now.”
“Yes,” she moaned against his palm, her body tightening, clenching around him. “Larry, please…”
He moved one hand from her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast, circles. The dual sensation was unbearable. Her vision whited out. Her climax ripped through her, a silent, seismic convulsion that made her legs buckle. He held her up, his own control shattering. With a guttural, choked-off roar, he buried himself to the hilt and pulsed inside her, his release hot and endless.
They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, slumped against the counter. The sound of their ragged breathing was the only thing in the room. Slowly, he pulled out. The aftermath was a wet, intimate mess.
He handed her a wad of paper towels. Their eyes met in the mirror again. His were dark, dazed, full of something like fear.
“What are we doing?” he whispered.
Nancy cleaned herself up, her hands trembling. She smoothed her dress down. The woman in the mirror looked composed, elegant. A liar.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “But it’s not over.”
She unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving him alone in the gilded room with the scent of their sex hanging in the air. Back in the ballroom, the string quartet was playing a waltz. Mark was still at the table, nursing his drink. He looked up as she approached.
“You were gone a while,” he said, his tone light, but his eyes were sharp.
Nancy picked up her champagne flute. She took a slow, deliberate sip, the bubbles sharp on her tongue. She could still feel Larry’s heat inside her.
“Pam can talk forever,” she said, offering him a sweet, wifely smile. “You know how she is.”