Bachelorette Fuck

Sophie's POV

I'm getting married in two weeks, and I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

Not marrying Derek. That's probably a mistake too, if I'm being honest with myself. Twenty-four years old, engaged to my college sweetheart who thinks missionary once a week is adventurous, planning a wedding that feels more like a performance than a celebration.

No, the mistake I'm about to make is walking into this strip club.

But my best friend Maya had insisted. "One last wild night before you're tied down forever," she'd said, dragging me and three other bridesmaids to Onyx—the kind of upscale gentlemen's club where the dancers look like models and the private rooms cost more than my car payment.

The bass thundered through my chest as we claimed a table near the main stage. The lights were dim, red and purple hues casting everything in sin. Half-naked men moved on stage with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how good they looked. And god, they looked good. Muscular, tattooed, the kind of bodies Derek definitely didn't have.

I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be looking. I shouldn't have felt this heat pooling low in my belly as I watched them move.

"Drinks!" Maya shouted over the music, shoving a martini into my hand. "To Sophie's last night of freedom!"

The other girls cheered. I downed the drink in three gulps.

Two drinks became four. Four became six. The room started spinning pleasantly, my inhibitions melting away with each sip. I watched the dancers with increasing boldness, my thighs pressing together as I imagined what those strong hands would feel like on my body.

Derek had never made me feel like this—desperate, aching, willing to do something reckless just to satisfy the craving. We'd been together since I was nineteen, and our sex life was... fine. Predictable and boring, if I was being brutally honest after six vodka sodas.

But these men? They looked like they could fuck me until I forgot my own name.

"That one keeps looking at you," Maya whispered in my ear, nodding toward the stage.

She was right. One of the dancers—tall, probably mid-thirties, with dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass—had his eyes locked on me. He moved like liquid sex, all rolling muscles and deliberate movements, and when he smiled at me, it was pure sin.

My face flushed hot. I looked away, but I could still feel his gaze burning into me.

"You should get a private dance," Maya urged, giggling. "Come on, live a little! Derek never has to know."

"I don't know..." I started, but she was already waving him over.

Fuck.

He approached our table with the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly how devastating he was. Up close, he was even more gorgeous—those dark eyes, the shadow of stubble on his sharp jaw, tattoos covering his muscular arms. He had to be at least thirty-five, maybe older. A real man, not a boy like Derek.

"Ladies," he said, his voice deep and smooth like whiskey. His eyes landed on me. "Bride-to-be?"

The stupid sash Maya had forced me to wear gave it away. I nodded, suddenly unable to form words.

"Congratulations." He didn't sound like he meant it. "How about a private dance? My gift to the blushing bride."

Maya practically shoved me out of my seat. "She'd love one!"

My heart hammered as he extended his hand. I took it—his palm warm and rough against mine—and let him lead me away from the table, down a hallway lined with doors. Private rooms.

We stepped into one and he closed the door behind us. The music was muffled here, the lighting lower, more intimate. A leather couch dominated the small space, and mirrors lined one wall.

"I'm Dante," he said, leaning against the closed door. "What's your name, beautiful?"

"Sophie," I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

"Sophie." He said it slowly, like he was tasting it. "How old are you, Sophie?"

"Twenty-four."

His smile widened. "And how old is your fiancé?"

"Twenty-five. Why?"

"Just wondering what kind of man lets a girl like you walk into a place like this without him." He pushed off the door and stalked toward me with predatory grace. "Wondering if he knows what he's got."

I should've been offended. Should've defended Derek. Instead, I just stood there, frozen, as Dante circled me slowly.

"He doesn't, does he?" Dante continued, stopping behind me. His breath was warm against my neck. "Doesn't know that underneath this good girl act, you're desperate to be touched. To be fucked properly for once in your life."

"That's not—" I started, but he stepped closer, his chest brushing my back, and the words died in my throat.

"You're soaked already, aren't you?" he murmured in my ear. "I can see it in the way you're breathing. The way you're pressing your thighs together. You came here hoping something would happen. Hoping someone would finally give you what you need."

He was right. God, he was so fucking right, and the shame of it only made me wetter.

"This is just a dance," I whispered, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.

"Sure it is." His hands landed on my hips, pulling me back against him, and I felt the hard length of him pressing against my ass through his leather pants. "But if you want more, Sophie, all you have to do is ask."

I should've said no. Should've walked out right then. But I didn't.

Instead, I turned in his arms and looked up at him. "I want more."

His smile was wicked. "Good girl."

He kissed me hard, his tongue invading my mouth, claiming it. I moaned against his lips, my hands clutching at his bare shoulders. He tasted like mint and sin, and when he bit my bottom lip, I gasped.

"How much more do you want?" he asked, his hands sliding under my tight dress, pushing it up my thighs. "Just this? Or do you want to know what it feels like to be properly fucked?"

"Both," I breathed. "Everything. I want everything."

He groaned, palming my ass through my panties. "Fuck, you're perfect. Does your fiancé know what a desperate little slut he's marrying?"