The Reception

CHASE

Family beach weekend.

Everyone else asleep.

We slipped out at 1:14 a.m.

Outdoor shower—wood slats, open roof, ocean thundering fifty yards away.

I pressed her face-first against the tile, hooked one leg high over my forearm, and thrust in deep.

Water roaring full blast—masking every gasp, every wet slap of skin.

I fucked her hard—deep—growling low against her ear:

“Feel that? That’s me claiming you—right here—while our parents sleep fifty feet away.”

She came clenching—biting her own forearm—silent scream ripping through her body.

We kept going until the hot water ran cold, then walked back inside through separate doors—pretending nothing happened.

Late-night horror flick.

Almost empty theater.

We took the back row.

She climbed into my lap—facing the screen—skirt already rucked up.

I pushed her panties aside.

She sank down slow—taking me inch by inch—biting her lip to stay quiet.

I gripped her hips—guided her in slow, rolling grinds—my hand under her skirt the whole time, fingers circling her clit in tight, relentless loops.

She came twice—silent, shaking—head tipped back against my shoulder, teeth sunk into her own lip to keep from crying out.

Rooftop deck—accessed by climbing out my bedroom window.

2:47 a.m.

Blanket barely covering us.

Stars overhead.

I laid her down on the lounge chair—missionary—slow, deep thrusts.

Face-to-face.

Eyes locked.

No words.

Just breathing each other in.

When she came—she bit my shoulder—hard—muffling the cry against my skin.

“Hike.”

Right.

We pulled off at the first empty trailhead.

Found a big oak twenty yards in.

I pressed her back against rough bark—lifted her—legs wrapped tight around my waist—thrust in hard.

Bark scraped her back—she didn’t care.

I fucked her fast—desperate—growling against her neck.

Power outage—storm raging.

Garage dark—only lightning flashes.

Bent her over the hood of my Bentley—still warm from the drive home.

Fucked her quick—rough—rain hammering the metal roof, drowning every sound.

Study room—glass door—public.

She sat on the table—laptop open—skirt rucked up.

I stood between her legs—slow, deep thrusts—her legs wrapped around my waist.

Every time footsteps approached—she’d type nonsense—moaning low in her throat.

I fucked her through two orgasms—slow, controlled—until she was trembling, biting her lip bloody.

And then the end of summer.

The wedding day.

The string quartet kept playing Pachelbel’s Canon like it was the only song they knew.

I stood under that white rose arch, tie choking me, shoulders squared for the endless photos, while Mom—now officially Victoria Winters—glowed brighter than the late-afternoon sun on the lake. Richard had his arm around her waist, grinning like a man who’d finally solved the puzzle after years of wrong turns.

And me?

I tried not to look at the girl in pale sage chiffon standing three feet away like staring at her would set the whole lawn on fire.

It almost did.

The photographer wanted “sibling candids” next.

Of course he did.

“Natural smiles, Chase! Sloane! Pretend you actually like each other!”

I forced the corner of my mouth upward. Stepped closer.

My hand settled on the small of her back—officially part of the pose.

Unofficially because I knew exactly how sensitive that strip of skin felt when she was arched beneath me, trying not to wake the house.

My thumb stroked once.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The same tiny circle I’d dragged over her clit two nights earlier while she bit my pillow and came so hard her thighs shook for minutes afterward.

She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose.

Her smile stayed glued in place.

Her eyes stayed locked on the lens.

“Closer together,” the photographer called. “Chase, arm around her shoulders. Sloane, lean in—yes, perfect!”

I slid my arm around her.

My bicep brushed the side of her breast through the thin fabric.

I felt her nipple tighten instantly.

Fuck.

She remembered.

I knew she did.

Because her breath hitched—just once, tiny—and a faint tremor ran down her spine.

Click. Click. Click.

“Now look at each other,” the guy said. “Laugh like you’re sharing an inside joke!”

I turned my head.

She turned hers.

Up close her eyes were that murder-green, glassy with everything we weren’t saying.

Pupils blown wide.

Lips parted just enough that I remembered exactly how they’d looked stretched around me three nights ago in the pool house—quiet, desperate, perfect.

Her pulse jumped under my palm where it rested on her back.

My thumb kept moving.

Small, filthy circles.

Right above the zipper I’d tugged down with my teeth at 2:47 a.m. while she whispered “faster” like it was the only word left in her vocabulary.

The photographer’s voice blurred into background noise.

We stared too long.

Way too long.

Someone called for Mom.

Flower girls.

More champagne.

My hand didn’t move.

Instead it drifted lower—slow, casual, like I was just adjusting the pose.

My palm flattened over the curve of her ass.

Fingers splayed.

My pinky slipped under the hem of the chiffon—just enough to graze bare skin.

No panties.

Of course no fucking panties.

Her thighs snapped together so fast I nearly groaned out loud.

“Chase,” she breathed.

Barely a sound.

Pure warning.

“Sloane,” I answered.

Same low tone I used when I was telling her to take it deeper.

A server passed with champagne flutes.

We both smiled politely.

Took one each.

Clinked like civilized people.

The second he turned away I leaned in—lips at her ear, voice so low it stayed trapped between us.

“Bathroom. Five minutes. Third stall from the window. I’ll go first.”

She didn’t reply.

Just drained her champagne in two swallows, set the empty flute on a passing tray, and started counting silently.

I could tell.

I knew her rhythms by then.

I walked away first—calm, casual, suit still pristine.

Through the French doors.

Down the hallway.

Into the women’s room like I belonged there.

Third stall.

Door cracked.

I waited.

Ninety seconds later the door opened.

She slipped inside.

Locked it.

No words.

I grabbed her wrist, yanked her in, spun her so her back hit the tile.

My mouth crashed onto hers—hard, starving, tasting champagne and lip gloss and the faint salt of her skin.

My hands shoved her skirt up to her hips.

Found nothing but slick heat.

I groaned into her mouth.

“Good fucking girl.”

She bit my lip—sharp enough to sting.

“Fast,” she hissed. “They’ll notice we’re gone.”

I spun her around.

Bent her over the sink.

Her palms slapped the marble.

In the mirror I watched her eyes widen as I yanked my belt open, shoved my pants down just enough.

My cock sprang free—thick, furious from hours of restraint.

No teasing.

No warm-up.

I lined up and thrust in hard—one brutal stroke that buried me to the hilt.

She gasped—too loud—then clamped her own forearm between her teeth to muffle it.

I fucked her like we had sixty seconds left to live.

Deep.

Fast.

Relentless.

The wet slap of skin echoed off the tiles.

I clamped my hand over her mouth anyway—two fingers sliding between her lips so she could bite down instead of screaming my name for the whole reception to hear.

“Look,” I growled against her ear. “Look at yourself getting railed on your parents’ wedding day.”

She did.

Mascara already smudged under her eyes.

Lips swollen red.

Cheeks flushed.

Dress hiked to her waist.

My suit still buttoned, tie straight—only my cock slamming into her over and over like I was trying to carve my name inside her.

I reached around.

Found her clit.

Rubbed fast, ruthless circles.

She shattered almost instantly—silent, violent—teeth sinking into my fingers until I tasted blood.

Her cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking me so hard my vision blurred for a second.

I kept fucking her through it—grunting low—then pulled out.

“On your knees.”

She dropped.

Marble cold against her bare knees.

My hand found her hair again.

Not gripping hard.

Just threading through the strands, careful not to ruin the updo completely.

I rocked forward—shallow, testing—letting her set the rhythm.

She took me deeper.

Lips stretching wide around my thickness.

Cheeks hollowing as she sucked.

Her tongue flattened along the underside, dragging slow and wet from base to tip every time she pulled back, then plunging forward again until I hit the soft resistance at the back of her throat.

Fuck.

She gagged—just a little—then swallowed around me.

The flutter of her throat muscles squeezed the head like a fist.

My hips jerked involuntarily.

“Easy,” I breathed, even though I was the one losing control. “Breathe through your nose, baby.”

She did.

Eyes watering now, tears collecting at the corners, but she didn’t stop.

Didn’t pull off.

Just took me deeper—nose brushing my pelvis—held me there for three long seconds while her throat worked around me, swallowing again and again.

I groaned—low, broken—head tipping back for a second before I forced myself to look down.

To watch.

Her mascara had started to run in thin black tracks down her cheeks.

Lipstick smeared along the shaft.

Hair starting to slip from its pins.

She looked wrecked.

Beautifully, completely wrecked.

And she was still sucking me like it was the only thing that mattered.

I started to move—small thrusts—fucking her mouth in shallow strokes while she moaned around me.

The vibration shot straight to my balls.

Her hands gripped my thighs—nails digging through the fabric—for balance as I picked up speed.

The wet, filthy sounds filled the stall—suction, spit, the occasional soft choke when I pushed too deep.

Every time she gagged she clenched tighter, throat fluttering, eyes squeezing shut for a second before snapping open again to lock on mine.

And then she pulled off—gasping, lips swollen, mascara streaked.

“I can’t,” she rasped.

“Can’t what?” I asked, voice rough with need.

“You’re too big.” She stood up on shaky legs. “Leave. I need to fix my makeup.”

“You can’t be fucking serious right now,” I said, frustration burning through me.

“Not my fault you have a stallion for a dick,” she shot back, already turning toward the mirror. “Wonder how Brittany survived that for long.”

“Right.” I said through clenched teeth and left.

When I stepped back onto the lawn, the quartet had switched to something softer.

Guests were drifting toward the cake table.

Mom was laughing with Richard, arm looped through his.

Sloane came five minutes later—makeup flawless again, dress smoothed, chin high.

Our eyes met across the crowd.

She licked the corner of her mouth—slow, deliberate—right where a faint trace of me still lingered.

Then she turned back to our parents like the dutiful daughter they believed her to be.

While I stood there—still tasting her, still feeling the ghost of her throat around me—knowing we’d just crossed another line we could never uncross.

And knowing we’d do it again the second we got the chance.