Groom’s Brother Claims the Smiling Guest
The taste hit Magnus first—salt and slick and something under it that was just her, spreading over his tongue the second he shoved her panties aside and dragged it flat through her folds. He had her pinned against the locked pantry door, one forearm braced across her hips to keep her from sliding down the wood, the thin scrap of fabric still hooked around one ankle where he hadn’t bothered to finish stripping it off her.
He sucked her clit between his lips and scraped his teeth over it, light, deliberate. Ella’s hips jerked hard enough to rattle the door in its frame. A box of something on the shelf above them trembled and a fine dust of flour sifted down onto his hair, onto her bare thigh where it hooked over his shoulder.
She’d smiled at Karen all night. She’d smiled until her jaw ached, watching her hand go up next to his brother’s, the ring catching light, and every smile had been a small lie stacked on the last one. That was gone now. There was only his mouth and the door at her back and the fact that she could not make a single sound loud enough to reach the party.
He kept his mouth locked on her, tongue working in slow brutal circles, and her free thigh clamped around his skull like she could crush the ache out of herself that way, her other foot still rooted to the boards, taking her weight. From where she stood it felt exact, surgical almost, like he’d mapped her out already and was simply following the route. The only sound in the small dark room was the wet pull of his tongue and, underneath it, her own breath scraping in and out too fast.
Magnus dropped lower and fucked his tongue into her in short hard strokes, and this—this was the part that undid him more than her taste, the way her whole body answered him without her permission. He could hear the party bleeding through the thin wood, laughter, a champagne cork, someone calling his brother’s name. None of it mattered. In here there was only the slick noise of his mouth working her open and her short broken pants stacking on top of each other.
He dragged two fingers through her wetness and shoved them deep, curling them hard against the front wall of her, and Ella’s head cracked back against the door. Her hands fisted in his hair and yanked, not pulling him away, just holding on because her knees had started to go. He groaned against her, the vibration of it running straight up into her, and the sound came out of him rough and low, half surrender.
He was done watching her pretend. He stood fast, mouth and chin shining wet with her, and hauled her dress up around her waist in one rough motion. He caught the panties still tangled at her ankle, dragged them the rest of the way off, and she stepped free of them barefoot on the cold boards. He turned her, guided her, and lowered himself down onto the flour-dusted floor with his back braced against the shelving unit’s frame, wrenching his belt open and shoving his trousers down over his hips in the same motion, dragging her down with him by the hips.
Ella’s knees hit the boards on either side of his thighs, the rough wood scraping raw against her bare skin, and for one suspended second neither of them moved. His cock stood thick and dark against his stomach, flushed at the head, a slow bead already sliding down the underside of it. She looked at it, looked at him, and something low in her belly clenched so hard it almost hurt.
She sank down onto him in one long grinding drop. The stretch of him splitting her open was raw enough to steal her breath entirely, a burn that bloomed and then dissolved into something better, something that made her hips roll before she’d told them to. She heard him hiss through his teeth. She felt her own slick easing the slide of him, felt every inch seat home inside her.
She started to move, and this was different from his mouth—harder, more desperate, less patient. Her hips rolled in tight circles so her clit dragged against the base of him with every pass, and he gripped her ass in both hands and forced her down harder, grinding her into him instead of letting her set the pace. Skin slapped wet against skin. The sound of it filled the small room, obscene and constant, layered under his breath which had gone ragged and hers which had gone thin and high.
Magnus watched her above him, dress bunched at her waist, the neckline still fastened high over her chest, flour ground into the sweat at her thighs, and thought he might actually lose his mind before this was over. He’d spent the whole party watching another man’s ring catch light on her hand-shaped absence, watching her laugh at things that weren’t funny, and now she was riding him on a pantry floor with her nails cutting red lines into his shoulders and he could not get enough of the sight of it. He thrust up to meet her, short brutal punches of his hips timed to her downward grind, and the wet slap of her taking him got louder, faster, ugly and perfect.
She felt every ridge and vein of him dragging inside her on each drop, a friction that built instead of easing, a burn low in her hips that spread with every roll of her body. Her breath came in short punched-out gasps that she bit back behind her teeth. She could hear herself, wet and open, sliding against him, and she could hear him too now, breath sawing rough out of his chest, a low grunt every time she bottomed out on him.
Magnus planted both palms flat on the floor and rose up onto his knees beneath her, taking her weight with him, and used the height to flip them without pulling out. One arm locked around her back, the other braced flat on the boards, and he rolled his hips up hard as he twisted, and for one disorienting second Ella was airborne, weightless, his cock still buried deep and dragging inside her with the shift of angle, a slow furnace-drag that punched a broken sound out of her throat before her back even hit the boards.
Flour puffed up in a pale cloud around her shoulders. Magnus planted his knees wide beneath himself, caught her legs and hooked them hard over his own shoulders in one motion, folding her nearly double, her knees framing her face, and drove back into her to the hilt before she’d finished exhaling. The new angle changed everything. The head of his cock punched straight against the spot inside her that made heat flare white and total behind her eyes, a sensation with no shape, just pressure and pulse and the roar of her own blood.
He fucked her like that, long full strokes that bottomed out every single time, and the room filled with it—the wet slap of his balls against her ass, his breath tearing ragged out of his chest in short grunts timed to each thrust, her own voice reduced to broken gasps she couldn’t fully swallow no matter how hard she pressed her lips shut. Sweat dripped off his jaw onto her stomach. Her cunt clenched around him in small helpless pulses that she fought to hold back, and failed, again and again.
Through the wood behind his head the party rolled on—music, a burst of laughter, his brother’s voice raised in some toast—and the nearness of it, the paper-thin distance between this and discovery, wound tighter through both of them with every slap of skin. Magnus felt her control fraying under him, felt the way her whole body had gone tight and trembling, and some low animal part of him wanted to hear her break before anyone outside that door noticed they were gone.
He leaned down over her, folding her further, mouth right against her ear, hips never stopping. His voice came out low, wrecked, barely more than breath.
“Come. Now.”
She broke on the order like something in her had been waiting for permission. Her thighs locked shaking against his shoulders, her back arched off the flour-dusted boards, and her cunt seized around him in tight rhythmic pulses that tore a groan out of his throat. She bit down against her own forearm to keep the sound from carrying, eyes screwed shut, every muscle in her body gone rigid and then shuddering.
Magnus followed two thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt and holding there, hips grinding one last hard circle as he came in thick pulses deep inside her. His breath tore out of him in rough broken grunts against her ear, his whole body jerking with it, and for a second neither of them moved at all, locked together, both of them shaking, both of them listening.
The party hadn’t stopped. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed too loud near the door. Ella’s heart slammed against her ribs for an entirely different reason now, adrenaline chasing the last of the pleasure out of her blood, and she went still under him, listening for footsteps, for the door handle, for anything.
Magnus eased back first, pulling out slow, and immediately his hands were moving—straightening her dress down over her thighs, swiping flour off her shoulder, checking his own shirt for the same white dust. Neither of them spoke. She grabbed her panties off the floor and stuffed them into the small clutch she’d left on the shelf hours ago, hands not quite steady. He tucked himself back into his trousers, buckled his belt, and dragged a hand through his hair, wincing when a cloud of flour came loose.
They stood in the dark for a moment, inches apart, breathing hard, listening to his brother’s engagement party carry on six feet away through a locked door neither of them had any right to be behind. Then Ella reached past him and turned the lock, and neither of them said a word before she slipped out first, back into the light and the noise, leaving him to follow a full two minutes later like nothing at all had happened.