The clock above the buffet shows half past ten, and I wonder if I’m the only one here secretly watching the second hand. My husband, Markus, stands on a small stage, conjuring up sales increases and synergies, while I sip a glass of champagne and try not to think about the stuffiness creeping under my dress. The air is heavy—perfume and sweat, the flower arrangements on the tables look like afterthought funeral bouquets, and the laughter of the colleagues sounds hollow. And then I see him: Lukas, my husband’s best man. He leans casually against the bar, jacket over his shoulder, and studies me with a look that makes my knees go weak. I’ve known him for years—he was there at the wedding, gave the speech where he called Markus “the best buddy since school days.” But tonight, he seems different. Maybe it’s the flickering candlelight, maybe the boredom settling like a cloth over the room, maybe the third glass of champagne. But when he returns my smile, I feel a pull deep inside me—a desire that has nothing to do with alcohol.
A look that lingers
Markus is still talking, his voice a monotonous stream. I nod mechanically while watching Lukas drink his beer in small sips, fingers wrapped around the glass as if caressing it. I remember our wedding five years ago: how he gave the speech, looked at me, and I thought it was just friendship. But today, something gleams in his eyes—a glimmer that makes me catch my breath. He raises his glass, a barely perceptible nod, and I feel heat rise to my neck, spreading across my chest. Part of me says: Don’t go. Another part—the one suffocating among all the tablecloths and company logos, slowly withering in this married life—urges me closer. I imagine what his hands would feel like, whether his kiss would taste of beer or something sweeter.
When Markus finally dives into a group of colleagues, I seize the opportunity. With the excuse of needing fresh air, I weave through the crowd, past faces I don’t see. My dress—a slim-cut, dark red piece I bought specially for this evening, almost too daring for a company anniversary—clings to my thighs. I feel men’s gazes, but I’m searching for only one. And there he stands, already at the terrace door, as if he’d been waiting for me, hand on the handle, head half-turned.
The first touch
Outside, the night’s coolness falls over me like a relief. The city lights the sky in a dirty orange, and the music from the hall fades to a dull bass vibrating in my chest. Lukas leans against the railing, face half in shadow, white shirt billowing slightly in the wind. “Long time no see,” he says quietly. His voice sounds smoky, like after too many cigarettes—though he doesn’t smoke, as I know. I stand next to him, fingers clenched around the cold metal railing, and the pressure of the metal calms me. “Too long,” I reply, and my heart hammers so loudly I fear he can hear it. He turns to me, his breath brushing my cheek—warm, a hint of beer and mint. “Markus is lucky,” he says, and I laugh nervously, a forced sound. “He says that too. Probably because I do the dishes for him.” But then he places his hand on mine—lightly, almost casually—and I forget what I was going to say. His skin is warm, despite the cold, and he strokes his thumb over the back of my hand, a gesture so familiar that for a moment I believe we’ve done this a thousand times. But no, it’s the first time. And it feels like a betrayal that’s been hanging in the air for a long time, like a string just waiting to be plucked. “Should we go inside?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s better here.” He smiles, a crooked smile I love about him—no, that I never noticed until now. And then he leans forward and kisses me.
The kiss that changes everything
His lips are soft, demanding, and I open up as if under a spell. His hand glides to my neck, pulls me closer, and I forget Markus, the anniversary, the whole world. His taste is bitter from the beer, sweet from me, and I press against him as if I could dissolve into him. He groans softly when I claw my fingers into his hair—it’s softer than I thought—and the sound echoes in me like a promise. “We should stop,” I whisper between kisses, but we continue. My hand finds his chest, feels the heartbeat under the shirt, and I want more. His hand travels over my back, finds the zipper of my dress, and I hold my breath. “Not here,” I say, but my voice sounds hoarse, barely recognizable. He nods, takes my hand, and leads me through a side entrance into an empty hallway. Somewhere a door, an office, the light flickers neon blue, cold and impersonal. He pushes me inside, locks the door, turns to me, and I see the desire in his features—naked, unguarded. I lean against the light wood desk, feel the edge against my thighs, as he approaches me slowly, as if savoring every moment. “Are you sure?” he asks, and I feel his fingers on my cheek. Instead of answering, I pull him to me and kiss him again—deeper, hungrier, until we’re both out of breath.
The surrender
His hands find my zipper, pull it down slowly, tooth by tooth. The dress loosens from my shoulders, falls around my waist, and I stand there in lace bra and panties, my skin almost bluish under the neon light. He steps back to look at me, and I feel his gaze like a touch—from my lips over my neck to the curves the bra barely covers. “Damn beautiful,” he murmurs, and I laugh softly, but it sounds more like a sigh. Then he leans forward, his lips on my collarbone, and I throw my head back, close my eyes. His kisses travel downward, over my chest, the tips of my breasts, which harden under the lace and press against the touch. He opens the clasp with a skill that surprises me—once, twice, and then the bra falls away, and I feel the cool air on my skin. And then his tongue: warm and wet, on my nipple, which tightens under his mouth.
I arch, hold his head tight, while he sucks and licks, sometimes gentle, sometimes demanding. A moan escapes me, and he laughs softly against my skin, the vibration sending a shiver through me. His hand slides down my stomach, over the edge of my panties, and I press against his touch, greedy for more. He pulls the fabric aside, his fingers finding me wet and ready, and I gasp as he strokes me, circles me, pushes inside me. “Lukas,” I breathe, and the name sounds foreign and familiar at once. He lifts his head, looks at me, his eyes dark with lust, and then he lifts me onto the desk, pushes my panties down my legs, and I open for him, spread my thighs, inviting him in. He unbuckles his belt, opens his pants, and I see him hard and waiting, and the sight makes me wetter still. He leans over me, his body covering mine, and I feel the pressure of him against my entrance, teasing, and I grab his hips, pull him closer. “Now,” I whisper, and he pushes inside me, deep and slow, filling me completely. I cry out, a sound swallowed by the neon-lit room, and he begins to move, a rhythm that builds, a wave that carries me away.
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