"Can't wait to get you home," he murmured in your ear, his warm breath sending a chill down your neck despite yourself.
You were surrounded by people, who if they overheard anything he had whispered in your ear, you would have been mortified. Warmth spread to your cheeks as you lifted your shoulder to urge his face away from yours, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as his toned, pink, silk covered front pressed closer to your side.
"God, you're so fuckin' sexy." His palm made its ridiculously slow course of direction from your opposite shoulder, all the way down your spine, until he could grip your hip tightly to keep you close. You could smell the tequila oozing from his pores, one (or three) too many La Paloma's if had any sense of it. "Have I told you that tonight?"
"You did tell me," you confirmed quietly, turning your head to look at him. "A few times, actually."
"Tell ya again," he urged quickly, his hand squeezing your hip once more. "You're the sexiest woman I've ever seen." His voice was slow, the alcohol coating his throat into a subtle rasp. "Never wanted anyone more than you."
He was persistent, if anything. And horny. He made that abundantly clear as his intricately patterned hips ticked forward, his groin pressed tightly against the top of your thigh. He crowded every inch of your space, a few random twists of his hair tickling your temple, the silk of his shirt tickling your skin entirely too softly, the subtle hardness of his undeniably impressive length ready and waiting for you. If you had let him, he would have snuck you into a closet, an earshot away from your distant relatives that attended your cousin's wedding alongside you.
Your blood boiled with it though; that need, the utter desire you felt deep in your belly. You almost gave in, almost let him lead you away, almost risked the embarrassment of being the subject of your family's gossip when someone undoubtedly caught you. You didn't, clearly, what with the way the last hour had been a torturous form of foreplay.
"H," you warned, glancing behind him with a timid smile as one of your uncles approached the other end of the bar.
You were standing just off to the side, in a tiny little nook that had no business being large enough to fit both your bodies. You weren't even sure how you got there, your mind fuzzy from both your drinks and your boyfriend. But there you were, listening to the deep timbre of his voice recite, in detail, what he planned to do once he got you alone.
"What? I can't love on you?" he faked innocence.
You laughed softly. "You can if you keep it PG."
"Guess that depends," he pondered with a slow drawl, "does making you come on my face fall under the PG category?"
A dramaticized roll of your eyes had him playfully giggling against your cheek. "Definitely not," you sighed with a smile.
"No can do then."
"Harry–"
"Y'drive me crazy, you know that?"
"Feelings mutual," you chuckled dryly.
"The worst part... is that I know exactly what's waiting for me." His voice lowered, his lips just barely skimming over the corner of your jaw, warm breath caressing your skin once more. "I know you're wet, and it's fucking killing me."
You were wet, uncomfortably so, and this man did nothing to quell it. If anything, he went out of his way to intensify it. You didn't miss the way his fingers toyed with his bottom lip periodically throughout the evening, or the way he walked dick first back to you from retrieving drinks in perfectly tailored pants, or that his hands always found purchase on you somewhere; your thigh during the ceremony, your shoulder throughout speeches, the small of your back as he slow danced with you. He kept you close at all times, the warmth of his palm searing into your skin at any given moment.
