The living room was filled with the smell of whiskey, tobacco and her perfume—tart, with a hint of musk. Dima’s party was already buzzing for the third hour: laughter, clinking glasses, loud bass from the speakers. Artyom was sitting on the couch, clutching a cold bottle of beer, and trying not to look at it. To Leroux. His best friend’s wife. But her laughter, sharp and inviting, broke through the hum, and every time she passed by, her thigh in a tight black dress flashed into view like a challenge.
Lera leaned over the table to pick up an olive, and her dress pulled up a little higher, exposing a strip of lace stockings. Artyom swallowed, feeling the blood pounding in his temples. She caught his gaze and held it—her brown eyes glittered, her lips curved in a barely noticeable smile. It wasn’t an accident. She knew what she was doing. And damn it, he knew too.
— Artyom, will you help me? Her voice, soft and velvety, rose above the noise of the party. She was standing at the door to the hallway, holding an empty decanter in her hands. — The wine is out in the kitchen, and Dima… — she nodded towards her husband, who, drunk and loud, was arguing with someone at the bar, — is busy.
He could have refused. He had to. But her gaze, teasing, almost mocking, pulled him like a magnet. —Okay,— he muttered, putting the beer on the table. His heart was pounding, and he was angry at himself for it. She was just asking for help. Nothing like that. But when she turned, swaying her hips, and headed for the kitchen, he felt his jeans get tighter.
The kitchen was quieter, the lights dimmed, and only the hum of the party came from the living room. Lera put the decanter on the island, but instead of picking up the bottle, she stepped towards it. Her heels clicked on the tile, and she stopped so close that he could feel the warmth of her body. “Are you always this serious?” She tilted her head, her lips covered in scarlet lipstick inches from his face. Her hand “accidentally” touched his thigh, lingering a little longer than necessary.
—Lera, don’t,” his voice was hoarse, but he didn’t pull away. Could not. Her scent was dizzying. She was the wife of Dima, his childhood friend. But now, in this kitchen, she was just a woman whose curves, clad in a dress, drove him crazy.
“Don’t?” She narrowed her eyes, and her hand slid higher, to his belt. “But your eyes say something else.” Her fingers squeezed through his jeans, and he hissed, grabbing her wrist. But he didn’t push her away. She smiled, and there was audacity in that smile. — Relax, Artem. Dima won’t notice.
“Damn, Lera…” He tried to think about Dima, that this was betrayal, but her hand was moving, teasing, and his cock was already firmly resting against the fabric. The risk that someone would enter, that Dima would appear at the door, only added fuel to the fire. Adrenaline was pounding through my veins like a hammer.
She suddenly knelt down on the kitchen floor and unbuttoned his jeans in one motion. —Hush,— she whispered, looking up at him. Her lips closed around his cock, and he growled, clutching the edge of the island. Lera took him deep, her tongue sliding along the entire length, and her throat constricted, taking him to the end. A deep gulp, greedy, almost aggressive, made him clench his fists. He looked at her—at her lips stretched around his big cock, at her breasts swaying in the neckline of her dress—and felt like he was losing control.
“Fuck, Lera…” he managed, but she just grunted without looking up. Her hand slipped under the dress, and he saw her fingers moving under the fabric. She was touching herself, and the thought of her wet panties, of how she was leaking from it, set him on fire.
The noise from the living room grew louder — someone was laughing, someone shouted Dima’s name. Artyom froze, but Lera only accelerated, her blowjob became even tougher. The risk of being caught was like an electric shock hitting the nerves. He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her closer, and she moaned, muffled, but the sound echoed in his chest.
—That’s enough,— he growled, pulling her away. Her lips were shiny, and her cheeks were flushed. She stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and her eyes were wild, hungry. “I want you.” Now.
She pulled up her dress, revealing black lace panties soaked in moisture. With one movement, she pulled them off, and they flopped to the floor. Lera leaned against the kitchen island, spreading her legs. —Come on,— she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. —Put them up to their balls.
He wasn’t thinking. Could not. Grabbing her hips, he entered her in one sharp thrust, and she gasped, clutching the countertop. Her warmth, wet and tight, enveloped him, and he moved quickly, roughly, feeling her body reciprocate. The slaps of their bodies, her muffled moans, the creak of the island— everything mixed in one rhythm. Her dress pulled up to her waist, exposing her firm ass, and he squeezed her, leaving red marks on her skin.
—Hush,— he breathed, but she only arched harder, waving at him. Her fingers found her clit, and she rubbed it, trembling with pleasure. —Damn, you…” he began, but she cut him off.
Her voice was hoarse, almost commanding. “Harder.”
He obeyed, thrusting into her so that she screamed, biting her lip so as not to be too loud. The risk that Dima or someone else would enter only spurred them on. Her moans grew higher, and he could feel her squeezing him inside. She was close, and so was he.
—Come on, bitch,” he growled, and she obeyed, her body shuddering, and the moan she was trying to hold back burst out. Her orgasm was violent, and he couldn’t stand it, pouring into her with a low growl. Hot cum filled her and she gasped, still trembling. He came inside, and the thought of it—of how far they’d come—hit him like lightning.
They froze, breathing heavily. Lera turned around, her face was flushed, her hair was disheveled. She ran her finger between her legs, collecting his cum, and brought it to her lips, licking it off with a sly smile. —Not bad,— she whispered, but there was a flicker of guilt in her eyes. She was thinking about Dima, and Artyom knew it.
He stepped back, buttoning his jeans. His heart was pounding, and one thought was spinning in his head: he had betrayed his friend. But her scent, her taste, the heat of her body still pulsed through his veins. “It’s a mistake,” he muttered, but his voice sounded unconvincing.
Lera adjusted her dress, her movements were calm, almost defiant. “Maybe,” she said, taking the decanter. “Maybe not.” She took a step toward the door, giving him one last look. — Don’t tell Dima.
He watched her walk away, her heels clicking on the tiles again. The hum of the party burst into the kitchen, and he realized that he would no longer be able to look at Dima the way he used to. But the worst part was that he wanted her again.