She felt his heat before his hands. Breath burned at her neck. Cock hard against her ass. Bodies writhed under neon light, masks and feathers and bare skin everywhere. She rolled her hips back, heart pulsing with the bass, already wet and greedy for the night’s dangers. In the thick press of skin and shadow, his lips grazed her ear, teeth flashing. “I’ll get us drinks,” he promised, slipping from her grip and into the crowd.

She danced, letting herself slip under the throb of music, nerves exposed, blood alive. That hunger drew attention like a magnet. She opened herself up to it, not caring who watched.

A new weight pressed against her. She glanced over her shoulder, wearing a lazy grin. There he was again: devil’s mask, velvet horns, familiar mouth hidden. Every detail matching her husband. Something in his approach was sharper, more urgent. “Didn’t you owe me a drink?” she teased, testing.

No answer. His hands clamped her hips, hard, dragging her into alignment with his want. The grip felt wrong. The greed amped up, careless, different. She blinked at the scent, the way he manhandled her, too rough, too impatient.

Not him. The certainty landed cold and sharp.

She could stop this. Turn around, call it out, laugh it off as a mistake. But her pulse hammered yes in her throat, her thighs already slick with want. The wrongness itself was the thrill. The danger she’d been hunting all night in velvet and neon, now here, hands on her hips, breathing down her neck. She thought of her husband somewhere in the crowd, oblivious. The transgression made her cunt ache.

The slick heat of risk overran her sense of caution. Her body leaned into the game, choosing the fall.

He guided her off the dance floor, up the stairs, hands staking claims at her waist and neck. In the narrow bathroom, his mouth fastened to her throat, her mask fogging at the edges. He hiked her skirt, peeled her panties down. The cool porcelain shocking her thighs as she perched on the sink. His zipper opened. Cock out, thick and strange. He pushed in without asking, filling her in a single sharp move.

She gasped, and this time she tilted her hips, opening herself, wanting every inch. She dug her nails into velvet. The unfamiliar stretch and wild slam screaming not-husband. His hand clapped over her mouth, cutting off her moan as he fucked her hard, a raw rhythm she never learned. Pleasure hit sharp, riding that electric drop between sensation and realization. She shuddered, eyes rolling, clutching at the mirror behind her. He stiffened, pulse surging between her legs as he finished inside her, cum hot and plentiful. He slipped out, leaving a slick mess trapped in her panties as she pulled them up, legs trembling.

In the hallway, each step sent a liquid rush over her thighs. Her slick warmth pooling and leaking with every movement. The proof of what she’d done clung to her, sticky and impossible to ignore. Her panties wet and heavy, secret heat pressed close to swollen skin. She felt branded, marked. Her walk a challenge to gravity and control. Acutely aware of every jealous gaze and every telltale twitch beneath her skirt.

Midway down the stairs, she caught sight of her husband. Drink in hand, mask nudged up, those blue eyes searching. He spotted her, froze. His face went blank with confusion as he looked from her to where he had just come from.

Glass cool in her hand as she took his drink. Sipped, lips lingering on the rim. He stammered. “…I was just with you in the alley. I said I’d bring you your drink—how’d you beat me inside?”

She pulled him into the alcove under the stairs, close and hidden, and took his hand, placed it beneath her skirt, guided his fingers to the soaked, ruined cotton. “That wasn’t me,” she whispered, hot against his ear. “And this isn’t you.”

His fingers stayed beneath her skirt, frozen in the evidence. She watched his face—the shock bleeding into something darker, hungrier. Recognition of what they’d both done, what they’d both wanted without knowing they wanted it.

She stepped back, wild grin curling her lips. His hand fell away, glistening.

“We should go home,” he said, voice rough, eyes tracking the wet shine on his fingers before meeting hers.

“Not yet,” she whispered, turning back toward the dance floor. Thighs slick, panties ruined, her mind alight with filth and giddy complicity. She felt his gaze burning into her back as she walked away, hips swaying. Letting him watch her carry his stranger’s cum back into the crowd.

The party spun on, but their secret pulsed between them. Hotter than the night and impossible to forget. And the night wasn’t over.