I shouldn’t be thinking about it. But I do. Every damn day.
The night of our engagement party was perfect—until it wasn’t. The drinks, the laughter, the love in the air. I was floating, carried by the excitement, the warmth of my fiancé’s arms, the sheer bliss of knowing I was his, and he was mine.
Then the alcohol caught up with me. I barely remember sinking into the living room sofa, my body heavy, my eyelids closing. Everything faded into a pleasant, drunken haze.
Until I felt it.
A soft, slow, teasing touch. Fingers exploring me through my dress, coaxing pleasure from me before I was even fully awake. My mind stirred, still clouded, still convinced I was in bed with him, my fiancé.
I moaned.
Welcoming. Wanting more.
My thighs parted without thinking, my body melting into the sensation. It felt too good to resist, too good to stop, even as reality began creeping in. The silence. The darkness. The way the fingers moved—not hesitant, not familiar, but hungry, practiced.
Something was wrong.
I wasn’t in bed.
I was still on the sofa.
And it wasn’t him.
It was one of his friends. Just a friend. Not his best friend, not someone particularly close—just one of the guys who had been there that night, celebrating with us.
Panic flickered in my chest, but the pleasure drowned it out, stole my breath, stole my will. I should have stopped him. Should have said something. But when his mouth replaced his fingers, when his tongue found me, I lost everything except the feeling.
I came. Hard. And then again. And again.
He didn’t stop. Not until my body gave in completely, until I trembled, until I shattered, until I gasped so hard I thought I’d never breathe right again. Until the final wave came crashing down, spilling from me in a way I had never experienced before.
Only then did he stop.
He got up.
And he left.
I lay there, wrecked, my dress rumpled, my body thrumming, my mind caught somewhere between shame and ecstasy. The clock read almost 4 AM.
I never said a word.
Not to my fiancé. Not to him.
And my fiancé never said anything, either.
But I still think about it. More than I should. More than I want to. And the worst part?
I don’t regret it.