Page 68 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Our booth is mobbed after the speech and show we put on.

People snap selfies. Influencers ask questions. Brides, and their mother’s, book us on the spot.

Chase answers queries while I sign contracts and our team runs like a well-oiled machine. He’s calm amid the chaos, handing out cake samples, talking flavor pairings with overwhelmed future grooms, and even charms a grandma with a checkbook into upgrading linens.

I want to jump him right there.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he groans under his breath. “I cannot hide a stiffie in these damn pants.”

“You’re literally rolling up a tablecloth and I’m picturing you tying my wrists with it,” I whisper back.

He flashes a grin. “I’ll use the satin ones. Less chafing.”

“Noted.” I laugh.

I grab his lapels, and the backs of my fingers graze his tattooed pecs. “Fifteen minutes. Then, I’m taking you behind the curtain.”

His nostrils flare. “Make it ten.”

Holy shit. Deal.

Nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds later, I tell Melody we’re taking a quick break, and the booth is hers. She nods, but I don’t miss the smirk she shoots my way as we leave the space. Glancing around, I quickly drag Chase behind the booth’s backdrop curtain. It’s a mini hall blocked by thick dark fabric in the middle of the floor. He lifts me instantly, setting me atop a stack of boxes as his mouth claims mine.

“I can’t believe you wore this suit,” he rasps, squeezing my hips and unzipping my pants. “You’re killing me, Roxy.”

“Good.” I yank open his jacket, my palms hot against his bare chest. “I want to be the cause of your death.” I moan but try to keep my voice down.

He nips my jaw. “You will be… one way or the other.” He mutters.

His hand slips into my pants. My legs part and I grunt as the material pulls. Letting go of his jacket lapels, I shimmy, pulling my pants down to my ankles. They catch on my heels. His hand returns and he nudges my thighs apart. His fingers find heat and slickness. “Already so wet for me, baby.”

“Always.” I kiss him hard, grinding shamelessly as I ride his hand. “We don’t have much time, Chase. Take me.”

He leans back, pops the button on his slacks, pushes them down to his upper ass, and pulls me off the boxes, whirling me around as soon as my heels hit the floor.

I stumble and almost trip, a giggle escaping as I moan, “Careful, lover.”

“I’ve got you.” He growls, low. Pressing against my spine, he bends me over. My elbows rest on boxes and my palms grip the sides. He surges in. It takes everything in me not to yell out with pleasure. Biting my lip, I push back against him. He fucks me, hard and fast. His skin slaps against mine.

It's desperate… and perfect. Reaching around, he rolls my nub as he slams into me. My back tightens and I taste blood as I come… I clench around him, and he surges in, locking his arms around my waist. He bites my shoulder through the jacket as he comes.

We both laugh and he steps back, tucking himself back into his slacks and buttoning them up as I lean down and pull my pants back up. Reaching out, he zips them for me and kisses me on the mouth. We’re both still breathing heavily.

“We’re disgusting,” he murmurs.

I grin. “Nah. We’re thriving.”

He laughs. “Yup, and you’re going to hold my cum in for the rest of the day, Mrs. West. You’re on fire today, baby. You really booked five clients while threatening a florist.”

Pursing my lips, I grin, “I’ll wear it like pussy perfume. And thanks. Had to. She tried to upsell me peonies in December.”

Chase shakes his head and chuckles. “Monster.” His brow rises as he looks me over. “You look freshly fucked.”

I wink and he helps me right myself—no mirrors back here—we walk back out like nothing happened. His hair is messier. My lipstick is certainly smeared. Our booth is busy.

Business is booming.

At the end of the day, Chase slings an arm around me as we watch the staff dismantle the displays. “You did it, babe.”

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