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As he watched her across the room, Patrick's gut churned. He tried to keep up with the conversation going on around him, hearing but not listening to the proffered congratulations, the inane small talk of the sorority girls, the good natured chat among his oldest, dearest friends and neighbors. But his eyes and his thoughts kept going back to Bridget. He took another long gulp of the amber liquid in the heavy crystal highball. The whiskey burned and did nothing to calm his roiling stomach, but it did steady his hands.

Her dress was a simple yellow thing. With the spaghetti straps, it was what he guessed they still called a sundress. All he knew was that when Bridget first arrived at the party and came over to say hello, that dress afforded him a wonderful view of her deep cleavage and that as she walked away, it hugged her curvaceous ass in a way that made him shiver.

She was working the room, hugging friends, giving distant relations innocent pecks on their cheeks. Patrick's face felt as if it were burning where she'd given him his own harmless buss a few minutes ago. Her mouth was just one thing that tormented him when it came to Bridget.

At 22 she moved with the self-assurance of someone twice her age. She had a habit of sweeping her deep auburn hair back over one shoulder that Patrick somehow found erotic. Her breasts were a wonder of nature, and when he'd seen her in a bikini for the first time that summer, Patrick had to leave that party to keep everyone there from knowing exactly what he wanted.

But it was the small details about Bridget that drove him mad. That same day at the pool, Patrick's eyes had followed her athletic legs down to her small feet as she reclined on a chaise. He most definitely did not have a foot fetish. He'd massaged his wife Susan's a few times, and even planted a kiss here and there on them when he was feeling silly with her. But - like everything else about her - Bridget's feet were perfectly formed. She had almost dainty little toes, with nails painted a red so deep it was almost plum.

Her fingernails were always that same color. Sean had told him that Bridget had both pedicures and manicures once a week, and while that was not a profession that had ever occurred to Patrick, he knew that if Bridget for some reason asked him to be her personal manicurist, he'd give up law in an instant.

While she was actually a little on the short side, Bridget's fingers were long and elegant. She was very animated in conversation, and as she made a point or told a story with her hands, she'd sometimes let her fingers graze your arm.

Patrick was attracted to her the moment Sean introduced them. They were almost, but not quite, an odd pair. Sean had always been quiet, introspective, almost awkward around women, while Bridget lit up and Sarıyer Escort took over any room she entered. It shamed Patrick that he instantly envied Sean, because Patrick knew he should have been happy to see Sean so smitten. The fact that Bridget was so obviously in love with Sean only fed Patrick's envy and increased his shame.

Patrick had dreaded this party for weeks. After today, Bridget wouldn't just be Sean's girl. She was now his bride-to-be, and Patrick was almost physically ill at the thought.

He suddenly realized that everyone in the room had turned to him, champagne flutes in hand. They were waiting for him to propose a toast. They probably wanted something with the gently cynical wit that he was semi-famous for in this crowd, but his throat was so constricted he thought he'd strangle.

Susan was beside him, and she'd replaced the tumbler in his hands with one of the crystal flutes they'd used on their long-ago wedding day. That steadied him somehow and he spoke.

"To Sean, who found a woman you can only dream of and had the audacity to pursue her. And to Bridget, who leaves us all swooning in her wake, but had the good sense to let him catch her. Congratulations!"

He knew it was a weak effort, but, surprising himself, it was actually heart-felt. When Sean shook his hand solemnly, Patrick noticed tears in Bridget's emerald eyes. Sean was swept away by other friends, pounding him on the back, chanting some fraternity cheer, forcing a shot of something on him. Susan, too, had been caught up in the maelstrom of good wishes, and Patrick and Bridget remained in place, almost unnoticed. Eyes still sparkling, she lifted his hand and uttered a whispered, "Thank you," and brushed her lips against the tips of his fingers.

Something broke inside Patrick at that moment. He knew he was damned, that his life would be forever altered by what he was about to do. He kept his hand in hers and pulled her gently with him out of the room. Bridget opened her mouth to protest, but Patrick silenced her with a look.

At the third door on the left was a room no one entered uninvited. It was a stereotypically masculine room, full of dark wood and leather. One wall was lined with books; another was covered with pictures of family, friends, and various luminaries.

The room was dominated by a massive wooden desk covered with reams and reams of scattered papers. There was an equally large desk chair. Pointedly there was no sofa, no club chairs in front of the fireplace, no visitors chair in front of the desk. It was clear that this room was the exclusive domain of the man who now seated himself in that lone chair.

He still held Bridget's hand, and he continued to hold it as she stood before him. The only sound in the room was the ticking of Escort Sarıyer the clock. After several seconds ticked off loudly, Bridget sighed and began, "Patrick, I..."

"Don't Bridget, just don't," he said, more forcefully than he'd intended, and she winced as he unconsciously crushed her hand.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing, "I know how wrong this is, Bridget, I know it better than anyone. But it's torture being near you, and it's killing me to see you here today." As he spoke, she began to smooth his hair with her free hand. He looked up at her then, his eyes reading the emotion in hers, and made his decision.

"I know," she said. "Do you think I don't know? Do you think I don't feel your eyes on me or notice that you flee every room I enter? Do you believe for a second that I don't feel the same pull towards you and the same revulsion when I think about you?"

Her hand was stroking the side of his face now, and his own hands were at her waist. Unable to deny himself any longer, he pulled her down into his lap and cupped her face in his hands. "I want you, Bridget. I know I can't have you, but ..." was all he said before crushing her mouth with his.

She responded in kind and soon they were devouring each other in a desperate, sucking, open-mouthed kiss that left them both gasping for air. His hands were on her ass, pulling her as tightly as he could to him. She was on her knees in his lap, leaning down to kiss him, so that when she threw her head back and sighed, his face was buried in her cleavage. She spread her knees, easing them down on either side of Patrick's legs, her dress riding up her thighs.

Patrick ran a hand up her back until it was tangled in her deep red hair. He pulled her head back to kiss her neck, her throat, her ears. Bridget's hands were on his shoulders, and she began to rub her crotch over his.

At the first touch of his cock against her panties, she moaned loudly and clamped her mouth down on Patrick's again. He jerked upward in the chair, desperate for that pressure, and his hands slipped inside her panties, clawing at her ass. He grasped her panties and pulled them apart, ripping them from her body. He frantically groped her ass, sliding a finger down and under, searching for her pussy.

Bridget moaned against his neck again, her hot breath searing his skin as Patrick searched for, and discovered her tight little button. Bridget gasped as Patrick's fingers rubbed over that tiny bit of sensitized flesh and she held onto his shoulders as he pinched and teased her there. She was so aroused, so caught up in the dangerous passion, that in moments she was falling over the edge into her orgasm, her entire pussy throbbing with sweet relief. His name came out in a choked sob as her Sarıyer Escort Bayan entire body spasmed above him, and she clutched at him, desperate for his affection.

As her body quieted, she whispered urgently against his ear, "Please fuck me Patrick. Fuck me just this once. I promise, I swear I won't ask you again, but right now I want you too badly to care about anything else."

As she spoke, she reached down and unloosened his belt and lowered his fly. When she finished, his cock sprung free, the head purple and engorged. Her slit was slick from his fingers inside her, and neither could wait any longer. She took his hand, positioning his cock at her entrance and then slowly, painfully slid down until he was buried in her.

Staying like that for a moment, they kissed passionately, and then he began to gently rock her hips. She responded, and, as if they were made for one another, they found a rhythm. She rocked against him as he thrust up into her, and then she rode him back down. Her pussy gripped him in a way he hadn't felt in years, and he knew the moment wouldn't last nearly long enough.

"Bridget, I'm going to cum," he strangled out.

"Oh, god, yes, Patrick. I'm so close ... so ... close. I need you to cum in me. Please, Patrick ... please." Bridget begged softly, their eyes locked together just as their bodies.

He could only whisper her name over and over and over as he felt his cock expand, as he felt the flood coming. Bridget began to shake, convulsing against him as her own climax hit her, and Patrick exploded. He jerked inside her, emptying himself completely, physically and emotionally.

They sat quietly together, waiting for the shivering to subside. Bridget placed her head on Patrick's shoulder and he began to gently play with her hair. His tender touch and the emotion of the moment caused her heart to swell and she began to weep quietly.

Patrick tilted his head and looked down on her, his fingers twirling an auburn lock. "Shh, I know, Bridget, I know, baby," he whispered softly.

"It's wrong, but so sweet," she whispered as her tears subsided. She wiped her eyes with her fingers, and sat up to look at him. "Patrick, how can I love you both? How can I do this and still marry him? How can I stop wanting this again?"

Patrick looked at her for a long moment. His heart ached, and he knew he had to be strong, but with her he was helpless. He gently caressed the side of her face and sadly replied, "I don't know, Bridget. All I know is that I love you too. I always will. And when you walk down that aisle with my son, a part of me will die. Go now. I'll wait a few minutes and rejoin the party."

With that, he lifted her to her feet, gathered her into his arms and kissed her again. She smoothed her dress as best she could, stopping at the door to look back at him. Patrick had picked up her ruined panties and was holding them close to his face. As she slipped silently from the room, he opened a desk drawer and slipped the panties inside, a reminder of something that could never happen again.