My best riend’s husband – and how I betrayed her

The bass in the club was so loud I could feel it in my ribs, the kind of music that makes you move even if you don’t want to. I was three tequila shots deep, laughing with some idiot who thought he could keep up with me, when he walked in.

Fuck.

I knew him instantly—that stupidly perfect jawline, the way he carried himself like he owned every room he stepped into. Carlos. The husband of my oldest friend, Lucia. The one she’d gushed about for years before they got married. The one whose wedding I’d skipped because, let’s be real, who wants to watch their childhood best friend chain herself to a man forever?

And yet.

There he was, surrounded by his idiot cousins and friends, all dressed like they were in some bad rom-com about a bachelor party. He spotted me before I could look away. His grin was slow, dangerous. “Veronica,” he drawled, stepping way too close. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

I smirked, swirling my drink. “And yet here you are, proving me wrong.”

He laughed, low and rough, and something in my stomach twisted. Two more shots later, we were pressed together on the dance floor, his hands sliding down my hips like he’d done it a thousand times before. His breath was hot against my ear. “You’re trouble.”

“You have no idea,” I murmured back.

Then his lips were on my neck, his teeth scraping just enough to make me gasp. That was all it took. One second we were grinding like teenagers, the next we were stumbling into a cab, his hand shoved between my thighs as the driver pretended not to notice.

The motel was a dump—peeling wallpaper, a bed that squeaked like it was begging for mercy, and a neon sign outside that flickered like a bad omen. I didn’t care. The second the door closed, I was on him, yanking his shirt open so hard buttons went flying. He growled, grabbing my hair and pulling just enough to sting. “Fuck, you’re desperate.”

I bit his lower lip. “And you’re still talking.”

That shut him up.

His hands were everywhere, rough and impatient, tearing at my dress until it pooled on the floor. I pushed him onto the bed, climbing over him, my nails digging into his chest as I leaned down to whisper, “Lucia never told me you were this much fun.”

His eyes darkened. “She doesn’t know.”

That should’ve stopped me. It didn’t.

I kissed him hard, my tongue sliding against his, tasting tequila and sin. His hands gripped my ass, pulling me against him, and I could feel how fucking hard he was already. “You wanna ride me or you wanna suck me first?” he muttered against my mouth.

I smirked. “Why not both?”

The 69 was filthy. Me on top, his tongue working me like he was trying to win a gold medal, his cock hitting the back of my throat with every bob of my head. I came first, shaking, my thighs clamping around his face as he groaned into me. Then he flipped us, pinning me down, his hips driving into me so hard the headboard slammed against the wall.

“Fuck—fuck—” I gasped, my nails raking down his back.

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he got worse, pounding into me like he was trying to rewrite history. I came again, screaming into his shoulder, and he followed with a curse, spilling inside me like he’d forgotten there were rules.

We collapsed in a sweaty, panting heap. The neon light outside painted his skin in red and blue, and for a second, I almost felt guilty.

Then he turned his head, grinning like the devil. “Round two?”

I kicked him onto his back and climbed on.