WILD WEDDING HOOK UP

The air in the hall was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and the underlying hum of a high-society engine.

Isabella stood within the circle of her family, staring at the newly married couple with a smile on her face. Her best friend, Olivia, and brother, Derek, were finally married to each other, and she almost couldn't believe it. Olivia looked breathtaking, the gown caught in the soft glow of the chandeliers, her hand tucked firmly into Derek's arm and they were sharing a quiet, private look amidst the chaos of their own reception. The picture of a couple who had finally weathered the storm. For a moment, Isabella felt a swell of genuine warmth, but it was quickly punctured by the sound of her father's voice.

"I'm telling you, Derek, the expansion into the youth sector is going to require a complete overhaul of the digital archives," their father, Henry Hawthorne said, his hand resting on his son's shoulder with a grip that was as much about business as it was about pride . "You made a good decision. I'm very proud"

Isabella almost groaned outloud. Did their father have to talk about work even today, she wondered. As the Head of Digital Strategy and Outreach for the Hawthorne Foundation, her mind was rarely off the clock, even with her brother as president, and now with him leaving soon for his honeymoon, she knew the overhaul her father spoke of would land squarely on her desk until he returned.

"Darling, please," Claire Hawthorne whispered to her husband with a graceful smile, though her eyes held a little bit of warning. "It's our son's wedding. Do you really have to discuss the foundation today?"

Isabella exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, silently thanking her mother for stepping in, but her joy was short-lived as her father's eyes lit up, spotting a familiar face in the crowd.

"Ah, and here is the man of the hour! Well, one of them." Henry stepped forward to clasp the hand of a silver-haired man with a commanding presence and an easy, booming laugh. "Franklin! I was beginning to think you'd spent the whole cocktail hour at the oyster bar."

"You know me too well, Henry," Franklin Bolton chuckled, bowing his head respectfully to Claire before beaming at the newlyweds. "A spectacular ceremony. Truly. Congratulations. Derek, I expect great things from you this year-especially after our last meeting."

"The feeling is mutual, Franklin," Derek replied, shaking his hand. "We're ready for the new blood to start. I assume the paperwork is finalized?"

"Almost," Franklin said, his gaze shifting to Isabella. "And I believe you'll be the one keeping my son in line, Ms Hawthorne? Although you were absent at our previous meetings, I understand you're the engine who'll be running this particular project."

Isabella offered a polite, practiced smile. "I prefer to think of myself as the navigator, Mr. Bolton. I look forward to seeing if your son can keep up with our pace."

"He'll have to," Franklin said, glancing over his shoulder at the swirling crowd of gowns and tuxedos. "Speaking of which... where is the boy? He was right behind me when we spoke to the Senator."

Henry looked around, amused. "Typical of these young men. My son's wedding and the future of our partnership is standing right here, and Alexander is playing a disappearing act?"

"He's never been one for formal introductions," Franklin sighed, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. "Alex has a habit of finding the most interesting person in the room rather than the most important one. He's around here somewhere."

"Well, Isabella will meet him soon enough," Claire said, trying to smooth over the minor breach of etiquette as she signaled a waiter. "And hopefully we can discuss other things that have nothing to do with the foundation? This isn't the time or the place,"

Isabella nodded, though her eyes scanned the room with a sudden, sharp curiosity. She knew Alexander Bolton's resume-it was impeccable, bordering on intimidating-but she hadn't yet seen the man behind the credentials.

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon," Henry said, gesturing for a waiter to bring a fresh round of champagne. "To my son and his new wife, to the Foundation, and to new beginnings."

The group raised their glasses and the music shifted into a sweeping romantic ballad. Isabella watched Derek lead Olivia to the dance floor, holding her as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world, and suddenly, the hall felt too large and the air too thin.

She was officially the only single one left in the friend group, she thought. Her brother was a husband. Her best friend was a wife. Even Tessa, their other friend, was tucked away in a corner whispering into the ear of the man she'd been dating for a while now. Judging by how things were going they'd likely marry within the year, and here she was, without even a date to the wedding.

Sighing, she turned and retreated to the bar. "Bourbon. Neat," she told the bartender, her voice clipping the end of the sentence.

She'd done enough dancing for the day, so she spent the next hour as an observer. She turned down a polite cousin and two ambitious young associates who wanted a dance with her, her smiles becoming more brittle with every glass.

When it was finally time for the send-off, she went out and stood in the cool night air, tossing rose petals and screaming her lungs out as Derek and Olivia sped away in a vintage convertible. She had kissed them both, her heart genuine in its joy for them, but as the taillights vanished down the long driveway, a cold sort of silence settled over her.

She didn't want to go home just yet, and she sure as hell didn't want to think about the mountain of work waiting for her on Monday, so she walked back inside, the party now winding down into that hazy, late-night glow where the prestige fades and the reckless choices begin. She said goodbye to her parents who were leaving as well and headed straight back to the bar, sliding onto a stool.

"Another one," she said, tapping her glass. "And make it a double this time."

Isabella took a long sip, the amber liquid burning a trail down her throat, and leaned back. She was happy for Derek and Olivia. She really was, and she'd never really thought she cared much about being in a relationship or getting married, so what was the problem tonight and why was she suddenly feeling this way?

"Everything alright?" The bartender asked, his voice a friendly anchor. He was young, with a quick smile and hands that moved with practiced ease.

Isabella looked up to see him smiling at her, his hands busy drying off a glass. She returned his smile as her eyes scanned the leather-bound menu on the counter. She needed something a bit sharper than just bourbon now, or at least a little different and more fun. Something to cut through the heavy floral scent of the lilies and the lingering sentimentality of the wedding.

"Everything is great," she replied, "Would you make that a vodka martini instead?"

He cocked an eyebrow when she made her request. "Shaken, not stirred, madame?" His Scottish-accented Bond impression was just ridiculous enough to make her laugh, a genuine sound that loosened the knot in her chest.

"However you recommend it." she replied.

"You sure?" He raised both brows, leaning in slightly. "It's pretty strong too."

"Sounds perfect," she said, flipping open her clutch and retrieving her phone to check her messages. But she'd not even lit the screen before her eyes drifted, drawn like a compass needle to a brooding silhouette sitting not twelve feet away.

He was tall-that much was evident even in his relaxed, seated position. He had one leg crossed casually over the other, an ankle resting on his knee in a way that screamed unbothered confidence. His suit was a masterpiece of dark tailoring, the kind that didn't just fit a man but announced him, paired with tan leather shoes that glinted under the low bar lights. There was a broadness to his shoulders that filled the space around him, a physical gravity that Isabella felt pulling at her skin. Where the hell had he come from? She definitely didn't remember him being at the wedding.

Isabella's gaze traveled upward. The crisp white shirt sat smoothly over his torso, no hint of spread. Then they drifted higher, where the last fastened button left just enough room for a glimpse of dark hair curling against his throat. Her pulse skipped a beat and her mouth went dry. She snapped her eyes back to her phone, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with her today? Was she that desperate to get laid? Was she that fed up with her vibrator that her body was now putting up a fight? Truth was, she had no qualms about being in a relationship, but she just hadn't thought about being in one for a while. Plus, her dildo didn't require small talk back. Didn't require care, affection or any sort of emotional labor.

But one night, though. Think of the possibilities...

The logic of her independence was losing a war against the heat simmering low in her belly as she activated her phone screen. Still no notifications. She sent off a brief 'Where are you?' message to Tessa and placed the phone back on the bar, her heightened awareness picking up on movement from the man's direction. She watched him crook his finger to the blonde waitress hovering nearby and an inexplicable pull ripped through her. Damn, he was reeling her in with that finger too.

She bit the inside of her lip as she watched him. His hair was rakishly long, dark and thick enough to run fingers through. His jawline was a sharp, chiseled edge that softened only when he offered a quick, easy grin to the waitress. And his eyes-even from this distance, they felt like a magnetic field. She couldn't tell the color, but she could feel the weight of them... Something about them. They looked... sinful.

Her stomach contracted with a sudden, sharp burst of heat, and in that second, the decision made itself. She wanted to leave with him. She wanted one night of crazy. No names, no real talk, no foundations or expectations, just wild, no-holds-barred sex.

Could she do such a thing? Would he want to do such a thing?

It wasn't her nature to be the hunter, but tonight, nature was taking a backseat to need. Mentally, she began to unfasten his buttons, one by one, imagining the friction of skin against skin until her thighs clenched tight in their folded position.

"One vodka martini."

"Huh?" Isabella jumped, her eyes snapping back to the bartender. He was placing a chilled glass and a small napkin in front of her, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Your drink," he said, leaning over the bar as he smiled teasingly. "Distracted, much?"

"Quite," she managed, her voice a bit breathy. Understatement of the century.

Warmth flooded her cheeks as she took hold of the olive stick, slowly stirring the drink. She watched the mini-whirlpool she created, trying to use the icy temperature of the glass to chill her rising temperature. She took a sip-the cold, sharp burn of the alcohol hit her throat and then her bloodstream, a perfect contrast that made her hum in appreciation.

She felt her shoulders drop. Her posture softened into something more predatory, more certain. She rolled her head, letting her gaze wander back toward the man.

Fuck.

Their gazes collided. He was already looking at her, the invitation in his eyes sending lust tearing through her. Panic warred in her chest as she forced herself to look away. Where the hell was Tessa before she gave in to these crazy thoughts?

Damn.

She forced her attention to her phone and issued her a text that said as much to Tessa. Seconds later a text arrived.

'I'm sorry, Izzy. David and I left almost after Liv and Derek. I thought you'd headed out with your parents! Call me tomorrow?'

Great. Just great, Isabella thought as she read the text. What a nice reminder of how lonely she was. She was officially on her own. A minute later, she caved and beckoned the bartender over. There was no harm in putting things in motion.

"Already ready for another?" he asked, seeing the half-empty glass.

She grinned, the thrill of the gamble making her feel lightheaded. "Please... but first," she took a deep breath before asking, "do you know what Mr. Distraction over there is drinking?"

The bartender followed her gaze, a knowing, conspiratorial smirk spreading across his face. "You want to send him one?"

"Maybe..." Isabella took a long, slow sip of her martini, her eyes flitting back to the man. He was still watching her, his glass held loosely in one hand. She swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her ears. "So, come on-will you tell me?"

The bartender leaned in, his eyes flicking briefly to the target. "Yeah... I can tell you."

Isabella licked her lips, her gaze locked on the man whose name she didn't know, but whose touch she could already feel and she swallowed hard. Okay. Yes, she admitted to herself. I want this. I want a crazy night with him.

"Tell me," she whispered, "and then send him another. On me."

------------

Alexander Bolton shifted in his seat.

If he had to watch that lady pop another olive into her mouth-her eyes hooded, alive with a wicked, silent suggestion-he was going to lose his damn mind. He circled the rim of his glass with his index finger, the movement rhythmic and agonizingly in sync with the heat coiling through his gut. He really should have left with his father. He should have been halfway home, thinking about Monday's meeting. Instead, he had stayed for a few drinks, and now here he was, caught in the gravitational pull of a woman who seemed to be enjoying her drinks with a sensuality that felt like a personal attack.

Between the way she licked the salt from her fingertips and the slow, deliberate sucking of those olives, Alex's lower body was in a state of permanent riot. And those eyes-dark, piercing, and utterly depraved in the dim light-kept snapping back to him, demanding he acknowledge the fire she was starting, giving him hope that she wasn't waiting for someone else to appear.

She was chatting to the barman now, her perfectly poised body leaning in as they exchanged words. The guy nodded to her and moved away, and he sensed her attention returning to him. Her phone lit up; she offered it a flicker of annoyance, a quick tap of her thumbs, and then it was back on the bar. Then, she looked at him again and Alex felt the air in his lungs stall.

"For you, sir."

Not now. The interruption was like a bucket of ice water. Alexander grudgingly tore his gaze away to find a blonde waitress hovering, a tray in her hand holding a lone, condensation-beaded glass.

"From the lady at the bar," she whispered, setting it down.

Alexander's gaze dropped to the drink, and a slow, dangerous smile pulled at his mouth.

------------

From her elevated vantage point on the bar stool, Isabella watched him. She watched him straighten his spine and plant his feet on the floor, the sheer physicality of the move sending her heart hammering into the back of her throat.

Oh, yes. Come to me, she thought.

He lifted the glass and began to walk towards her. His tall, imposing frame seemed to swallow the light, his eyes raking over her with an appreciative heat that lit up every nerve ending in their path. Isabella didn't look away. She turned her stool to face him fully, taking a slow, steadying sip of her martini as he came within earshot.

"How nice of you to join me," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

He tilted the glass she'd bought him in a silent toast. "I wanted to thank you for the drink."

The voice hit her like a physical blow. It was deep, husky, and carried a rough edge that suggested he spent more time giving orders than following them. It was the perfect auditory match for a man who exuded that much raw power.

"And I wanted to thank you for improving my outlook this evening," she replied, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw.

He rewarded her with an easy, devastating grin. Up close, his eyes were the color of dark, expensive chocolate, and they were currently burning with a flame that threatened to consume her.

"You and me both," he rumbled.

"Is that so?" she asked, teasing him, and enjoying every second of it.

"You know it is."

"I know no such thing," she continued, though the lie felt thin.

He let out a low, vibrant chuckle and reached past her to place his glass on the bar. The movement brought him deep into her personal space and Isabella instinctively twisted toward him, her senses immediately swamped by his scent-a heady mix of sandalwood, expensive perfume, and clean, warm skin.

"Perhaps I can convince you over another drink?" He leaned back against the bar-edge, his proximity a silent dare. "What can I get you?"

"I'm already being taken care of," she said, nodding toward the bartender, though the word 'you' was screaming in the back of her throat.

He followed her gaze to her glass. "Is that another vodka martini?"

"It is." She toyed with the empty olive stick, her fingers trembling slightly. "I think I've found a new favorite drink."

His eyes dropped to the stick in her hand, his expression darkening. "It's quickly becoming one of mine, too."

The air between them was thick enough to choke on and Isabella swallowed hard.

"So, I'm guessing you're one of the guests from the wedding reception?" He angled himself towards her, his forearm resting on the bar-top, his fingers coming to hover just above her knee, the heat from his hand radiating through her dress "I was too... Kinda, although I arrived very late and only attended because my father was one of the guests and insisted I attend as well,"

"Hmmmm, you're right. I was one of the guests," Isabella replied.

It'd been a big party, and her parents had invited so many people, especially their friends. Those people had invited a few people themselves that it wasn't possible to keep track of everyone. She briefly contemplated telling him that she wasn't just an ordinary guest, but also the sister to the groom, but he obviously didn't know her, and he said he'd only attended because of his father, which made him the perfect candidate for her 'no name, no expectations' hookup date. She preferred to keep it that way. The mystery was too delicious, and he was the perfect blank slate for her night of reckless choices.

"Beautiful woman, no companion..." he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive low. "Is there a date you're waiting for?"

Beautiful? She loved how that sounded coming from him, loved how close his fingertips were reaching. If she just uncrossed her legs they would brush against her, those long, capable fingers that were sure to possess such skill...

"No. No date. I was waiting for a friend though..." she whispered, her thighs clenching. She was barely aware of the words coming out of her mouth.

"Was?"

"She left already," To keep her hands from reaching for him, she lifted the empty olive stick and nibbled at the end of it, her eyes locked on his. Anything to keep herself busy. "What about you?"