Guests screamed, chairs scraped, an overall sense of panic filled the room. Reece, his fork still in the air from clinking it to his glass, gulped so loud, the noise reverberated into my ears. Violet tore her fingers through her hair and started sobbing.

One glance exchanged with Axel—thanks to the candles his staff had placed on the table ahead of time—and I snapped into action.

"Hey," I said, clapping my hands to gain attention. "This is fine. We were warned the power would go in and out until the storm stops."

Axel stood up. "Vivienne is right. I'm sure most of the food was ready, so we'll have to bring everything out at once instead of stagger the dishes' release. Mario?" He summoned one of the waiters. "You know what to do," he whispered to the man, in French, before returning to his audience. "There's cheese and charcuterie, and the soup. Plenty to drink. And we can see each other with these candles," he gestured to the flickering flames, "and we'll light more. Nothing to panic over."

As I watched them all react, I was the panicked one, on the inside, at least. If the power stayed out, would we all be able to get into our rooms? Would we even get out of the restaurant? One quick peek at the doors reassured me on the last part—the doors were propped open, prevented from closing. And I vaguely remembered Axel mentioning something about his staff securing all room doors to stop them from sealing shut, too.

Yet my face grew hot, and I couldn't quit fanning myself. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck and into my dress. If the power was on, everyone would see the perspiration stains through the creamy fabric. For that reason alone, I remained seated, legs jiggling under the table as I surveyed the wedding party and the glasses swaying, forks and knives scraping on plates. Laughter surrounded me.

How could they laugh? How could they heed Axel's words with such ease and go back to cheering to health and dancing around and acting like everything was fine? Their jobs weren't on the line; that was why. They were here for pleasure, not business.

These were circumstances beyond my control, sure, but I knew my bosses would hold this against me. When the press printed what happened at Violet Levine's fancy St. Tropez wedding, my firm would crumble. Because Violet wouldn't give me a good review, not after this. Oh, her wedding would be memorable; but for all the wrong reasons. Storms, power outages, floods, last-minute rearrangements, wrong decorations, wrong music, and then the cherry on top of it all—her wedding planner sleeping with her brother...

A glass of rosé slid a few inches in front of me, drawing my attention. "Huh?"

Axel, who'd apparently slid said glass over, sat in his seat, scooching closer to me. "You need to unwind."

"How?" I stared at the drink, mouth watering at the notion of downing a good bottle of rosé to myself, if anything to dull the screams in my head.

This was it—the end of my career, of everything I'd built. The end of Chi's, too, but Chi was never too concerned about their job and had thousands of other skill-sets to get by. I had nothing. Only this—my knowledge of weddings, what made them marvelous, what made them stand out. My ability to speak with brides, my comforting tones with grooms. My manner of cutting costs—which pissed off my bosses, of course, because of commissions—and still ensuring my clients experienced beautiful venues, tasteful decorations, and delicious food.

With this fiasco, I'd never get to do that again. I'd been set up to fail; of course my co-workers and bosses would cave and let me take this gig, just to watch me ruin it. To watch me make a fool out of myself and fuck up not only my reputation, but theirs. Then they'd really have something over me, a real reason to fire me. From the rumors I'd heard, from the way my co-workers talked about me, I knew they'd been hoping to get rid of me for years. But I'd never technically done anything to displease them, and my ratings were top notch.

What was it, then, that made my firm hate me so much? Was it because I was good at my job, and they were jealous? I worked with a bunch of catty prissies—not unlike Violet's bridesmaids—so maybe all this time, they only despised me because they couldn't do what I could. They didn't have my charisma, my excellent taste in pantsuits, and my smile.

"Fuck," I mouthed, shaking my head, refusing the wine. "No, I have to keep a clear conscience, a clear head. No liquor. This is...a mess."

Violet nestled a bottle of white wine and downed it in small gulps. Reece massaged her shoulder with one hand, using his other to tip a glass of brandy to his mouth. The bridesmaids did nothing to comfort their bride, focused instead on a hushed but slurred conversation about...handbags? Makeup? I couldn't tell, as they spoke over each other and with such speed, it was like they used another language. Maisie was talking some poor waiter's ear off, her sorry attempts at French making me cackle.

The groomsmen were having some sort of drinking contest at one end of the table. Reece's parents were engaged in a deep discussion with Estelle and Mollie, sipping on red wine as they debated something heavy and important; their faces were stern, flushed with color from the drink.

Harvey was the only one who hadn't already guzzled down half the selection of booze, and was instead concentrated on his phone, typing away as if he were producing the next best novel.

"Seriously? Look at this!"

I waved in the general direction of the commotion—I was across from where the bridesmaids clustered—and slouched in my chair. It wasn't like anyone would notice me, anyway, so busy with getting themselves shitty drunk to ignore the issues at hand.

"This is a rehearsal, and no one is rehearsing. No one even gives a shit. They," I again motioned towards the bridesmaids, who still had no clue they were being talked about, "don't give a damn about Violet. The maid of honor only wants to get fucked. And them?" I sneered at the groomsmen. "Little boys. Yeah, they're here for Reece, but only to high-five him and call him stupid for getting married." I released a heavy breath and covered my face with my hands. "This is a disaster."

I sensed a hand on my arm, pulling at it. "It is a disaster," said Axel, his voice subtle. "But it's not your disaster. You didn't do this."

"Oh, but I'll get blamed for it, anyway." I blinked away the tears I'd dreaded the arrival of. I wasn't one to cry, not like this, not in public; but this was no trivial matter. The wedding I'd spent months and months organizing had turned into this catastrophe of booze and thunder and cruelty. I didn't want to be associated with it.

"No, you won't." Axel's fingers wrapped around my arm, squeezing, drawing my focus to him. "I guarantee your firm will not pin this on you." He seized the glass of rosé and brought it closer to me. "Look, these are unprecedented circumstances, okay?"

"You don't understand." I ripped myself from his grip and clasped my hands in my lap. "Regardless of what you say, my career as a wedding planner is over. You can throw all the money at them that you want—they've been itching to oust me for so long, and this is the perfect opportunity."

Axel stiffened, his eyes golden in the candlelight as he zoned in on me. "You're right—I can throw money at them. That's what you're thinking, right? Me, the rich as fuck CEO who can get whatever he wants? Yeah, of course I could save your career. And you also think your employer hates your guts that much that they wouldn't take my money. Is that correct?"

I shrugged, flinching at the nasally laughter coming from one of the bridesmaids. "I mean that your money can't fix everything, Mr. Levine. And no, I don't think they'd take your money. They're greedy bitches, but they don't want me there."

Axel nodded once, twice, then shoved the glass of rosé into my hands, giving me no choice but to grasp it before it fell to the ground and shattered. And that would draw attention—he knew that would bother me.

"My money has fixed a lot so far, and I haven't thrown it anywhere, only used it wisely. You would be wise to do the same as everyone else here, Vivienne. Drink, relax, move on. Like I was saying, these are unprecedented circumstances, which means the wedding tomorrow will be unprecedented, too. No matter what happens tonight, no matter what we manage to rehearse, it likely won't go as planned. So," he picked up his crystal cup and struck it to mine, "might as well make the most of this, hm?"

He slung back a sip before getting up and heading over to Violet and Reece, leaving me to digest his words.

Was he angry with me? Disappointed? Still acting to maintain a facade in front of everyone? I could never tell with this man. With this incredibly handsome, filthy rich, kind and thoughtful man—

"Fuck it," I said, bringing the glass' rim to my lips, sniffing in the heavenly scent of my favorite type of wine. I took a swig, exhaled with delight at the decadent flavor, and took three more.

Almost instantly, my muscles relaxed, the tension in my shoulders dissipated, and a soothing numbness settled in my extremities. My legs stopped quivering under the table, my heart quit its pounding in my rib-cage, and the cold sweat I'd been accumulating across my forehead dried up.

Axel was, in part, right. There was nothing I could do with the power out, with the entire weekend topsy-turvy and rearranged based on the weather. And the weather itself had a mind of its own; the rain still poured outside, streaks of lightning blasting through the navy sky in the distance, illuminating the darkened St. Tropez Gulf.

It was against my own rules to consume more than one alcoholic beverage at functions I was planning. Sometimes, brides and grooms would insist I partake, but I rarely finished the drink I was offered, to remain sober and stoic at all times.

But no one was sober and stoic tonight. Chi flirted with a bartender who crafted cool cocktails for them to try. Reece's parents had had several refills of wine. Estelle and Mollie danced to their own personal tune, smiling and kissing. Violet had finally been included in her bridesmaid's conversation and was debating the best luxury shopping spots in L.A. while Reece encouraged his buddies in their ongoing drinking game. Other VIPs were enjoying themselves, eating from the platters of food, in no rush to do anything but forget about the predicament.

As I filled my glass up for the second time, I caught Axel approaching from the corner of my eye. With a sly smirk, he plopped into his seat, scooched nearer to mine, and set a hand on my thigh.

Had I been fully sober, I'd have jumped up at the very public physical interaction; but mellowed down, I instead narrowed my gaze on him. "Excuse me?"

"No one will notice, Vivienne," he said, maintaining steady eye-contact as he brought his cup to his lips. He sipped, swallowed, then slid his tongue over his lower lip, not once removing his gaze from mine.

He wasn't wrong; every guest in attendance was too busy munching or imbibing or involved in complicated conversations that took all their concentration.

But the risk—the risk. One faux pas when I was finally composed, calmed down, and I could kiss goodbye to any job in Los Angeles.

"We can't," I said, twisting in my chair to face away from him. As much as my body wanted to be near him, to absorb him, rub against him, I refused. It was too easy—too dangerous. One stray touch caught by any of the attendees, and that was it. There wouldn't be enough money Axel could throw at my bosses, at the Wedding Planners Association, to get my job back if I was found guilty of sleeping with my client's brother, the one signing my checks.

But Axel knew I craved him, could smell it on me. Because even as I tried to close off my body language, even as I kept myself turned away from him, my knees were pointed towards him, my elbow poking out within his reach, my eyes constantly darting to him, waiting for him to pull me closer.

I wanted him to. Beneath my fake reluctance, I wanted him to insist, to plead his case, to tell me how badly he wanted me, too. I fantasized over the concept of him touching me while everyone else was preoccupied and didn't pay us any heed.

My curiosity intensified; what, exactly, could we get away with? Not fucking, no. But some sultry words, some groping, maybe. Potentially an accidental smooch, hands grazing, suggestive words.

Instead of tugging me closer, Axel brought his chair as near as he could without knocking mine over. Our legs touched under the table. He sat facing away from me, his knee pressing against mine. He replaced his hand where he'd put it earlier, and his warmth shot through my thin dress and spread up and down my thigh, paralyzing it.

Without exchanging a look—any eye-contact now would make us suspicious, for sure—Axel glided his hand a smidgen higher up my leg, under my dress. His thumb reached the crease of my thigh, perilously close to my erogenous zone without quite touching it. He squeezed, massaging me, sending more heat spiraling up my side, an electricity that shot up and titillated my breasts.

I thanked my stars that I'd worn a thick bra; no one would spot my nipples growing hard and erect and excited. And I was also thankful the person to my left had their back turned, locked in conversation with someone, not noticing me tensing in my seat.

Axel didn't wait long to move his fingers. One by one, they made their way towards my center. He only let them sit there, at first, paused while he answered a question Reece launched across the table at him.

I clutched my cup close, pretending to listen; but in truth I was waiting for the next step, intrigued by Axel's game.

As he spoke, his fingers started to rub up and down in a slow, sensual motion, the tips slipping sensually over the fabric of my underwear. He acted normal, throwing jokes at the groomsmen as he stroked my inner lips, arousing me.

I sensed wetness pooling beneath me, and didn't know what else to do to hold in my squirms of pleasure—so I kept drinking. Any time I had the urge to moan, I took a sip.

Fuck, I'm going to be so wasted. And horny.

He stopped, then tiptoed his fingers back down my thigh. I froze, growing rigid at the sudden shift in temperature, at the sensation of his fingertips skidding across my skin again, with no barrier of fabric to dull my desire.

Without meaning to, but sensing he was about to take the game to the next level, I spread my legs a bit wider to give him access.

He laughed at something someone said, still giving no hint whatsoever of what he was doing. A master multitasker, this one; chatting with guests while getting close to fingering me into oblivion. How did he do it? How could I do it? He hadn't even met with my moisture yet and I was already on the brink of explosion.

There. He returned to the underwear, this time deftly sliding it aside to reach me. His fingers became drenched with my arousal. I noticed him discreetly shuddering, likely biting down his excitement at the hot welcome.

He stroked, gently at first, then harder. His fingers slipped between my lips and caused my legs to shake, my spine to arch, my mouth to open in desperation, with the need to cry out.

I didn't—but it took more swigs of wine and the most difficult debates in my head to keep quiet, to pretend like I wasn't about to be finger-fucked by this exquisite man, in front of everyone.

As my heartbeat accelerated, he leaned forward, setting his cup down. He sent a whisper my way, for only me to hear: "God, you are so fucking wet for me, Vivienne."

A jolt shot down my back, and I nearly fell, melting on to the ground, opening myself up for him to take me right there and then. But I clenched my leg muscles, planted my feet to the floor, and resisted.

A low, barely audible moan escaped his lips as he navigated the soaked confines of my vagina, and located my clit. He proceeded to rub it, slow and cautious to start, before picking up the pace. He twirled, flicked, massaged, before fully sliding into me, prompting a gasp to belt out my mouth.

"Shhh," he whispered to me, as I struggled to regain myself.

I almost said shhh yourself, you naughty motherfucker, but chewed the insides of my cheeks and fetched some cheese from the table. Needing to nibble on something, keep my hands busy so that I wouldn't—

He crept another finger into me, and this time my eyes rolled to the back of my head. It took absolutely every single fiber of my being to not scream. In and out, in and out, he teased me, drove me to insanity. As he entered me, his thumb toyed with my clit, expertly bringing me nearer and nearer to my conclusion.

I was a ball of water, sweaty and soaked, glued to my seat, my eyesight blurry, my hearing muffled. Everything played out in slow motion before me—glasses clinking, laughter, loud discussions. It was all a blur as I succumbed to my pleasure, succumbed to Axel's deft fingers and how eager they were to please me.

And they pleased. As I reached my climax, I cupped a hand to my mouth, closed my eyes, gripped the side of my chair, and bit my tongue.

Fucking shit, Axel.

I planned to say exactly that to him later, when we were alone.

When he removed his hand and slid his fingers into his mouth, wiping off my wetness—good God, was I turned on by that—the lights came back on. The power returned.

Everyone got up, cheered at the illumination. The sound of machines in the kitchen powering on relieved the staff. Things were back to slightly normal.

I couldn't move. If I did, they'd all see it, they'd all know I'd just orgasmed from Axel's exquisite touch. It showed on my face, didn't it? I still felt his fingers inside me, on me, driving me to ecstasy.

He offered me a hand to help me up. "We should go check out the ballroom, everyone," he said, addressing the room, gaining their attention. "Our wedding planner will have a stroke if she doesn't get to rehearse something."

Chuckles erupted as the guests filed up to head towards the ballroom. Axel and I brought up the rear, and as we squeezed together to pass the doorway, he angled his mouth close to my ear.

"You still have nowhere to sleep tonight. I can't wait to have you in my bed and do that," he eyed the sweet spot he'd just tantalized, "again, but with my tongue. And with my cock."

I rolled my shoulders back, avoiding looking at him—or else I'd slam him to the wall and shove my tongue into his mouth.

☼☼☼