Champagne and Forbidden Kisses

The champagne bubbles went straight to my head, or maybe it was just seeing Jackson in that tuxedo that made me dizzy. He leaned against the bar, laughing at something my brother said, the sound carrying across the decorated barn like it had every summer of my teenage years. Except now, those broad shoulders filled out his jacket perfectly, and when he ran his fingers through his dark hair, I felt it somewhere deep in my stomach—a familiar, unwelcome clench of desire.

I drained my glass and immediately reached for another from a passing server's tray. This was a mistake. Coming to Connor's wedding was hard enough—being the single sister while my perfect older brother married his college sweetheart—but watching Jackson as the best man, watching him charm every bridesmaid, remembering all the reasons I'd spent years trying to forget him, was pure torture.

"Easy there, Em." My cousin Sarah appeared beside me, eyeing my empty glass. "You know champagne hangovers are the worst."

"I'm fine," I lied, though my words already felt too loose around the edges. "Just celebrating my brother's lifelong commitment to monogamy while I contemplate dying alone with cats."

Sarah snorted. "Dramatic. And inaccurate. Look at you in that dress. You look like the heroine in a movie about to steal the groom's best friend."

I glanced down at the emerald green silk. It was a good dress. A 'forget-me-not' dress. I'd bought it specifically for this moment, this wedding, this chance to be something other than Connor's kid sister in Jackson's eyes. Not that I'd admitted that to anyone, especially not myself, until right this second, buzzed on Veuve Clicquot.

"Sarah, shut up," I muttered, but my eyes betrayed me, drifting back to the bar.

Jackson had turned, his profile sharp against the soft glow of the strung lights. He was listening to Connor with a half-smile, but his gaze was scanning the crowd. When it landed on me, it didn't flicker away politely. It held. A beat too long. A beat that sent a current straight down my spine. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to my brother.

"See?" Sarah whispered triumphantly. "Told you. He's been doing that all night. It's like you're magnetic north and his internal compass is broken."

"He's probably just making sure I'm not setting the place on fire for old time's sake," I said, but my pulse was doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs.

The memories were a slideshow I couldn't stop. Jackson teaching me to drive stick shift in his old Jeep, his hand covering mine on the gearshift, both of us laughing until we cried when I stalled it for the tenth time. Jackson pulling me out of the lake when I'd ventured too far on a floatie, his hands firm on my waist, my teenage heart hammering against his chest. Jackson, always there, always just out of reach, a permanent fixture in my life and the star of every late-night fantasy I'd ever had.

I took another defiant sip. I was twenty-eight years old, for God's sake. A senior marketing manager with a killer apartment in Brooklyn and a 401(k). I was not going to spend my brother's wedding pining after his best friend like some tragic romance novel cliché.

Famous last thoughts.

For the next hour, it became a silent, excruciating game. Every time I moved through the reception—to congratulate my new sister-in-law, to hug my weepy mother, to grab another canapé I didn't want—I felt him. A brush of his sleeve against my bare arm as we both reached for a bottle of wine on the same table. The low timbre of his voice carrying to me as he told a story to a group of groomsmen, his eyes finding mine mid-sentence, making the words stumble just for a second. Once, as I passed behind his chair, his hand dropped from the table and his fingers grazed the back of my thigh, so lightly it could have been an accident. But the jolt it sent through me was absolutely intentional.

By the time the dancing started, I was a live wire. The champagne hummed in my veins, but it was the tension that made me feel truly intoxicated. I watched him dance with my great-aunt Mildred, with the bride, with Sarah, who shot me a smug look over his shoulder. He was all easy charm and practiced smiles, but his eyes kept tracking back to my corner of exile.

"Stop lurking," Sarah hissed, nudging me toward the dance floor as a slow song started. "Go dance with Uncle Frank. Do something normal."

I was about to retort when a warm, familiar presence materialized at my elbow.

"Emma."

Just my name. But in his voice, it was a whole sentence. A question, an apology, a promise. I turned, and up close, he was even more devastating. The tuxedo was impeccable, but he’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and his green eyes looked tired, intense, and utterly focused on me.

"Jackson," I managed, proud that my voice didn't squeak. "Great speech earlier. Very touching. I almost believed you liked my brother."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "He grows on you. Like a persistent, annoying fungus." He shifted, and his knee brushed against mine. We both froze at the contact. "You look... incredible," he said, the word leaving his mouth like a sigh.

"Thanks. You clean up nice too. For a fungus-adjacent person."

He laughed, a real, surprised laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. God, I loved that laugh. I’d collected those laughs for years.

"I was hoping you'd save me a dance," he said, his smile fading into something more serious. "I mean, if you're not too busy holding up this wall."

Sarah, the traitor, gave me a small shove from behind. "She's not busy. She was just leaving. With you. To dance."

I shot her a death glare but found my hand slipping into his outstretched one. The contact was electric, immediate. His palm was warm and slightly rough against mine, his fingers closing around my hand with a certainty that made my breath catch. He didn't lead me so much as pull me gently into his orbit, and then we were on the edge of the dance floor.

The song was something slow and soulful, and Jackson pulled me close without hesitation. One hand settled firmly on the small of my back, the other held my hand against his chest. I could feel the steady thump of his heart through his shirt.

"So," he said, his voice a low rumble near my ear. "New York. Connor says you're running the place."

"Hardly. I just... run some meetings. In rooms with very expensive coffee."

"Sounds glamorous."

"It's a living." I was trying to sound casual, witty, but all my brain could process was the heat of his hand through the thin silk of my dress, the solid wall of his chest, the scent of his cologne—something clean and spicy that was so inherently him it made my knees weak. "How's Chicago? Still windy?"

"Windy. Cold. Full of architects who take themselves too seriously." His thumb began to move, a slow, deliberate sweep along my spine. "I miss this. Miss... home."

The way he said 'home' felt loaded. Was he talking about the town? Or the feeling of being around my family? Around me?

"You could visit more," I said, then immediately wished I could swallow the words. They sounded pathetic, needy.

"I could have," he agreed quietly. His hand stilled. "But it was easier not to. After that summer at the lake house... I figured you'd be happier if I kept my distance."

The air between us thickened. The music, the laughter, the clink of glasses—it all faded into a dull roar. Here it was, the unspoken thing that had hung between us for a decade.

"I wasn't happy," I admitted, the champagne and the proximity loosening my tongue. "I was humiliated. I spent the rest of my teenage years convinced you found me ridiculous."

He pulled back just enough to look down at me, his expression pained. "Emma, no. God, no. You were never ridiculous."

"Then why did you call me 'kid'?" The question burst out, sharp with old hurt. "That day on the dock. I finally got the courage to... I don't even know what I was going to do. Flirt, I guess. And you just looked right through me. 'Hey, kid.'"

He closed his eyes for a second, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Because if I'd called you anything else, if I'd let myself really look at you in that bikini, I would have done something we'd both regret. Or something Connor would have murdered me for. Probably both." His eyes opened, blazing with a sincerity that stole my breath. "You were eighteen. You were his sister. And you were so beautiful it hurt to look at you. So I didn't. I looked past you. It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

The confession hung between us, shimmering and fragile. All those years of misunderstanding, of wasted time, collapsed under the weight of his words. The song ended, but we didn't move. We stood there in the middle of the emptying dance floor, holding each other, breathing the same charged air.

"Jackson..." I whispered, my voice trembling.

"I know," he said, his own voice rough. "The timing is still shit. It's Connor's wedding. You've had champagne. There are a hundred reasons why this is a catastrophically bad idea."

"Name one good reason why it isn't," I challenged, surprising myself.

He didn't hesitate. "Because I've been in love with you for thirteen years."

The world stopped. The noise, the lights, the people—everything dissolved into a blurry haze. There was only his face, his eyes holding mine with terrifying honesty, and those words echoing in the silent space between my heartbeats.

"Don't," I breathed, panic rising. "Don't say that if you don't mean it. Not after all this time. Not here."

"I do mean it." His hand came up to cradle my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. "I've tried not to. I've dated other people, I've moved cities, I've thrown myself into work. But you're it for me, Emma. You always have been. The thought of you is what I fall asleep to and what I wake up thinking about. It's pathetic and it's true."

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sudden. All the walls I'd built, the sarcasm, the distance, the carefully curated life in New York—it all crumbled to dust. "You have no idea," I choked out. "The years I wasted wanting you. Hating you for not wanting me back."

A tear escaped and he caught it with his thumb. "I wanted you. So much it scared me. It still scares me."

For a long moment, we just looked at each other, the truth settling over us, heavy and awe-inspiring. The emotional vertigo was so intense I felt physically unsteady. He must have felt it too, because his arm tightened around me, holding me up.

"This is insane," I whispered.

"Completely," he agreed, but he was smiling, a soft, wondering smile I'd never seen before. "What do we do now?"

I didn't know. My mind was a whirl of chaos—joy, fear, disbelief, a longing so deep it felt like a physical ache. The logical part of my brain, the New York manager part, was screaming about consequences, about my brother, about the sheer impracticality of it all. But that part was drowned out by a louder, more insistent voice: He loves you. He's always loved you.

The DJ started a new song, upbeat and loud, breaking the spell. People flooded back onto the dance floor, laughing and shouting.

"Come with me," Jackson said, his voice urgent now. He didn't wait for an answer, just took my hand and began weaving through the crowd, away from the dance floor, toward the back of the barn.

"Jackson, where—"

"Somewhere we can breathe. Somewhere we can talk without having to shout over 'Uptown Funk'."

He pushed open a heavy side door, and we slipped out into the cool, quiet night. The noise of the reception became muted, replaced by the chirp of crickets and the distant hum of highway traffic. He led me away from the building, around the corner to a secluded garden area lit by delicate strings of fairy lights and the silver glow of a nearly full moon. A stone bench sat under a weeping willow, its branches creating a shimmering curtain of privacy.

He stopped and turned to face me, both hands coming up to frame my face. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay. We're here. We're alone." He searched my eyes. "Tell me I didn't just imagine that. Tell me you felt that too. All of it."

"I felt it," I said, the words raw. "I love you, Jackson. I think I have since you pushed me into the lake when I was fifteen and then jumped in after me to make sure I was okay."

A shuddering breath escaped him. He leaned his forehead against mine. "Emma." He said my name like it was the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

Then his lips were on mine.

But not like in my fantasies—not a desperate, consuming crash. This was slow. Tentative. A question. His lips were soft, moving over mine with a reverence that made my chest ache. It was a kiss of discovery, of confirmation. Is this real? Are you real? When I sighed against his mouth, parting my lips, he deepened the kiss, but still with that aching slowness. His tongue touched mine, a shy exploration that quickly turned hungry. My hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, holding on as the world tilted.

We kissed for what felt like hours, there under the willow tree. Kissing away the years of distance, the misunderstandings, the lonely nights. His hands slid from my face down my neck, my shoulders, coming to rest on my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent against my stomach, and a corresponding heat pooled low in my own body.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless. His eyes were dark, his lips slightly swollen. We stared at each other, and then, simultaneously, we both let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh.

"This is crazy," I repeated, giggling nervously.

"The craziest," he agreed, his smile wide and beautiful. He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek. "What are we doing?"

"I have no idea," I admitted. "But I don't want to stop."

His smile faded into something more intense. "Neither do I. But Emma... we should slow down. This... this thing between us, it's huge. I don't want our first time to be a frantic grope behind a barn because we can't wait any longer. I've waited thirteen years. I can wait a little longer to do this right."

The sincerity in his words, the respect in them, undid me more completely than any seduction could have. He was right. This wasn't just scratching an itch. This was the beginning of everything.

But the ache between my thighs begged to differ. The champagne and the confession and the kiss had lit a fuse I wasn't sure could be extinguished with noble intentions.

"Who says it has to be frantic?" I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. I stepped back, pulling him with me until my back met the rough bark of the willow's trunk. "And who says this isn't doing it right?"

I saw the battle in his eyes—the good friend, the responsible adult, warring with the man who had just admitted to over a decade of longing. The latter won. A low groan escaped him as he closed the distance, his body caging me against the tree.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his lips against my jaw. "Give me a reason."

"I can't," I breathed, tipping my head back to give him better access. "I don't have a single one."

His mouth found the sensitive spot below my ear, and I gasped. His hands slid down to my hips, gripping me through the silk. "I want to touch you," he said, the words a hot vibration against my skin. "Really touch you. But I'm... God, I'm out of practice at this with you. I don't want to mess it up."

The admission of vulnerability, of nervousness, was the most erotic thing I'd ever heard. It made him real, made this real—not some fantasy sequence.

"You won't mess it up," I whispered, guiding one of his hands to the side zipper of my dress. "Just... go slow."

He fumbled with the zipper for a second, his fingers clumsy. "Sorry," he muttered, a blush visible even in the moonlight.

"Don't be." I covered his hand with mine, helping him pull it down. The dress loosened, and he pushed the straps off my shoulders, letting it pool at my waist. The cool night air kissed my bare skin, pebbling my nipples under my lace bra. His gaze dropped, and he went utterly still.

"You are so beautiful," he said, the words filled with awe. He didn't pounce. He just looked, his eyes drinking me in like he was memorizing every detail. Then, hesitantly, he reached out and traced the lace edge of my bra with one finger. "Is this okay?"

I nodded, unable to speak. His touch was feather-light, questioning. He unhooked the front clasp with surprising dexterity, and my breasts spilled free. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"Emma..." His hands came up to cup me, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. The sensation was so intense, so long-awaited, that a whimper escaped me. He bent his head and took one peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the taut bud.

I cried out, my hands flying to his hair, holding him to me. It was better than any fantasy, any late-night imagining. The warmth of his mouth, the slight scrape of his teeth, the way he groaned as if he were the one receiving pleasure. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until I was writhing against the tree, desperate for more friction.

His hand slid down my stomach, over the lace of my panties. He palmed me, and I jerked against his hand. "So wet," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "For me?"

"Always for you," I gasped. "Only ever for you."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and drew them down my legs. I stepped out of them, feeling wildly exposed and more turned on than I'd ever been in my life. He knelt before me in the soft grass, his hands on my hips, looking up at me with such raw hunger it stole my breath.

"I've dreamed about this," he said, his voice ragged. "About tasting you. For years."

Then he leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of my thigh. I trembled. His tongue traced a path upward, agonizingly slow, until he reached my core. The first flat stroke of his tongue made my knees buckle. He gripped my hips to steady me, holding me up as he feasted on me with a single-minded focus that unraveled me completely. This wasn't a perfunctory prelude; this was worship. He licked and sucked, exploring every fold, learning what made me gasp and what made me moan. When he added a finger, sliding it inside me with a gentle curl, I saw stars.

"Jackson, I'm going to—" I couldn't even finish the sentence.

He redoubled his efforts, his mouth and hand working in perfect, devastating harmony. The orgasm built, a coil of pure heat tightening low in my belly, and then it snapped, tearing through me with a force that made me cry out his name to the night sky. He held me through it, gentling his touch as the waves subsided, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs.

As I came down, trembling and boneless, he stood. His eyes were dark, his face flushed. He looked wrecked, and it was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.

"My turn," I whispered, my hands going to his belt.

He caught my wrists. "Wait. Condom. I have one." He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his wallet. His hands were shaking as he tore open the foil packet. "I want to be inside you," he said, his voice strained. "But only if you're sure. We can stop. We can just... go back inside."

I took the condom from him and rolled it onto his length, my touch making him hiss. He was thick and hard, and the reality of him, of this moment, made me dizzy. "I'm sure," I said, looking him in the eye. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He turned me gently to face the tree, bracing my hands against the bark. He positioned himself behind me, his hands warm on my hips. "Okay?" he whispered.

"More than okay."

He entered me in one slow, inexorable push. I was still sensitive from my climax, and he was big, stretching me deliciously. A soft, broken sound escaped me.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked immediately, stilling.

"No," I breathed. "No, it's perfect. You're perfect. Just... give me a second."

He waited, his forehead pressed against my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged pants. I focused on the feeling of him, so deep inside me, on the rough bark beneath my palms, on the fairy lights twinkling through the willow branches. This was real. Jackson was mine.

I pushed back against him, a silent signal. He began to move, slow, deep thrusts that quickly stole my ability to think. One of his hands slid around my hip, his fingers finding my clit again, and I nearly sobbed at the dual sensation. It wasn't the mechanically perfect rhythm from my fantasies; it was messier, more urgent. His thrusts faltered as he fought for control, his breath hot against my neck.

"Emma, I can't... I'm not going to last," he groaned. "You feel too good. You're everything."

"Then don't last," I urged, pushing back to meet every thrust. "Just feel it. Feel me."

His control shattered. His movements became faster, harder, driving me against the tree with a force that should have been alarming but was just right. The world narrowed to the point where our bodies joined, to the friction of his thumb on my clit, to the sound of our ragged breathing and skin meeting skin.

"I love you," he growled in my ear, the words a fervent prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

It was the final trigger. My second orgasm ripped through me, a deeper, more consuming wave than the first. I clenched around him, crying out, my vision whiting out at the edges. He followed me over with a choked shout, his body shuddering against mine as he found his release.

We stayed like that for a long time, leaning against the tree, connected, breathing each other's air. Slowly, the world came back into focus—the music from the barn, the crickets, the cool breeze on our sweat-slicked skin.

He pulled out gently and disposed of the condom. When he turned me to face him, I saw tears in his eyes. He didn't speak, just gathered me into his arms, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against my chest.

"We really did that," I whispered finally.

"We really did." He pulled back, his hands cradling my face. "And Emma? This wasn't a one-time thing. This wasn't just wedding fever or champagne or scratching an itch. This was a beginning."

I knew he was right. The complications—Connor, our lives in different cities, the decade of history—they were all still there, looming like storm clouds on the horizon. But for the first time, they didn't feel insurmountable. They felt like problems we could solve, together.

"I know," I said. "But Jackson... we can't just walk back in there and announce we're together. Connor's wedding... it's his day. We need to be smart about this."

He nodded, his expression sobering. "You're right. We'll tell him. Soon. But not tonight." He helped me back into my dress, his hands tender as he zipped me up. He smoothed my hair, his touch lingering. "So what do we do now?"

I looked toward the barn, where the lights and music spilled out into the night. I took his hand, lacing our fingers together. The connection felt natural, inevitable. "Now," I said, "we go back to the party. We dance with our family. We celebrate my brother. And tomorrow... tomorrow we start figuring out the rest of our lives."

He brought our joined hands to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "Together?"

I looked up at him, at the man who had been my secret heart for half my life, and saw my future shining in his eyes. It wasn't a guaranteed 'forever'—not yet. It was a promise, uncertain and terrifying and beautiful.

"Together," I agreed.

And hand in hand, we walked out from under the willow tree, leaving the shadows for the light, ready to face the music, and whatever came next.