A Screen Away From Your Touch
# Hidden Audience You sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, a black silk robe loosely tied over your bare skin. Vincent was late and the dirty talk conversation that you had with him did nothing to help as you were now horny, wet and al
Chapter 1
You sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, a black silk robe loosely tied over your bare skin. Vincent was late and the dirty talk conversation that you had with him did nothing to help as you were now horny, wet and alone
You picked up your phone. A name flashed: Cameron. You decided to have some fun and texted him, saying to call back on Facetime. The video call connected. His face filled the screen, his usual big grin spreading across his dark features. Rather that just have your face in the screen, you panned back so he saw you with nothing on the but the robe.
“Damn, Megan. You look… like you're waiting for something, or someone.”
“Just bored,” you lied, your voice a playful murmur. Your fingers toyed with the robe’s tie. "And wondering how you'd like seeing me like you never have before.
“Bored looks good on you,” he said, his eyes holding yours through the screen. “What’s a guy in the friend zone gotta do to see you in that way he never has before?”
The challenge was there. "I think all he has to do is sit back and enjoy", and with that, you gave a slow, deliberate pull and undid the silk knot. The robe parted, revealing the smooth plane of your stomach and the shaved pussy. You watched his breath catch, his playful smirk softening into something raw and hungry.
Your fingers hovered above you clit. "Talk dirty to me. Tell me what you would be doing to me right now if you were here,” you whispered, your hand sliding down, fingertips now grazing over sensitive skin. "What would you want me to do to you?"
Chapter 2
His eyes, dark and locked on the screen, seemed to burn. “If I tell you, I want you to touch yourself where I am telling you that I'm touching or kissing." You agreed. "If I were there,” Cameron began, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, “I wouldn’t start with your clit. Not yet. I’d start with my mouth on your neck, right where your pulse is hammering. I’d kiss a trail down your chest until my tongue found your nipple. I’d suck it hard until you arched your back for me.”
Your breath hitched. Following his words, your fingertips left your slick pussy and trailed up your body. You brushed your own neck, then cupped your breast, pinching the tight peak of your nipple, imagining the warmth of his mouth.
“Yeah, just like that,” he groaned. “Then I’d move down. My hands would spread your thighs wide, and I’d just… look. I’d look at that pretty, shaved pussy of yours, glistening for me. Then I’d lean in and blow a warm breath right on it. Make you shiver.”
A soft moan escaped you. Your hand slid back down, fingers parting your folds, mimicking the ghost of his breath. You were so wet your fingers slid easily.
“Tell me more,” you pleaded, your own voice husky.
“My tongue wouldn’t go straight for your clit either,” he continued, getting more descriptive, more possessive. “I’d start by licking your lips, slowly, from the bottom all the way to the top. I’d taste every inch of you. Then I’d flatten my tongue and press it right against your hole, feeling you pulse. I’d fuck you with it, just a little, before finally letting the tip circle that tight, swollen bud.”
You followed his every word, your fingers tracing the outer lips, then pressing inside yourself shallowly, finally spiraling around your aching clit. The pressure was exquisite. “Cameron…”
“You’d be gripping the sheets,” he said, his own breathing ragged. “And when you started to shake, I’d slide two fingers inside you, curling them up, fucking you deep while my mouth stayed on your clit, sucking it, until you screamed.”
That was the command you needed. Your fingers plunged deeper, your thumb working frantic circles as you pictured him between your legs. The coil in your belly snapped. A raw, guttural cry tore from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, your back bowing off the bed. Your pussy clenched around your fingers, a hot rush of release soaking your hand and the sheets beneath you in a visible, shameful flood.
Panting, you slowly opened your eyes to the phone screen, to Cameron’s stunned, hungry face. "You're making me come Cameron. You're going to make me squirt."
Unbeknownst to you, Vincent had arrived and walked in quietly. He watched from the hallway leading to the bedroom, a dark, knowing smile on his lips. He waiting until you were loudly screaming and snuck back out. He gave you a minute then texted and said, "Hey I made it. I'm in the lobby. Want to come down for a drink or you want me to come up?"
"Oh shit Cameron", you panted, "I have to go. Fuck. I didn't get a chance to see your cock for the first time."
"Rain check?", he laughed.
"Hell yes", and you blew a kiss at the screen, staightened the bed, and answered Vincent.
Chapter 3
You typed a quick reply to Vincent: *Come up. Door’s open.*
A frantic energy buzzed under your skin. You wiped your slick fingers on the discarded robe, straightened the damp spot on the sheets, and pulled the robe closed just as the door clicked open.
Vincent stepped in, his tall frame filling the doorway. His dark eyes swept over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, the loose silk, the faint scent of sex in the air. A slow, knowing smile spread across his full lips. “Hey, gorgeous. Get bored waiting?”
Your heart hammered. The question hung between you, loaded. You could lie, play it cool. Or you could tell him everything—the video call, Cameron’s voice guiding your fingers, the screaming orgasm.
You bit your lower lip, a playful glint in your eye. “Maybe a little,” you admitted, your voice a husky whisper. You took a step toward him, letting the robe gape open just enough to reveal a hint of bare skin. “I found a way to pass the time.”
His gaze dropped to the opening of your robe, then back to your face. “Did you now?” He moved closer, his fingers brushing your waist where the silk tie hung loose. “And was it… satisfying?”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Very.” You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear. “I got myself off while someone watched.” You pulled back just enough to study his reaction. “Not just watched… he told me exactly how to touch myself.”
Vincent’s eyes darkened with pure hunger, not a trace of jealousy—only thrilling curiosity. His hands settled on your hips, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard ridge of his erection through his pants.
“Tell me,” he commanded softly, his mouth hovering over yours.
So you did. You described Cameron’s dirty talk, following his commands, your own moans filling the empty room. You told him about picturing another man’s mouth between your legs while you came apart.
Vincent listened intently; his breathing grew shallow and rough; when you mentioned squirting into the sheets that he had secretly observed; his grip tightened.
“Fuck,” he groaned; pressing his forehead to yours; “That’s so fucking hot.” He didn’t ask for details about Cameron; didn’t question why; He was consumed by the raw confession itself—the voyeurism; the shared secret; His fingers slipped inside your robe; finding your bare hip; “I want to see how wet you still are.”
He guided you backward toward the bed—your legs hit the mattress—and he pushed the silk completely off your shoulders—The cool air hit your naked skin—a contrast to the heat radiating from him—
He knelt before you—his hands spreading your thighs wide—His gaze was intense and possessive as it took in the glistening evidence of your recent climax—“You’re absolutely soaked”—he murmured—“And I didn’t even touch you yet. While I lick you, I want you to tell me what Cameron's dirty talk made you think about. And don't even try to BS me and say you were thinking about me. Not while he was talking to you, guiding you, making you horny. Be honest and let me know what you were fantasizing you and Cameron were doing."
Chapter 4
Vincent’s gaze was fixed on your pussy, still glistening and flushed from your climax with Cameron. His demand hung in the air, a dark, thrilling permission to be completely honest.
“Tell me,” he repeated, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “What fantasy did his words put in your head? Be specific.”
You took a shuddering breath as his tongue made its first slow, broad stroke through your slick folds. The sensation, so soon after your own touch, was electric. “He… he said he’d start by licking my lips,” you gasped, your hips twitching. “Not my clit. Just… tasting me. So I pictured his mouth there, his dark skin against my thighs, his tongue just… exploring. Like he was claiming territory he’d never been allowed to see.”
Vincent hummed against you, the vibration making you cry out. He followed your words, his own tongue tracing the exact path you described, savoring the taste of your earlier orgasm mixed with fresh arousal.
“And then?” he prompted, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you still.
“Then he said he’d press his tongue inside me,” you moaned, the confession tumbling out. “Just his tongue, fucking me with it, before he ever touched my clit. So I imagined that. I imagined Cameron on his knees, his hands forcing my legs wider, his face buried in me, fucking me with his tongue until I begged.” You were panting now, lost in the dual sensation of Vincent’s mouth performing the act and the vivid, shameful image in your mind. “I imagined his big hands on me, how different they’d feel. Rougher. New.”
Vincent groaned, the sound muffled against your flesh. He drove his tongue deep inside you, mimicking the fantasy perfectly, before pulling back to swirl it around your throbbing clit. “You wanted the stranger,” he growled, not as an accusation, but as a feverish confirmation. “You wanted to be his dirty secret.”
“Yes,” you sobbed, the admission tearing free. The coil of a second, impossible orgasm was already tightening deep in your belly, amplified by the taboo confession and his relentless mouth. “I wanted him to make me scream his name.”
That was all the encouragement Vincent needed. He sucked your clit hard into his mouth, applying perfect, brutal pressure while two of his fingers plunged inside you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars. The dual assault, physical and psychological, shattered you.
Your back arched off the bed as a raw, guttural scream was ripped from your throat. This climax was deeper, more convulsive than the first—a rolling wave of pleasure that clenched around his fingers and spilled your release over his hand and chin in a hot, pulsing flood. You shook uncontrollably, chanting a broken stream of “oh god, oh god” as he drank every drop, licking you through the tremors until you were sensitive and spent.
Slowly, he crawled up your body, his face glistening with you. He kissed you, deep and possessive, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “That,” he whispered against your mouth, his own breathing ragged, “was the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of.” He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, your skin cooling where his warmth touched. “My turn to fantasize. Next time, I want to watch you make that call.”
He didn't have to wait long. Cameron texted "to check on you". He said he was staying at the hotel literally one door down from yours and had settled in and said, "If your boyfriend isn't there yet, we can Face Time, but this time both of us naked so you don't have to imagine my cock, you'll see it."
Chapter 5
Vincent’s words were a low, thrilling command in the charged air. He moved off the bed, taking the phone from your limp hand and propping it against the lamp on the nightstand, framing you perfectly against the rumpled sheets. “Do it,” he repeated, his voice husky with anticipation. “Make the call. I want to watch you be his fantasy.” He positioned himself just outside the camera’s view, a dark silhouette in the room’s corner, a silent, hungry audience.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you tapped to answer Cameron’s Facetime. His face appeared, already smiling, but his expression shifted to one of stunned heat as he took in your naked form, still flushed and glistening from Vincent’s mouth. “You answered,” he breathed.
“You said you wanted to see more,” you managed, your gaze flickering for a fraction of a second to where Vincent watched. The dual awareness—Cameron’s eyes on the screen, Vincent’s in the shadows—ignited a fire in your core. “You promised me a show, too.”
“Hell yes, I did,” Cameron said. The camera on his end tilted, panning down his own bare chest, past the trail of dark hair, to his cock. It was thick and already fully hard, curving up against his stomach. The sight, so long imagined, made your mouth water. “All yours, Megan. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to stroke it for me,” you whispered, your own hand drifting down your stomach. “Slow. Let me watch.”
As Cameron’s large, dark hand wrapped around his length, beginning a lazy, tantalizing pump, you let your own fingers slide through your slickness. You moaned for him, for the camera, but the sound was real, amplified by the knowledge that Vincent was seeing every flicker of desire on your face, hearing every catch in your breath.
“That’s it,” Cameron groaned, his own pace quickening. “Touch that pretty pussy. Imagine it’s my cock pushing into you instead of your fingers. But if you want to feel accurately, you may need three fingers,” he half joked.
You followed his dirty talk, picturing it, and a glance at Vincent’s intense, approving stare in the shadows pushed you even further. You plunged three fingers inside yourself, matching the rhythm Cameron set on his own cock. The room filled with the soft, wet sounds of your mutual masturbation, punctuated by ragged breaths.
“I’m close, Megan,” Cameron gritted out, his hand a blur. “I'm imagining filling your pussy with my cock. Think you can take it all? Come with me. Scream for me.”
It was the permission you needed. The voyeuristic thrill, the exhibitionism, the raw hunger from both men—it coalesced into a white-hot detonation. Your back arched violently as your climax tore through you, a silent scream on your lips as your pussy clenched around your fingers, another hot flood of release spilling onto the sheets. On the screen, Cameron shouted your name, his body tensing as his own orgasm erupted, stripes of pearly release painting his dark skin.
For a long moment, there was only panting. You lay spent, the phone screen darkening as Cameron signed off with a breathless laugh saying he needed to clean up. He gathered you into his arms, his skin hot against yours. He kissed your temple, your shoulder, tasting the salt of your exertion.
“That,” he murmured “You’re mine,” he said, not as possession, but as a reverent fact. “And you are utterly, completely fearless. But.....I think I know a secret.” He held you as your breathing slowed, the adrenaline fading into a deep, sated warmth, the story of the night finally—and perfectly—complete.
"What's the secret?", you asked.
"Now that you've seen his package on screen, you are super curious and want to see it, taste it, and maybe even fuck it."
"No way baby", you protested.
"Remember, no BS", he reminded you. "If I told you right now to call him, invite him over, and I gave you the room for a couple of hours, what would you say and do?"
Chapter 6
His question hung in the air, a tangible challenge. The warmth of his arms around you, the scent of sex and sweat on your skin, the memory of Cameron’s release on the screen—it all conspired against a lie. The "no way" had been pure reflex, a flimsy shield. Vincent’s dark eyes watched you, patient, knowing. He’d asked for no BS.
You took a deep breath, the truth a hot coal on your tongue. “I’d say yes,” you whispered, the admission leaving you feeling terrifyingly exposed. “If you told me to call him right now and give him the room… I’d do it. I’d want to see if it feels as good as it looks. I’d want to taste him. I’d want to know what it’s like to be fucked by someone new while you watch.”
You and Vincent continued to have great sex. But a week later he saw a text on your phone from Cameron. *Megan, I know I'm basically a human sex toy to you and you're not emotionally invested in me. I've thought about it and while its not what I want, I still want you. Can we have another visit? I ache for you.*
Vincent’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, not in anger, but in fierce arousal. “Tell me exactly what you’d do,” he demanded, his voice gravelly. “From the moment he walked in.”
The explicit fantasy spilled out of you, fueled by his hungry gaze. “I’d answer the door in just this robe, open it just enough for him to see. I’d pull him inside, push him against the wall, and drop to my knees right there. I wouldn’t wait. I’d take his cock in my mouth, deep, until he was groaning. I’d want you to see me do that.”
“And then?” Vincent urged, his hand sliding down to cup your wetness, his fingers finding you already swollen and sensitive again.
“Then I’d lead him to the bed,” you gasped, arching into his touch. “I’d get on all fours, right here, and look back at you in the corner. I’d tell him to fuck me from behind. I’d want to feel him stretch me, fill me up, while I watched your face watching me take it.”
That was all the permission he needed. In one swift motion, Vincent rolled you onto your stomach and pulled you up onto your knees. The position was exactly as you’d described, profoundly vulnerable and lewd. He settled behind you, not entering you, but letting the thick head of his cock press against your dripping entrance. “Like this?” he growled, his hands firm on your hips.
“Yes,” you whimpered, pushing back against him.
He didn’t make you wait. With one powerful, claiming drive, he sheathed himself fully inside you, the stretch a perfect, shocking fullness. A raw, guttural cry was torn from your throat. He set a brutal, possessive rhythm, each thrust jolting you forward. “This is you taking him,” he grunted, his voice thick with the image. “You’re so fucking tight, taking that new cock. I can see it. I can see you loving it.”
The dual reality—Vincent’s actual cock pounding into you, the vivid fantasy of it being Cameron—shattered your sanity. You were a vessel for both of them, a spectacle of pure hunger. The climax didn’t build; it detonated. Your inner muscles clamped down in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms, a silent scream shaking your body as you convulsed around him, a fresh flood of release slicking his thrusts.
The feeling of your intense climax triggered his own. With a final, deep plunge, Vincent buried himself to the hilt and stilled. A hot, pulsing rush filled you as he came, his own groan a long, satisfied release against your back. He collapsed over you, both of you spent and trembling, joined together in the sweaty, truth-soaked aftermath.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing slowing. Finally, he gently pulled out and gathered you against him, your back to his chest. He kissed your shoulder. “That,” he said softly, “was the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of.” There was no jealousy, only a profound, shared conquest. The story had found its climax, not in secrecy, but in a blinding, honest light. Then he looked at you deeply. "Megan", he said softly. "Do you want to invite him over?"
Chapter 7
You weren't sure how you should answer. Things could go really well or they could go off the rails. You wished you knew if he was kidding. The vulnerability of your post-climax haze made the question feel like a live wire. You searched his face.
“Vincent… are you serious?”
“Dead fucking serious.” His thumb stroked your hip. “I watched you come for him. I listened to you tell me exactly how you’d take him. You think I don’t know what you want now? This isn’t about me sharing you. It’s about me *giving* you.” His eyes were dark, certain. “I want to leave you alone with him. I want you to do everything and anything you want to do with him. Then I want to see a few things afterwards." He started lifting his fingers.
"One, I want to see if you still want me after you have him."
"Two, I want to know if you think I can still please you after you experience him."
"And three, but only if the answer is yes to 1 and 2, I want you to share every detail with me."
"You're testing me?", you asked.
"Testing us. You want him. You can't hide that. I don't want to stay with you if you are thinking about what I am keeping you from all the time. I want you to find out if what e has is what you want. If it is, I will congratulate him and wish him well. If it's not, then you've scratched an itch and we can move on, knowing we can be honest with each other if either one of us gets curious in the future.
You brain was on a see-saw. You breathed in, thougt about everything Vincent just said, and gave your answer.
Chapter 8
Your head swam, the see-saw finally tipping. Vincent’s proposition wasn’t a threat; it was a key. It unlocked a room inside you that was equal parts terrifying and electric. You looked into his dark, certain eyes and felt the final thread of resistance snap.
“Yes,” you breathed, the word sounding foreign and definitive. “I want to know. I need to know.”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Vincent’s face. He didn’t kiss you. Instead, he placed a reverent hand over your heart, feeling its frantic rhythm. “Good. I’ll set it up. A hotel. A whole night. Just you and him.” His thumb brushed your nipple, sending a fresh shiver through your spent body. “But tonight,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl, “you’re still mine. And I want to hear you say it again. Tell me what you’re going to do with him.”
He shifted, pulling you beneath him, his body a welcome, familiar weight. The sheets were still damp from your shared climax, the scent of sex thick in the air. His cock, hard again, pressed against your thigh. This was different now. The fantasy was no longer a story; it was a plan. And the telling of it became a new kind of foreplay.
You arched into him, your lips at his ear. “I’m going to let him undress me slowly,” you began, your voice husky. “I’m going to kiss him in a way I’ve never let myself imagine.” Vincent’s hips pressed forward, a silent encouragement. “I want to feel his hands, his mouth, everywhere. I want to find out if his skin tastes different, if he feels… bigger.”
Vincent groaned, a sound of pure arousal, and captured your mouth in a searing kiss. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you wet and swollen all over again. “And then?” he demanded against your lips, his fingers circling your clit with a precision that stole your breath.
“And then I’m going to ride him,” you gasped, your hips chasing his touch. “I want to watch his face while I take him. I want to see if he comes apart for me the way you do.” You were wound tight, the explicit confession and his skilled fingers coiling the tension inside you to a screaming pitch. You were right on the edge, the precipice yawned before you, a climax built on pure, illicit anticipation.
But Vincent’s hand stilled, his palm pressing flat and firm against your mound, holding the gathering storm at bay. He breathed heavily, his forehead against yours. “Not yet,” he murmured, the command gentle but absolute. “You save that. You take that hunger with you. Let it simmer.” He rolled off you, pulling you into his side, your back to his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you in a cage of warmth and restraint. The arousal didn’t vanish; it banked, becoming a deep, throbbing ember in your core. The promise was now a tangible thing in the room, and the waiting had just become the most exquisite part.
Chapter 9
The anticipation over the next week was a live wire humming under your skin. Every glance from Vincent held the secret, every casual interaction with Cameron crackled with an unspoken charge. You waited until Friday afternoon, your fingers trembling only slightly as you typed the text to Cameron.
**You: Still bored. My place tonight. 8 PM.**
His reply was almost instant.
**Cameron: Just your place? Just us?**
**You: Just us.**
**Cameron: I’ll be there.**
When Vincent came home, you told him. He didn’t say a word, just cupped your face and kissed you, deep and slow. “I’ll be close,” he murmured against your lips, his eyes dark with promise. “I want to hear everything.”
At 7:58 PM, you opened the door. Cameron stood there, dressed down in dark jeans and a fitted tee that stretched across his shoulders. The playful grin was there, but his eyes were serious, sweeping over you in the simple silk slip you wore.
“Hey, Megan.”
“Hey yourself,” you said, stepping back to let him in. The door clicked shut, sealing you in the quiet apartment. The air thickened.
“So,” he said, turning to face you, his voice a low rumble. “No video screen this time. No going through the motions.”
“No screens,” you confirmed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Just you. Just me.”
He closed the distance in two strides. His hands came up, fingers tracing the thin straps of your slip. “I’ve imagined this,” he said, his gaze locked on yours. “A hundred times. Taking this off you with my own hands.” He hooked a finger under the strap and slid it slowly down your shoulder. The silk whispered against your skin. “Tell me you’ve imagined it, too.”
“Yes,” you breathed, the admission freeing. “Every detail.”
That was all he needed. His mouth crashed down on yours, and it was nothing like Vincent’s kisses. It was all new heat, a different flavor, an urgent exploration. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned, your hands fisting in his shirt. He walked you back until your knees hit the edge of the couch. The slip pooled at your feet. His hands were everywhere—kneading your breasts, gripping your ass, sliding between your legs to find you already soaked.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groaned, breaking the kiss to look down as his fingers slid through your slick folds. “All for me?”
“All for you,” you gasped, arching into his touch.
He pushed you back onto the cushions, his body following, covering you. His jeans were rough against your thighs. He kissed a burning trail down your neck, over your breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking hard until you cried out. His hand continued its work between your legs, two fingers pushing inside you, curling perfectly.
“You feel even better than I dreamed,” he said, his voice ragged. He shifted, freeing himself from his jeans. His cock sprang out, thick and hard, the dark skin flushed. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head pressing against you. “Look at me, Megan. I want to see you when I’m inside you.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense stare. With one slow, relentless push, he filled you. A sharp, glorious stretch stole the air from your lungs. He was bigger, different, a thrilling invasion. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust.
“You take me so good,” he whispered, then began to move.
It was a steady, deep rhythm, each stroke hitting a spot that made you see stars. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting every thrust. The sounds were obscene—skin slapping, your mutual groans, the wet sound of him driving into you. You raked your nails down his back, urging him on.
“You gonna come for me?” he grunted, his pace becoming punishing, his hips pistoning. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
You were hurtling toward it, the coil in your belly pulled taut to breaking. “Yes… God, Cameron, yes!”
He slammed into you one final time, burying himself deep as your climax detonated. It tore through you in violent, pulsing waves, your pussy clamping down around him in rhythmic spasms. A raw scream ripped from your throat as pleasure, white-hot and absolute, consumed you. With a roar, he followed, his own release surging hot inside you, his body shuddering as he emptied himself.
He collapsed atop you, both of you slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. After a long moment, he lifted his head, a slow, sated smile spreading across his face. “So,” he breathed, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “That was worth the wait.”
After you snuggled and recovered, you did something else you thought about for a long time. You told him to stand and prepared to give him the most amped up oral you could imagine. You had to taste him. To see if he felt different from Vincent. If he tasted different. Better.
Chapter 10
A slow, predatory smile spread across your lips. “Don’t get too comfortable,” you murmured, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Stand up for me.”
Cameron’s brow arched, but he complied, his body still gleaming from your sweat. You knelt before him on the plush rug, your eyes level with his thick, semi-hard cock, already stirring again under your gaze.
“What are you—”
“Shhh,” you interrupted, your voice a low command. “Just watch.” You wrapped your hand around his base, feeling him pulse and thicken instantly. “I’ve wanted to taste you. To see if you’re different.” You didn’t wait for a reply. You leaned forward and took the broad head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown.
“Fuck, Megan,” he groaned, his hands tangling in your hair.
You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, establishing a rhythm that was all wet suction and hungry pressure. You looked up, meeting his dark, hooded eyes as you worked him, your other hand cupping and massaging his heavy balls. “You taste like us,” you moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. “Like sin.”
“Yeah? You like that sin?” he rasped, his voice tight.
In answer, you took him all the way to the back of your throat, swallowing around him until your nose pressed into his skin. He cursed, his fingers tightening. You pulled back with a filthy, wet pop. “Lie down,” you breathed, your own need a fresh ache between your legs.
He sank onto the rug, and you didn’t hesitate. You straddled his face, lowering your soaked pussy onto his mouth as you bent forward to take his cock back between your lips. The position was perfect, obscene, a complete circuit of pleasure. His tongue dove into you, lapping at your swollen clit with fierce, expert strokes.
The dual sensation was electric. Your moans were muffled by his cock filling your throat as you sucked him hard and fast, your hips grinding against his mouth. You could feel his groans vibrating through your core. “That’s it, baby, eat me,” you gasped when you came up for air, your own saliva slick on your chin. “Make me come while I suck you off.”
He doubled his efforts, his tongue fucking you in time with your bobbing head. The coiling tension snapped without warning. A raw, screaming orgasm ripped through you, your pussy clenching wildly against his mouth as you convulsed above him. The violent pulses of your climax triggered his. With a shattered roar, he bucked up into your mouth, and you swallowed every hot, salty pulse as he emptied himself down your throat, his own release shuddering through him.
You collapsed beside him on the rug, breathless, spent, connected by a glistening strand. He turned his head, his smile dazed and utterly satisfied. “Different?” he finally managed, his voice wrecked.
You licked your lips, tasting him still. “Better.”
Resting, Vincent's questions rang in your head: *One, I want to see if you still want me after you have him. Two, I want to know if you think I can still please you after you experience him. And three, but only if the answer is yes to 1 and 2, I want you to share every detail with me.*
Chapter 11
You lay on the rug, the taste of him still on your tongue, your body humming with a deep, satiated glow. Cameron’s fingers traced idle patterns on your bare stomach, his breathing finally steadying.
“So,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “What now, Megan?”
The question hung in the air, thick and real. It wasn’t playful. It was the crossroads.
You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest. The fantasy had been consumed, made flesh and sweat and sound. It was over. And Vincent’s three questions, which had seemed like a game, now felt like a verdict you had to deliver. *Do you still want me? Can I still please you?*
“Now,” you said, your voice softer than you intended, “I go back to my hotel.”
Cameron propped himself up on an elbow, his dark eyes searching yours. “Back to him.”
It wasn’t a question. You nodded, the movement feeling heavy with finality. “Back to him.”
He watched you for a long moment, then a slow, understanding smile touched his lips. There was no bitterness in it, only a quiet respect. “It was never really about me, was it?”
You thought of Vincent in the shadows of your living room, of his command in your ear during the call, of the reverent way he claimed you afterward. “It was about us,” you admitted. “You were the spark. He’s the fire.”
You stood, the cool air kissing your skin, and began to gather your scattered clothes. Cameron watched you dress, his gaze appreciative but no longer hungry. When you were done, you turned to him. There were no more words needed. You leaned down, pressed a final, chaste kiss to his forehead—a goodbye to the fantasy—and walked to the door without looking back.
The night air outside was a shock, crisp and clarifying. In the taxi, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Vincent’s name. The answers to his questions were suddenly, perfectly clear.
You texted: *I’m coming home. The answers are yes, and yes, and God yes. Be ready. I have so much to show you.*
You hit send, a thrilling certainty settling in your bones. You weren’t at a crossroads anymore. You had chosen your path. And you were running toward it.
"Wait", Cameron whispered. He was slathering his cock with lube. "One for old times sake? Your beautiful apple bottom ass?"
You thought about it.
Chapter 12
The word “Wait” hung in the air, a final hook in the fantasy’s flesh. You paused, your hand on the doorknob, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. You turned to see Cameron kneeling on the rug, a slick, glossy trail of lube shining on his dark cock, his eyes fixed on you with a raw, pleading hunger.
“One for old times’ sake?” he whispered again, his voice rough. “Your beautiful apple bottom ass?”
The hotel room, the taste of him, the satiation—it all blurred. The crossroads you’d just walked away from shimmered, dissolved. Vincent’s questions—*yes, and yes, and God yes*—were still true, but they lived in the future. This was the last ember of the past, and it was burning white-hot.
You let go of the knob. You didn’t speak. You simply walked back, your movements deliberate, and turned your back to him. You bent forward, placing your hands on the low bench at the foot of the bed, presenting yourself. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, making you shiver. You heard his sharp intake of breath, the slick sound of his hand stroking himself once more.
Then his hands were on your hips, his grip possessive and sure. The blunt, wet head of his cock pressed against you, not where you were wet and open, but lower, at the tight, forbidden pucker. He pushed, slowly, a relentless, burning invasion that stole your breath. You gasped, your fingers curling into the upholstery, as he filled you, a deep, shocking stretch that was all pressure and possession.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he grunted, his hips meeting your ass with a solid slap. “One last secret. One last thing he doesn’t get.”
He was right. It was the final, transgressive piece of the fantasy, claimed. He fucked you with deep, measured strokes, each one winding the coil inside you tighter. The pain melted, transmuted into a piercing, overwhelming pleasure. You were pinned, speared, completely his in this one, last act. Your moans were muffled against the bench, your body rocking forward with his thrusts.
“Come for me, Megan,” he commanded, his pace becoming frantic, brutal. “Come on this cock one last time.”
The order, the fullness, the illicit thrill of it shattered you. Your climax tore through you with a silent, seismic violence, your inner muscles clamping down on nothing while your ass clenched around him. The convulsions milked him, pulled his own release from him. With a ragged shout, he buried himself to the hilt, his hot pulse flooding you deep inside as he came.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the feeling of him, still lodged within you, both of you trembling. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. You stayed bent, spent, the physical proof of your final betrayal trickling down your thigh.
You straightened up without looking at him, found your clothes, and dressed in silence. You walked to the door again, and this time, you opened it. You didn’t look back.
In the taxi, you stared at your phone. The text to Vincent was still there, unsent. You deleted it. You wrote a new one.
*On my way. Don’t ask. Just be ready.* You hit send, the finality absolute. The fantasy was dead. You were going home to your fire, and you were bringing him every ash.
Chapter 13
The apartment was dark when you pushed the door open, the only light a faint amber glow from the living room fireplace. You stood in the foyer, the scent of home—sandalwood and clean linen—washing over you, a stark contrast to the hotel’s sterile perfume and the scent of sex still clinging to your skin.
“Vincent?” you called, your voice small.
“In here.” His voice came from the living room, low and steady.
You dropped your bag and walked toward the light. He was seated in the large armchair by the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. He was shirtless, the firelight playing over the contours of his chest. He didn’t smile. He just watched you walk to him, his gaze traveling from your tired eyes down to your trembling hands.
“I told you not to ask,” you whispered, stopping before him.
“I’m not asking,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft click. “I’m looking. And I see everything.” He reached out, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. “These are mine. Take them off.”
A shudder ran through you. You obeyed, unbuttoning, pushing the denim down your legs until you stood before him in just your thin t-shirt and the evidence of your final transgression, now dried on your inner thigh. He didn’t look away.
“Come here,” he commanded, his voice a velvet rasp. “Sit. Right here.” He spread his legs, indicating the space on the rug between them.
You sank to your knees, the wool scratchy against your bare skin. He leaned forward, his hands cradling your face, his thumbs tracing the arch of your brows. “You gave him the last piece,” he stated, no question in his tone. “The one you kept in reserve. The one you thought I might not want.”
You could only nod, a hot tear escaping. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he breathed, his lips brushing your forehead. “You brought it home to me. You brought all of it home.” His hand slid down your neck, over your shoulder, and under your shirt, palming your breast, his thumb circling your nipple until it peaked. “Now you’re mine. Completely. And I’m going to remind you.”
He pulled your shirt over your head and guided you to turn around, your back against his chest, his legs framing yours. You could feel his hard cock pressed against the small of your back. One arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tight, while his other hand trailed down your stomach, through your neatly trimmed hair, and found your clit, already swollen and sensitive.
“Tell me what he felt like,” Vincent murmured in your ear, his fingers beginning a slow, torturous circle.
“It was… different,” you gasped, arching into his touch. “It was claiming. It was a goodbye.”
“And this?” he asked, his fingers dipping lower, sliding through your wetness, then pushing two fingers deep inside you with a smooth, sure stroke. You cried out, your body clenching around him. “What is this?”
“This is hello,” you moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder. “This is coming home.”
“Yes,” he growled. He worked his fingers in and out of you, his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the friction, the heat of the fire on your skin and the heat of his body at your back. “You come for me, Megan. You come on my hand and you scream my name. You don’t hold anything back.”
His command was the final permission. The coil, wound so tight for so long, snapped. Your climax erupted, a raw, convulsing wave that tore a ragged scream from your throat. “Vincent!” You shook, your vision whiting out as pleasure electrocuted your nerves, your inner muscles milking his fingers as you pulsed around them.
He held you through it, his own breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. When the last tremor subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to your lips. You tasted yourself, salty and sweet, as you sucked them clean, your eyes locked on the fire.
In the shimmering silence, he turned you in his arms and kissed you, deep and consuming. “Welcome home,” he whispered against your lips. He lifted you effortlessly, carried you to the thick rug before the hearth, and laid you down. As he settled over you, his body covering yours, the world finally felt right. The fantasy was ash. This was the fire.
Chapter 14
You lay spent on the rug, the fire’s heat a gentle counterpoint to the sweat cooling on your skin. Vincent’s weight was a comforting anchor, his breathing a steady rhythm against your back. In the quiet, a thought, unbidden and crystalline, pierced the afterglow.
“You have to think,” you whispered into the dim room.
Vincent lifted his head, his dark eyes searching yours. “About what?”
“About what this means.” You turned in his arms to face him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I gave away a piece of myself tonight. Not to him. To the idea of him. To the fantasy. And I brought the emptiness it left back here, to you.” You swallowed, the confession raw. “You filled it. But I need to know… what does that make me to you now?”
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze intense. Then he shifted, rolling you gently until you were straddling his hips, your wet core pressed against the hard line of his stomach. His hands settled on your waist, possessive and sure.
“It makes you mine,” he said, his voice low. “Not because you came back, but because you chose to be empty for me. You chose to let me be the one to fill you.” His hands slid up to your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples. “Now, you have to think. Think about this.”
He guided you up, then lowered you slowly, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your earlier climax, stretching to welcome him. He didn’t rush, letting you sink down inch by exquisite inch until he was fully sheathed inside you, a deep, complete possession that stole your breath.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, his hips lifting slightly to meet you. “That’s your answer. Every time. It’s not a secret anymore. It’s a truth.”
He began to move, a slow, grinding roll of his hips that rubbed his length against your most sensitive spots. The building pressure was different now—not a frantic race, but a deliberate, profound claiming. You rode him, your hands braced on his chest, your eyes locked on his, as the firelight painted gold across his skin and yours. The world narrowed to the place where you were joined, to the silent understanding passing between you. This was the resolution, written not in words, but in heat and sweat and the slow, sure climb toward a new peak.
Weeks went by and you were happy and content. Then a note from Cameron: *I can't stop thinking about you. I know your heart belongs to Vincent and it was just sex with me. But I don't care. I have to have you again. Please. Let me see you, touch you, fuck you again. I'm going crazy. My wife senses something is wrong. I can't perform in bed for her. Maybe if I get my Megan fix it will help at home*
You showed Vincent. He thought about it.
"Hmmm. How would you feel if I let you play again, but while you play and he thinks I'm none the wiser, I seduce his wife?
Chapter 15
You had to think about both parts of the proposal. The temptation of Cameron’s raw, uncomplicated need was a flame you knew how to breathe life into. But the price—Vincent’s eyes on another woman, his hands learning her secrets, his voice whispering the same promises he used on you—coiled in your stomach, a cold, possessive snake.
You watched Vincent’s face, firelight dancing in his eyes. “You’d really do that?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
“If it’s the price of your play?” He shrugged, a dark, playful smile touching his lips. “It’s only fair. A balanced equation. You get your transgression. I get mine. And we both come home with a new story for the other.” His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. “Think of the confession, Megan. You, telling me every detail of how he fucked you, while I tell you how I slowly undressed his frustrated wife. The things she might let me do to make her feel wanted again.”
The image was potent, a dangerous cocktail of jealousy and voyeuristic heat. It wasn’t just about Cameron anymore. It was about this new game, this shared descent into mutual, sanctioned betrayal. Your skin prickled with anticipation.
“Yes,” you breathed, the word tasting like a pact. “I’ll see him.”
Vincent’s smile widened. He pulled you against him, his mouth claiming yours in a deep, possessive kiss. When he broke it, his eyes were blazing. “Good. Now,” he murmured, his hand sliding between your thighs, finding you already slick for him, “let’s practice your motivation. Show me how badly you want that other cock. Show me what you’ll be thinking about when I’m across town, tasting his wife’s skin.”
You told Cameron you were going to be in his city for business and wanted to meet. You subtly found out where his wife would be. She's a realtor, so Vincent was going to pretend to be a house shopper and request she shows him a house, where he would seduce her.
Chapter 16
The hotel room was sterile, the air humming with silent expectation. You sat at the edge of the bed, wearing the same black silk robe, your phone dark in your hand. This time, it wasn’t boredom you felt, but the cold, sharp focus of a hunter. Or the bait. Vincent would be across town by now, walking into an open house with a charming smile, his eyes already tracing the lines of another woman’s body—Cameron’s wife. The thought sent a hot, jealous thrill straight to your core. It was the fuel he’d demanded you bring to this.
When Cameron answered your video call, his face lit up with undisguised lust. “You’re really here.”
“I am,” you said, your voice low. Without ceremony, you let the robe fall open, then shrugged it off your shoulders entirely, letting it pool around you on the bed. You offered yourself to the camera, naked, your shaved pussy glistening under the harsh hotel lights. “No games tonight. Just what you want.”
His breath hitched audibly. “Fuck, Megan.”
“Tell me,” you commanded, your fingers drifting down your stomach. “While I touch myself, tell me exactly what you’d do if you were here. Every dirty detail.” You began to circle your clit, your eyes locked on his pixelated gaze, but your mind was elsewhere—on Vincent, his hands, his mouth, on a stranger in an empty house.
Cameron’s voice turned rough, painting a vivid, greedy picture. “I’d start by tasting you, right there. I’d make you come on my tongue before I even let you feel my cock.”
You moaned, arching your back, your fingers working faster. You imagined Vincent saying the same words to another woman, his lips on her neck, his hands learning her curves. The dual fantasy—being desired here, and being betrayed there—coiled your arousal into a tight, unbearable spring. You were performing for Cameron, but you were fucking Vincent’s transgression.
“I’m close,” you gasped, your hips bucking against your own hand.
“Yeah, come for me,” Cameron growled through the speaker. “I want to see it.”
But it was Vincent’s imagined whisper in your ear—*Tell me how he fucks you*—that finally snapped the tension. A ragged cry tore from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, shuddering wave that clenched your entire body. You rode it, your fingers soaked, your vision blurring, coming utterly alone in a quiet room for two absent men.
Panting, you looked at the screen. Cameron’s face was a mask of hungry satisfaction. You gave him a slow, spent smile. “Your turn,” you whispered. “Show me.”
In the meantime, Vincent was hard at work.
Chapter 17
Across town, Vincent followed Cameron’s wife, Alicia, into a master bedroom so large it echoed. “And this,” she said, her voice a warm, professional melody, “is the primary suite. The en-suite features dual vanities and a rainfall shower.”
Vincent nodded, his gaze not on the marble but on the line of her neck as she turned, the subtle shift of her blouse against her back. He imagined Megan in her sterile hotel room, her fingers working, her moans for another man. The thought was a live wire in his gut. “It’s impressive,” he said, stepping closer. “Very spacious.”
Alicia turned, catching his proximity. A flicker of something—awareness, curiosity—passed behind her professional smile. “It’s designed for privacy,” she said, her tone dipping slightly. “A real sanctuary.”
“I can see that.” He let his hand brush against hers as he reached past to point at a built-in detail. A static charge seemed to jump between them. She didn’t pull away.
In the hotel, you watched Cameron on your screen, his face taut with concentration as he stroked himself, his gaze locked on your sprawled, spent body. Your own arousal, momentarily sated, was already coiling back, fed by the phantom of Vincent’s betrayal. “Faster,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.
Back in the empty house, Vincent saw his opening. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I think my partner would love the lighting in here. But it’s hard to judge in the daytime.” He moved to the bank of dimmer switches by the door, plunging the room into a deep, intimate twilight, broken only by the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. “Is that better?”
Alicia laughed, a soft, nervous sound. “A bit dramatic for a viewing.”
“Life’s dramatic,” Vincent said, stepping back into the center of the room, now a pool of shadow and slatted gold. He looked at her, not the architecture. “Don’t you think?”
On the phone, Cameron grunted, his rhythm becoming frantic. “I’m gonna… fuck, Megan…”
“Do it,” you breathed, your own hand drifting back down, finding yourself wet all over again. You pictured Vincent in the dark room, closing the distance.
And he did. In the half-light, Vincent reached out, not for a switch, but to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Alicia’s ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. Her breath caught, her professional facade cracking to reveal a startled, wanting woman beneath. “Vincent…”
“Just checking the sight lines,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her cheek. He leaned in, his lips a breath from hers, a promise and a transgression hanging in the quiet air. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He let the possibility hum between them, a shared secret to match the one his partner was creating miles away.
In your silent room, you heard Cameron’s choked cry through the speaker, a distant, secondary thing. Your eyes were closed, your fingers circling your clit with a new, desperate rhythm, wholly focused on the image in your mind: your lover, in the dark, about to taste the forbidden fruit of your pact.
Chapter 18
Vincent’s thumb still traced Alicia’s jaw, his eyes locked on hers in the shadowed room. The air conditioner hummed, but it did nothing to cut the heat radiating from her. He felt it in the slight tremor of her skin under his touch, saw it in the dilation of her pupils, the parted softness of her lips. *Alicia was feeling hot.*
“Checking the sight lines,” he repeated, his voice a low rasp that seemed to vibrate in the quiet space.
Her professional composure was gone, shed like a coat. A raw, wanting curiosity had taken its place. “They’re… very clear,” she breathed, her own hand coming up to rest tentatively on his wrist, not to push him away, but to feel the proof of him.
That was all the permission he needed. Vincent closed the last inch, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was neither tentative nor gentle. It was a claiming, fueled by the vivid image of Megan, alone and giving herself to a screen. Alicia gasped into him, her body arching forward, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Her kiss was desperate, hungry, as if she’d been waiting in this empty, echoing house for this exact transgression.
He walked her backwards until her shoulders met the cool plaster of the wall. His hands found the hem of her silk blouse, slipping beneath to span the hot, smooth skin of her waist. She moaned, a sound that broke the sterile silence of the staged home, her hips canting forward to press against the hard line of his cock through his trousers. “Vincent,” she panted against his mouth. “We shouldn’t…”
“We absolutely should,” he growled, his mouth leaving hers to trail fire down her neck. He unbuttoned her blouse with practiced efficiency, pushing the fabric aside to reveal a lace bra. He took one peaked nipple into his mouth through the lace, sucking hard, and her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud.
Her hands fumbled for his belt, her movements frantic. As she freed him, his own fingers hooked into the waistband of her trousers and panties, dragging them down her thighs. He didn’t wait. He lifted her, her back against the wall, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he was inside her. She was soaking wet, hot and tight, and she cried out, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his back.
He fucked her there, against the wall of a stranger’s master suite, each deep, driving thrust a counterpoint to the fantasy he knew was playing out miles away. He thought of Megan’s face in ecstasy, and it made him pound into Alicia harder, faster. Her cries grew sharper, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around him. “I’m… I’m gonna…” she choked out, her body beginning to shudder.
“Come,” he commanded, his own control fraying. “Come for me, Alicia.”
The order shattered her. Her climax ripped through her, a silent, convulsing wave that milked his cock relentlessly. The feel of her pulsing around him dragged him over the edge immediately after. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came, a hot, rushing flood that seemed to pour the pent-up tension of the entire afternoon into her.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the hum of the house. He slowly let her slide down the wall until her feet touched the floor, his forehead resting against hers. Her eyes were closed, her lips swollen.
In the quiet aftermath, still buried inside her warmth, Vincent’s mind was perfectly, fiercely clear. The score was settled. The pact was alive. And he couldn’t wait to get home.
Chapter 19
Vincent’s scent, a mix of clean sweat and the faint hint of another woman’s perfume, clung to him as he finally walked through the front door. You were on the sofa, legs curled beneath you, a glass of wine in hand. The silence between you was thick, electric.
“So,” you said, your voice a low hum in the quiet room. You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. “How was the house showing?”
He didn’t smile, but his dark eyes glittered with a familiar, dangerous amusement. He shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall over the back of a chair, and came to stand before you. “Profitable. The sight lines in the master suite were… exceptional.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, catching a stray drop of wine. “And you? How was your afternoon?”
You caught his wrist, holding his hand to your mouth. You kissed his palm, then let your tongue trace a slow, wet line across it, tasting salt and the memory of his day. “Lonely,” you breathed against his skin. “Until I wasn’t. He wanted a show. So I gave him one.”
“Tell me,” Vincent commanded, his voice rough. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your shorts aside. His touch was possessive, a reclamation. “What did you do for him?”
Your head fell back as his fingers found you, already slick from the memory and his sudden presence. “I… I put on the black lace. The set you like. I got on my knees for the camera. I let him watch me use my fingers, then the glass toy. The cold one.” You gasped as his own fingers mimicked the described action, circling your clit with relentless pressure. “I came for him, Vincent. I screamed his name into the phone.”
A low groan rumbled from Vincent’s chest. He didn’t stop his skilled ministrations. Instead, he leaned in, his lips a breath away from yours. “Good,” he whispered, the word a dark caress. “Now let me tell you what I did while you were screaming for him.”
Chapter 20
His confession spilled into the space between you, raw and unfiltered. “I had her against the wall in the master suite. While you were screaming his name, I had my hand in her hair and my cock buried inside her. She came first, calling me a dirty fucking realtor.”
The image was a physical blow, a searing heat that coiled tighter in your core, amplified by his relentless fingers. “Did you think of me?” you gasped, your hips rocking against his hand.
“Every second,” he breathed, his lips finally claiming yours in a possessive, bruising kiss. When he broke it, his eyes were black fire. “I thought of you watching. I thought of you hearing this.” His free hand unzipped his trousers, freeing his hard length, already glistening at the tip with his own need. “I want you to feel where I’ve been.”
He guided himself to your entrance, not pushing in, just letting the hot, slick head press against your soaked flesh. The sensation was electric—the evidence of his transgression, the proof of your shared pact, a tangible link between your afternoon and his.
“Tell me you want it,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Tell me you want to feel him on me when I fill you.”
“Yes,” you moaned, the word ripped from your throat. “I want it. I want all of it.”
He pressed forward, a slow, deliberate invasion that stretched you, burned you, completed the circuit of your mutual betrayal. You were both marked, both claimed, both utterly complicit. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about possession, each stroke a physical reaffirmation of the dangerous game you’d chosen to play.
"Do you want to fuck him Megan?"
Chapter 21
“Do you want to fuck him, Megan?”
Vincent’s question was a low growl against your ear, his hips pounding a punishing rhythm that drove the air from your lungs. His cock was a hard, claiming presence inside you, still slick from another woman, making his possession feel raw and shared. The scent of his cologne was mixed with something foreign, something floral that wasn't yours.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” you cried out, the confession torn from you as your nails dug into his back. “God, yes, I want to.”
The admission ignited him. His pace became brutal, each deep stroke a deliberate punishment and a reward. “You want his cock where mine is?” he snarled, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. “You want to feel him fill you up while I watch?”
“Vincent, please…”
“You want it,” he stated, a dark certainty in his voice as he drove into you with a force that made you see stars. “That’s why we did this. So you could want it and still be mine.”
His words were the final key. The coil of heat in your belly, wound tight from your performance for Cameron and now supercharged by Vincent’s jealous possession, snapped. A violent, shuddering climax tore through you, a wave of pure electric release that clenched around him, milking his length as you screamed his name into the crook of his neck.
Feeling you come undone around him was his undoing. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his own release pumping hot and deep inside you in fierce, pulsing spurts. He held himself there, locked within you as he shuddered through the last of it, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, heavy breathing and the crackle of the dying fire. He stayed sheathed within you, his weight a comforting anchor. Slowly, he softened, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he brushed the sweaty hair from your forehead, his touch unexpectedly tender.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, the raw edge gone from his voice, replaced by a thick, satisfied warmth. “All of you. Even the parts that want him.”
You turned your head, meeting his eyes in the dim light. There was no anger there, only a profound, dark understanding. He kissed you softly, a seal on the pact. The game was played. The lines were crossed. And in the wreckage of it, you were both still here, more claimed than ever.
"Tell me. What do you think he'd do if you invited him over for a fuck, then told him you wanted dinner or a drink downstairs. Then you tell him you want a goodnight fuck so you come back to the room and you and him see me and Alicia fucking like crazy. How do you think he'd react and how would you feel seeing?"