Chapter 1: The Drunken Plunge
The air in the villa compound was thick and sweet, a mix of frangipani, spilled Arak, and the damp earth smell that came after the sprinklers had run. Music still pulsed from a neighbor’s place, a low bass throb that vibrated in Stella’s chest as she swung her leg off the back of the scooter. Her sandal caught on the footpeg.
“Whoops.”
Made’s hand shot out, steadying her elbow. His grip was firm, warm. “Easy there.”
“I’m easy,” she giggled, the word slipping out before she could catch it. The two Bintangs at the beach club were doing their work, softening the edges of the night, making everything feel fizzy and possible. She smoothed her tiny denim shorts, the sequinned top beneath her unbuttoned shirt glittering in the lantern light. The villa pool glowed, a rectangle of turquoise lit from below, strewn with floating petals and a single, forgotten cocktail glass.
“You sure you’re okay?” Made asked, one foot on the ground, the other still on the scooter. The red taillight bled into the dark driveway. He was a silhouette against the bougainvillea-covered wall. Relaxed. Always so relaxed.
“I’m perfect.” She took a wobbly step toward the pool’s edge, peeling the shirt off. Her bikini was still damp from earlier, a dark navy that looked black in the low light. She felt his eyes on the strip of skin between the top and the low waist of her shorts. She liked it.
The idea came to her fully formed, a spark of pure mischief. She turned, her smile wide and innocent. “Made. Your phone. I think you dropped it.”
He frowned, patting his pockets automatically. “Where?”
“Right there.” She pointed at the shimmering water just behind her.
He leaned, peering. As he did, she shifted her weight, reached out, and her fingers closed around his wrist. It wasn’t a rough pull. It was an invitation, a tug with a giggle attached. “Just kidding!”
He came off the scooter with a surprised grunt, too off-balance to resist. They hit the water together.
The splash was enormous, shattering the night’s quiet. The water was bath-warm, enveloping. She came up sputtering, laughter bubbling out of her. He surfaced a second later, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his white t-shirt see-through and clinging to the defined planes of his chest.
“Stella,” he said, but he was laughing too, a low, rich sound. He shook his head, sending droplets flying.
“Payback for that crazy shortcut,” she said, paddling closer. The shallow end was only waist-deep for him. She was tiptoeing. “You almost killed us on that motorbike.”
“I got us home fast.”
“You did.” The laughter between them settled into something else. The water lapped. The music next door switched to something slower, sultry. She was acutely aware of the cool nylon of her bikini bottom, the way it clung everywhere. Of his proximity. His shoulders were broad, the wet fabric of his shirt outlining everything.
His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, then lower. The playful energy shifted, charged. He moved closer, so slowly. The water barely rippled. His hands found her hips under the surface, thumbs stroking the exposed skin above her bikini line. A casual, confident touch.
“Your clothes are soaked,” she whispered, her breath hitching.
“So are yours.”
One hand slid around to the small of her back, pulling her gently against him. She could feel the heat of him even through the water. His other hand drifted from her hip, tracing the side of her thigh. Fingers hooked under the leg band of her bikini bottom.
“This is impractical,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble near her ear. His breath was warm against her wet skin.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was the precipice, the delicious, terrifying moment before the fall. She gave a barely perceptible nod, a tilt of her chin.
He didn’t peel the fabric down. He used both hands, sliding them slowly up the outsides of her thighs, gathering the soaked material, his knuckles brushing her skin. The friction was exquisite. The night air kissed her newly exposed skin, a shock of cool. He let the bikini bottom float away, a dark shape in the glowing water.
His hands returned to her bare hips, holding her there. His eyes held hers, asking a silent question. The world had shrunk to the pool, to the sound of their breathing, to the points of contact where his skin met hers.
A phone rang.
Not hers. His.
The sound was jarring, a sharp digital trill from the pocket of his waterlogged jeans. The spell cracked. He blinked, the intensity in his eyes receding like a tide.
He let out a slow breath, his grip loosening. “I should…”
“Yeah.” Her voice was shaky. She took a step back, the water suddenly feeling colder. The reality of what was happening—what had almost happened—sloshed in with the ripples. She was standing naked in her villa pool with her Gojek driver. A wild, thrilling secret for her channel. A story to drive Jules crazy with want when she told him later.
Made waded to the steps, hauling himself out. Water streamed from him, puddling on the terracotta tiles. He pulled the ringing, doomed phone from his pocket and silenced it. He looked back at her, still in the water, half-hidden by the gleam and shadow.
“You are a dangerous woman, Stella,” he said, but he was smiling again, that easy, charming smile. He wrung out the hem of his shirt.
From the open doors of the villa, another phone rang. Her ringtone. The pulsing synth beat of a song she’d set specifically for one person.
Jules. FaceTiming, right on schedule.
Made heard it. His smile turned knowing. He gave her a small, two-fingered salute. “Your world is calling.”
He righted his scooter, kicked the engine to life. The red light retreated down the drive, swallowed by the Bali night.
Stella climbed out, grabbing a towel from a lounger and wrapping it around her waist. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, took a deep breath to settle her frantic pulse, and walked toward the villa, toward the blinking screen on the bamboo table.
She tapped answer, arranging her face into a grin. “Hey, you. You will not believe the night I just had.”
“Hey, you. You will not believe the night I just had.”
Jules’s pixelated face grinned back at her from the screen, his brow already raised in anticipation. The familiar sight of their bedroom headboard behind him felt like a different planet. “Do I need to be sitting down for this?”
Stella collapsed onto the wicker sofa, towel clutched around her waist, water from her hair dripping onto her collarbone. The thrill of the pool, of Made’s hands, was still buzzing under her skin, mixing with the alcohol in a dangerous cocktail. She leaned close to the camera, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay. So. After the third round of shots, this Swedish guy—Lars? Lasse?—literally just followed me into the bathroom corridor.”
“Naturally.”
“He had those eyes, you know? All intense.” She giggled, the sound loose and airy. “We didn’t even make it to a stall. Just right there against the wall next to the sink. His hands were in my hair and it was… fast. And a little messy.” She bit her lip, watching his reaction. “I got a picture. The angle is… incriminating.”
Jules’s smile was a slow curl. He shifted, the screen jostling. “You’re a menace. Send it.”
She navigated to her photos, her fingers slightly clumsy. The image was dark, all blurry motion and her own red lipstick visible in the corner of the frame. She hit send. Watched his eyes dart to another screen. His breath hitched, just a little. That was the sound she loved.
“Christ, Stell.”
“You like it?”
“You know I do.” His voice had dropped, gone rough. “You didn’t let him…”
“God, no. Of course not. Just a… preview. For you.” She let the towel gape a little, knowing the camera would pick up the shadowed line of her chest. “It’s more fun when I bring the stories home.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his expression a mix of arousal and that familiar, possessive amusement. “Any other stories? Or was the bathroom the main event?”
This was her opening. She adopted an innocent, wide-eyed look. “Well. The driver.”
“Madi?”
“Made,” she corrected, drawing out the name. “His name is Made.” She let a dreamy sigh slip out, purely for effect. “He had to help me to the door. I was sooo wobbly.”
Jules chuckled. “There it is. Your holiday crush. I knew it. You’ve talked about his ‘calm energy’ for three days straight.”
“It’s not a crush. It’s an appreciation. He’s just… very solid. Very helpful.” She flashed back to the weight of him in the water, the feel of his knuckles on her thighs, and pushed the memory down. A secret for now. A better story for later.
“Helpful,” Jules repeated, skeptical and playful. “Right. Just don’t go running off with my wife, Made.”
“He’s probably married to some beautiful Balinese goddess with perfect hair and a PhD in spirituality,” Stella sighed, laying it on thick.
“I’m sure he is. Keep your ‘appreciation’ in check, tiger. Or at least, get permission.” His tone was light, but the edge was there. Their rule. The fun was in the tease, the story, the shared fantasy. The line was hers to dance up to, but not cross. Not without asking.
“Always,” she said, her tone suddenly serious before breaking into another tipsy grin. “I miss you. It’s too pretty here without you.”
They talked for a few more minutes, the conversation softening into mundane details about his day, the time difference, her plans for tomorrow. When they hung up, the silence of the villa rushed back in, louder than the music had been.
She padded inside, the cool tile a shock under her bare feet. The AC hummed. She poured herself the last of the warmish white wine from a bottle on the counter and scrolled mindlessly. Her gaze kept snagging on the search bar.
Her thumb moved almost on its own.
_M_A_D_E_. _B_A_L_I_.
She’d gotten his social media handle weeks ago, a casual “in case you need a driver” exchange she’d immediately saved. His profile was unlocked. Not many posts. A few sunset pictures from a scooter’s view, a temple visit, a group shot with friends at a warung. He was smiling in all of them. That same easy confidence.
The wine glass emptied. The pool’s memory glowed brighter.
Her fingers hovered over the message icon. Jules’s voice in her head: Get permission. But this wasn’t crossing a line. This was just… a message. A thank you. A continuation of a joke.
She typed fast, before the sensible part of her brain could engage.
hey. it’s stella. from the pool. she sent.
She stared at the words. They seemed too small, too stark. She added another.
sorry again for the drowning. you’re a good sport.
A pause. Her heart thumped against her ribs. This was stupid. It was late. He was probably asleep, or with his beautiful, spiritual, PhD wife.
Her phone buzzed, a soft vibration in the silent room.
The screen lit up. A direct message notification.
She opened it.
Made: No drowning happened. Only a splash. You are a very convincing swimmer.
A laugh burst out of her, nervous and giddy. He was there. He was typing again.
Made: You recovered from your night?
Stella: more wine is helping. still a bit wobbly.
Made: Wobbling is dangerous. You should sit down.
Stella: i am. on my bed. it’s very big and empty.
She sent it. The seconds ticked by, long and heavy. The blue ‘seen’ tag glared at her from the screen. No reply.
The momentum of the alcohol and the night faltered. Doubt crept in, cold at the edges of the warmth. She had said too much. It was over the line. She’d—
Her phone buzzed again.
Made: Big empty beds are the most dangerous places of all. Goodnight, Stella.
She stared at the words until the screen went dark, reflecting her own wide-eyed expression back at her in the black glass.
She stared at the words until the screen went dark, reflecting her own wide-eyed expression back at her in the black glass.
It buzzed again in her hand.
Made: Unless you need a better definition of dangerous.
Her breath caught. Her fingers flew over the screen.
Stella: i might. define it for me.
The pause was shorter this time, a deliberate beat.
Made: Dangerous is a woman who pulls a man into her pool and then pretends it was an accident.
Made: It’s knowing the difference between a wobble and a sway.
Made: It’s a very big, very empty bed.
Heat pooled low in her stomach. She glanced at the expansive, untouched bed behind her.
Stella: you forgot the part where the woman is still wearing the bikini top. it’s itchy.
Made: That is a problem. It should be removed.
Made: Is it removed?
She reached behind her back, fumbling with the clasp. It sprang open. She shimmied out of the damp fabric, tossing it onto the floor. The cool air of the room pebbled her skin. She took a quick, crude photo of her bare breasts, the shadowed valley between them, and sent it without a caption.
Five seconds. Ten.
Made: You are proving my point.
Made: Now the bed is less empty. You are in it.
Made: What are you touching?
A shudder ran through her. She let one hand drift down her stomach, her fingertips tracing the wet line of her pool-damp skin. She typed one-handed.
Stella: thinking about the pool. your hands were very sure.
Made: They know what they want. They knew then.
Made: Tell me what you’re thinking about. Precisely.
Stella: your thumbs. on my hips. holding me still.
Made: I wasn’t holding you still. I was deciding.
Made: Turn over.
The command, so blunt and out of nowhere, made her clench inside. She obeyed, rolling onto her stomach on the crisp duvet. She buried her face in a pillow, the scent of hotel laundry and her own perfume filling her nose. She imagined his weight on the bed behind her.
Stella: i’m over.
Made: Now imagine my hand isn’t on your hip. It’s on the back of your thigh. Pushing your legs apart.
Made: You’re still wet from the pool. You’re wetter now.
A moan escaped her, muffled by the pillow. She spread her legs against the cool duvet, arching her back. Her fingers crept beneath her, slick and desperate.
The sudden crash of the villa’s front door swinging open shattered the silence.
“STELLA! WE’RE HOME! WHERE’S MY FAVORITE SLUT?”
Erin’s voice, shrill and euphoric, echoed through the living room. Giggles, stumbling, the thud of a purse hitting tiles.
Stella froze, her body screaming in protest at the interruption. She snatched her phone, heart hammering.
Stella: fuck. roommates are home.
Made: Then you should be quiet.
She scrambled off the bed, grabbing a silky robe and wrapping it around herself just as two wobbly figures appeared in her bedroom doorway. Erin, a pixie-cut brunette, clung to the doorframe. Lara, taller and perpetually the instigator, leaned against her, a bottle of Arak dangling from her fingers.
“There she is!” Erin crowed. “We brought you... more... shit.” She squinted. “Why are you all flushed?”
“Were you sleeping?” Lara asked, her eyes sharp despite the alcohol. They swept over Stella, the discarded bikini top on the floor, the phone clutched white-knuckled in her hand. A slow, knowing grin spread across Lara’s face. “Ohhh. You weren’t sleeping. You were playing. Without us.”
“I was just texting Jules,” Stella said, too quickly.
Lara pushed off from the doorframe and sauntered in. She snatched the phone from Stella’s hand before she could react. The screen was still lit, the chat open.
“‘Turn over.’ Jesus, Stell,” Lara whistled, scrolling. “This is not Jules.”
“Give it back!” Stella lunged, but Lara held it high, reading aloud in a mocking, sultry tone.
“‘You’re wetter now.’ Fuck me, who is Made? Is this the driver? You absolute legend!”
Erin whooped, collapsing onto the end of the bed. “Get it, girl!”
Lara tossed the phone back to Stella, her eyes glittering. “Don’t stop on our account. We’re going to pass out.” She yanked her own dress over her head, stumbling out of it, and stood there in just her underwear. “Come on, Erin, you’re in your room.”
Erin groaned, rolling off the bed and staggering out, blowing Stella a drunken kiss. “Night, sex-kitten!”
Lara made to follow, then stopped. She looked at the king-sized bed, then at Stella. “My room’s hot. AC is broken. I’m sleeping here.” It wasn’t a question. She flopped onto the bed, right in the middle, and pulled the duvet over herself. “Don’t worry, I don’t snore.”
Stella stood there, adrenaline and arousal still buzzing through her, warring with sudden exhaustion. The bubble had burst. She slid into bed on the other side, putting as much space as she could between them. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
She could hear Lara’s breathing. It wasn’t the slow, deep rhythm of sleep.
“He’s got a good way with words, your driver,” Lara murmured into the darkness. Her voice was husky. “Knows what he wants.”
Stella didn’t answer. Her body was still humming, unsatisfied, tuned to a frequency Lara seemed to sense.
“Jules would lose his shit if he saw those messages,” Lara continued, rolling onto her side to face Stella. “He’d be so hard. You know he would.”
The image flickered in Stella’s mind: Jules, seeing the texts, that dark, possessive look in his eyes. The one that turned her on more than anything.
“Yeah,” Stella whispered.
“Is he hard now?” Lara’s hand moved under the covers, not touching Stella, but the space between them crackled. “Jules, I mean. Is he thinking about you touching yourself while some Balinese god tells you to turn over?”
Stella’s breath hitched. “Maybe.”
Lara shifted closer. Her bare leg brushed Stella’s. “I’d be. If I were him. Or if I were Made.” She was close enough that Stella could smell the coconut liquor on her breath. “Knowing you’re in this big bed, all worked up and nowhere to go.”
It was the alcohol, the residual thrill from the texts, the raw, unspent energy. Stella turned her head. Their faces were inches apart. Lara’s expression was hungry, mischievous.
“I’m not nowhere,” Stella heard herself say, her voice low.
“Prove it.”
Lara’s mouth found hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was all teeth and heat and shared Arak breath. A jolt went straight to Stella’s core. Lara’s tongue pushed past her lips, and Stella met it with her own, a surge of pent-up feverishness breaking free. Lara’s hand slid over Stella’s hip, pulling her closer, the thin silk of the robe doing nothing to hide the press of their bodies.
They scrambled under the covers, a tangled, frantic mess of limbs. Lara sucked a bruise into Stella’s neck while her hand pushed the robe open, palming her breast, thumb circling a nipple until it was a tight, aching peak. Stella gasped, her head falling back.
“You like that?” Lara growled, her mouth wet against Stella’s ear. “You think Made’s thinking about your tits right now? You think Jules is?”
“Yes,” Stella panted, arching into the touch. Her own hands were pulling at the waistband of Lara’s underwear, yanking them down. Lara kicked them off.
“Tell me what you wanted him to do in the pool,” Lara demanded, her hand sliding down Stella’s stomach, through the wetness there.
“I wanted…” Stella’s words dissolved into a groan as Lara’s fingers found her clit, circling with a rough, perfect pressure. “His hands… pushing my legs open…”
“Like this?” Lara hooked Stella’s leg over her hip, opening her wider. She dipped a finger inside, then another, curling them. Stella cried out, her hips bucking.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Lara breathed, her own breathing ragged. “For him? Or for me?”
“For… everything,” Stella moaned. She reached between Lara’s legs, finding her hot and slick. They moved against each other, a grinding, sliding frenzy of fingers and hips and frantic, open-mouthed kisses. The dirty talk spilled out, filthy and fragmented.
“Jules is watching… he’s loving this…” Stella gasped, her fingers working Lara in a tight, rapid rhythm.
“He’s jerking off… to us…” Lara choked out, thrusting against Stella’s hand. “And Made… he’s outside… wishing it was him…”
“Yeah… fuck…”
The climax built, a coiling, shared tension. Lara’s movements became erratic, her moans louder. Stella felt her own release gathering, a white-hot point at the base of her spine, pushed higher by Lara’s fingers inside her, by the vulgar, thrilling words in her ear.
“Come for your driver, you little slut,” Lara snarled, biting Stella’s shoulder.
That did it. Stella shattered, a violent, pulsing wave that tore a ragged scream from her throat. Feeling it, Lara followed, her body shuddering against Stella’s, a muffled cry lost in the pillow.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths and the distant thump of music from somewhere down the beach.
Lara slowly pulled her hand back, bringing her fingers to her own mouth with a sly, exhausted grin. “Tasty.”
Stella’s brain was fog, a swamp of endorphins and alcohol. Her phone, forgotten on the bedside table, vibrated.
Lara’s eyes shot to it. “Is that him?”
The impulse was immediate, electric. Stella grabbed the phone. Without thinking, she turned it on them—a tangle of bare limbs, Lara’s head on her stomach, her own flushed, sweaty face. The sheet pooled at their waists. She took the picture. It was dark, grainy, blatantly explicit.
“Take another,” Lara murmured, tilting her head back to expose her throat, her hand sneaking back between Stella’s thighs. “Show him you’re not finished.”
Stella’s fingers fumbled as she switched to video, recording a few seconds of Lara’s fingers sliding through her mess, of her own hand cupping Lara’s breast. It was raw, unfiltered.
Her thumb found Jules’s contact. She attached the photo and the short video. Her message was a single, trembling line.
you said to get permission.
She hit send.
The whoosh sound echoed in the quiet room. The blue ‘delivered’ tag appeared. Then, almost instantly, it switched to ‘read’.
Silence.
Then, her phone started to ring. Jules’s face filled the screen.
Stella looked at Lara, who was watching her with a dark, approving smile. The screen flashed and pulsed in the dark.
She didn’t answer.