Chapter 1: Moonlit Confessions - When Roleplay Becomes Real
The balcony was a private slice of midnight, drenched in silver moonlight and the humid, salt-kissed air of Montego Bay. Beyond the wrought-iron railing, the Caribbean Sea stretched into a black velvet nothing, punctuated only by the faint, bobbing lantern of a solitary fishing boat. Reggae’s steady bassline thumped from a distant beach bar, a heartbeat beneath the cicada song.
Inside their suite, through the wide-open glass doors, the blue glow of the laptop screen cast shifting shadows. On it, two figures moved with a rhythmic, consuming intensity. The sound was down, but the imagery was loud enough.
Imani, naked and slick with sweat, braced her hands on David’s thighs, her back arched against his chest. She rode him reverse, each slow, deep rise and fall a deliberate act of concentration. The moon painted her ebony skin in liquid mercury, highlighting the taut line of her spine, the shift of muscle in her slim shoulders.
David’s hands, large and pale, spanned her waist, his grip firm, guiding but not controlling. His eyes weren’t on her. They were fixed on the screen, watching the man there—a man built like a obsidian god—pound into a woman who took him with a desperation that bordered on worship.
“You see that?” Imani murmured, her voice husky, a tremor in it. She rolled her hips, grinding down onto him, feeling him swell inside her. Her own eyes were locked on the laptop. On the other scene now playing: the same man, his thickness straining a woman’s lips, her throat working as she took him deep.
Imani’s breath hitched. Her rhythm stuttered. “Fuck, David. Look at that. Look how she gags on it.”
His fingers dug into her hips, a silent, bruising answer. He thrust upward, meeting her next drop with a force that punched a gasp from her lungs.
“Imagine,” she panted, her head falling back against his shoulder. The words spilled out, slick and dangerous as the sweat between them. “Imagine if that was me. Your little wife. On my knees, trying to fit all of that in my mouth.” She pushed up and slammed back down, a tight, wet grip that made him groan. “Your proper, articulate Imani… just a slut for it. A Queen of Spades for real. Gagging, crying on a real BBC while you sit in the corner and watch.”
David’s control snapped. He seized her, one arm banding across her chest, pulling her flush against him, his other hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. His thrusts turned brutal, animalistic, the wrought-iron chair screeching a fraction on the tiles with every drive.
“Would you?” she taunted, loving the violence in his touch, the raw, claiming fury of his movements. “Would you jerk your cute little dick while you watch a real man wreck me?”
“Shut up,” he growled into her ear, but his hips were saying something else, pistoning into her, his length rubbing that perfect, desperate spot inside her with every punishing stroke.
“Tell me,” she demanded, reaching a hand behind her to claw at his neck. “Tell me you’d get off on it. Tell me you’d film it. That you’d save it and jerk off to the memory of my eyes watering while I choke on a cock that makes yours feel like a fucking toothpick.”
It was the nuclear option. The fantasy they played with but never articulated so cruelly. David froze for a second, a full-body flinch. Then, with a roar that was pure surrender, he stood, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he turned and braced her against the cool stucco wall of the balcony. The sea breeze chilled the sweat on their skin.
He fucked her there, pinning her, his mouth slanted over hers, swallowing her moans. The world narrowed to the slam of their bodies, the primal slap of skin, the salt on their lips. Imani chanted his name, then mine, then his, the pronouns blurring, the fantasy and the man possessing her becoming one swirling, incoherent need.
Her climax ripped through her, a silent, seismic shock that clenched around him, milking him, pulling his own release from him in hot, pulsing waves. He shuddered against her, his forehead damp against the wall beside her head.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant reggae beat. The laptop had gone to screensaver, a swirling galaxy replacing the porn.
He softened inside her, gently lowering her until her feet found the tiles. They didn’t move from the wall. His arms stayed around her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
“Imani…” His voice was wrecked.
“I know,” she whispered, feeling the aftershocks still trembling in her thighs.
“That… what you said.” He pulled back to look at her. His blue eyes were dark in the moonlight, full of a turmoil that made her stomach clench. Not guilt. Something hotter, more frightening. “You can’t say shit like that and not mean it. Not forever.”
She touched his cheek. “It’s just a game. Our game.”
“It didn’t feel like a game.” He kissed her, slow and deep, a reclaiming. When he broke away, his gaze was intense, searching. “What if we… saw it? Just once. Not a video. In person.”
The breeze suddenly felt cold. The fantasy, so safe behind the closed doors of their bedroom, their private screens, was now standing naked between them on a balcony overlooking an unknown sea.
“What are you saying, David?”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m saying… maybe we find a club.Tomorrow. One of those lifestyle places. Just to watch. No one touches you.” He said it like he was convincing himself. “We just… see what it’s like. For real.”
Imani’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. The wanting, a dark and hungry thing uncoiling in her gut, warred with a sharp, sudden spike of fear.This was the line. They’d danced up to it for months, years. He was pointing a toe across it.
She looked from his earnest, conflicted face, back into their suite, to the dark screen where the phantom images still seemed to flicker. The salt on her lips wasn’t just from the sea anymore. It was the taste of a threshold.
“Okay,” she heard herself say, the word barely a breath stolen by the Caribbean wind.“Okay. Let’s just watch.”
The silence after her “okay” was profound, filled only by the sea and the distant pulse of music. It was a chasm they’d just agreed to peer into. David slid down the wall, pulling her with him, so they sat tangled on the cool tiles, the heat of their bodies slowly dissipating.
He traced the line of her collarbone. “I’m not crazy, right?” he finally murmured. “This is just… an extension. Of us.”
Imani leaned into his touch, her mind racing. “It’s a fantasy. We’re just making it 3D.” She turned her head, nuzzling his jaw. “But god, can you imagine it, for real? My skin against… that.The contrast. My tight little pussy stretched around a cock so big I’d feel it in my throat.” She felt him stiffen against her thigh, a visceral reaction. “You wouldn’t even feel me after, David. I’d be so open, so ruined for you. Just a loose, used hole.”
“Jesus, Imani,” he breathed, his hand slipping between her legs, finding her wet all over again.
“It’s just talk,” she whispered, spreading her thighs for his fingers. “Just our dirty movie. Tomorrow night, we just watch. We see if the reality turns us on as much as the idea.” She guided his hand, showing him the rhythm she wanted. “Tell me you think about it. Honestly.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers working her with a focused, gentle pressure that belied the tension in his arm. “Yeah,” he admitted, the word gruff, torn from him. “Fuck, yeah, I do. Sometimes… when I’m in you, I picture it. What it would look like. Your beautiful black pussy wrapped around a thick, black cock. The way it would disappear inside you. It’s the hottest, most fucked-up thing I’ve ever seen in my head.”
His confession, so raw and specific, sent a lightning bolt of pure lust straight to her core. She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. “Oh, god. Say it again.”
“It would look fucking perfect,” he growled into her ear, his fingers pushing deeper. “A work of art. My wife. Taking that.”
That was all it took. The coil snapped. Her orgasm was swift and shocking, a silent, full-body convulsion that left her shuddering and gasping against his chest. As the pulses subsided, a reckless energy took hold. She untangled herself, stood on wobbly legs, and walked back into the suite.
“Where are you going?” he asked, voice thick.
She didn’t answer. She went to her suitcase, rummaged past the lace and silk, and found the secret pouch at the bottom. Her heart hammered. She turned, holding the heavy, silicone toy behind her back. The laptop was still on. She tapped the trackpad, and the silent film of flesh resumed its motion.
“You said it would look perfect,” she said, her voice low and charged. She brought the dildo out. It was obsidian black, thick, veined, and intimidatingly real. David’s eyes widened, his gaze flicking from the screen to the toy in her hand.
“When did you get that?”
“A surprise,” she said, crawling onto the bed toward him. “For our trip. I wanted to see.” She knelt before him, placing the massive thing on the sheets between them. “I want you to fuck me with it. I want to see what it looks like. I want you to see.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Conflict, arousal, possession—it all warred in his eyes. Then, with a slow nod, he reached for it. The cool, slick silicone felt alien in his grip.
Imani lay back, pulling her knees up and wide. “Use the lube,” she instructed, nodding to the bottle on the nightstand. “I want you to really fuck me with it. Pretend it’s yours. Pretend it’s his.”
David slicked the toy, his movements deliberate. The porn played on, a silent, relentless backdrop. He positioned himself between her legs, the head of the dildo pressing against her. She was soaked, but the stretch was immediate, immense. A sharp, full burn.
“Oh, fuck,” she moaned, her head pushing back into the pillow. “Yeah… just like that. Make me take it.”
He pushed, his own arousal evident, his jaw clenched. He watched, transfixed, as her body yielded, engulfing the artificial black girth. The visual was obscene, breathtaking. Her ebony skin stretched taut, accommodating the invasion. It was the image from his head, made flesh.
“Tell me,” he gritted out, beginning a slow, deep rhythm, his eyes glued to where they joined. “What you want to see tomorrow.”
Imani’s words came in broken gasps, matching his thrusts. “I want… to see a woman… on her knees. Not just taking it… loving it. I want to see her face… when she can’t handle it… but she begs for more.” She cried out as he angled it deeper. “I want to see… a husband watching. Like you’d watch. Seeing his wife become… a cocksleeve. I want to see if it turns me on… to see you turned on by it.”
He fucked her with the toy harder, the slap of silicone against her flesh a brutal counterpoint to the silent movie on the screen. His own hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking in time.
“Would you touch me?” she panted, her eyes wild. “If you saw that? If you saw me like that? Would you jerk your pathetic little dick while I got blacked?”
“Yes,” he hissed, the word a taut wire of shame and desire. His rhythm faltered, his own release painting her stomach as he watched the dildo, slick with her and lube, piston in and out of her. “Fuck, yes, I would.”
Imani came again, a smaller, sharper climax, wrung from her by the admission and the relentless fullness. He collapsed beside her, the toy slipping from his grasp, wet and glistening on the rumpled sheets.
They lay there, breathless, the blue light from the screen washing over them. The fantasy was no longer just behind their eyes. It was on the bed between them. It was a plan for tomorrow.
He pulled her close, his lips against her sweaty temple. “Just watching,” he whispered, as if to bind them both to the promise.
“Just watching,” she echoed, her hand finding his under the sheets. Her fingers twined with his, tight, an anchor in the dark, churning water they had just chosen to sail into. The image of the club, of unknown eyes and anonymous bodies, shimmered ahead of them, a dark star pulling them toward its gravity.
The image of the club, of unknown eyes and anonymous bodies, shimmered ahead of them, a dark star pulling them toward its gravity. David’s breathing evened out beside her, but the silence was full of wires, live and humming.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough from use. “Question. Tomorrow. When we’re just… watching.” He turned on his side to face her, propping his head on his hand. The moonlight cut across his serious face. “What would you rather see? A white girl or a Black girl getting fucked?”
Imani blinked. The question was a bolt from the blue, clinical and crude. It excited her. She thought about it, her fingers tracing idle circles on the damp sheet between them. “A white girl,” she said finally, the answer surprising her with its certainty.
“Yeah? Why?”
“It’s… hotter to me. I don’t know. The contrast is more extreme. It’s the visual I’m used to from all the stuff we watch. The pale skin, the blonde hair… it looks more…” She searched for the word, the right filthy honesty. “More like corruption. More like she’s being taken somewhere she doesn’t belong. It feels truer to the fantasy.” She looked at him. “Why do you think that is? Why is it always white women in those videos? It’s like a whole genre.”
David shrugged, a shadow of a smile on his lips. “Market, I guess. Taboo sells. The whole ‘defiling the pure’ thing. It’s an old, fucked-up story. Makes the guys watching feel more powerful. Makes the women watching, like you, imagine being that… coveted thing. The ultimate prize. Or the ultimate sin.”
“It’s not about sin for me,” Imani said quietly. “It’s about power. Her power. To make a man that huge lose his mind. To take something that big and make it hers.” She paused. “Watching another sister… it feels different. It feels like solidarity. Or competition. I don’t know. It doesn’t get me there in the same way.”
He nodded, understanding. It was their language. He reached out, touched her hip. “We should have a secret.”
“What kind of secret?”
“For tomorrow. Something just for us. You wear something underneath your clothes. Something no one else knows is there but me.” His eyes darkened. “Naughty little panties. Something that says… ‘QOS’. Or ‘BBC Only’. A little tease for me, while we’re just sitting there watching.”
A thrill shot through her, sharp and delicious. It was a perfect, private fuel for the fire. “Yes,” she breathed. “I have that black lace thong. I could get a marker. Write it on the inside, right against my skin. Where only you’d know.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, his hand sliding from her hip to between her legs again. She was still swollen, sensitive, but the idea made her moisten anew. “Do it. Write it. So when you shift in your seat, I’ll remember. I’ll know my wife is sitting there with a secret slut badge on her pussy.”
She gasped as his fingers found her clit, a bright, almost painful spark. “Rules,” she managed to say, pressing her thighs together around his hand. “We need rules. For real life.”
“Okay.” He stilled his hand, giving her his full attention. The game was shifting; the board needed boundaries. “Real life rules first. Number one: We leave together. No separating. Not for a drink, not for the bathroom, nothing.”
“Agreed.”
“Two: No touching. We don’t touch anyone. No one touches us. Especially you.”
“Especially me,” she echoed.
“Three: The safe word. ‘Montego’. We say it, we’re out. No questions, no debate. Instant exit.”
“Montego,” she repeated, committing it to muscle memory. “And fantasy world rules?”
He exhaled, a long, slow breath. This was the dangerous part. The part where the line blurred. “Fantasy world rules… are what we play by in here.” He tapped her temple gently. “And in there.” He gestured to the laptop. “In fantasy world… there are no rules. In fantasy world, you go to the bathroom alone. And maybe you don’t come back for a while. In fantasy world, I watch. In fantasy world, you get on your knees. You beg. You take it all. You come back to me with your makeup smeared and your legs shaking. And I take you home and fuck you in the cab. I reclaim what’s mine.”
His words were a venomous aphrodisiac, poisoning her resolve, making the real-life rules feel flimsy. She could see it. The dark hallway. The stranger. The surrender.
“In fantasy world,” she whispered, rolling onto him, straddling his waist, her breasts hovering above his face, “you don’t just watch. You film it. You direct it. You tell him where to cum. You make me thank him. You make me ask for more.”
He grabbed her ass with both hands, squeezing hard. “In fantasy world, I own it. I own your pleasure. I orchestrate it. It’s my gift to you. My sacrifice.”
“Your sacrifice,” she moaned, lowering herself onto his mouth, not his cock, needing the sharp intimacy of his tongue. He ate her with a desperate hunger, as if memorizing her taste before it might change. She rode his face, her hands fisted in his hair, her eyes closed against the whirling galaxy on the screen.
When she came, it was with a soft, broken cry that the sea breeze snatched away. She collapsed beside him, spent.
“Tomorrow,” he said into her hair, much later, as the first faint peach smudge of dawn hinted at the horizon.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, her voice thick with sleep and unspeakable want. The secret thong was already a tangible ghost against her skin in her mind. The rules were a thin wall against a tidal wave. And the fantasy was no longer a movie. It was a door. And they had just agreed to walk up to it, put their hands on the knob, and see if it was locked.
The knob, it turned out, was not locked.
It was a heavy, unmarked black door, set down a side alley off the main strip in Montego Bay. The scent of salt and fried food faded, replaced by stale beer and industrial cleaner. A single, bored-looking bouncer with arms like tree trunks glanced at their IDs, his eyes lingering a beat too long on Imani’s plunging neckline before he gave a slight nod and pulled the door open.
Sound vomited out. A deep, sub-aural bass that vibrated in their molars, overlaid with the synthetic shriek of electronic dance music. The light was a blood-dim strobe, cutting the space into jarring, frozen snapshots.
Imani’s hand was a vise in David’s. Her earlier bravado, the powerful persona she’d crafted on the balcony, had evaporated the moment the door sealed behind them with a definitive thud. This was real. This was a place.
It wasn’t a single room, but a series of connected chambers, each with a different energy. The front bar was mostly typical—groups of tourists and locals shouting over the music, a haze of vape smoke hanging in the air. But the corridors leading away from it promised something else. Darker hallways. Closed doors with discreet peepholes. An archway draped in black velvet.
“Just watching,” David shouted into her ear, his breath hot. He had to lean down, his body curving around hers possessively. His eyes were darting, taking it all in—the people, the possibilities. The grip on her hand was iron.
She nodded, her throat tight. The secret she carried, the words scrawled in black marker on the inside of her lace thong, felt like a brand.BBC ONLY. They burned against her skin with every step.
A waitress glided past, her tray laden with glowing cocktails. Her outfit was less clothing, more suggestion. David’s eyes followed her for a second before snapping back to Imani. He looked charged, electric, a man both terrified and intensely alive.
“Drink?” he mouthed.
She nodded again, not trusting her voice. He led them to a standing table near the edge of the main room, his body positioning itself between her and the flowing crowd. He returned with two dark rum and cokes, condensation already weeping down the glasses.
They drank in silence, watching. The rules hung between them, a fragile fence.
Then, through the black velvet arch, a couple emerged. They were ordinary-looking, late thirties, dressed like they’d come from a nice dinner. The woman’s blonde hair was impeccably smooth. The man’s hand rested on the small of her back. They didn’t look at each other. Their faces were carefully blank, but a current of intense anticipation radiated from them. They moved with purpose toward one of the darker hallways.
Imani’s eyes tracked them until they disappeared. Her drink was halfway to her lips, frozen. The image from last night—the pale skin, the blonde hair—superimposed itself over this real, living woman.
“There,” David said, his voice a low rasp. He’d seen it too. The destination.The intent.
He finished his drink in one long swallow, the ice clinking. “You ready?”
“Yes.” The word was dust.
He took her hand again. They moved, not toward the velvet arch, but along the periphery, following the path the couple had taken. The music faded slightly, replaced by a different, slower, more rhythmic beat coming from behind a heavy door marked ‘PRIVATE LOUNGE’. Another bouncer, smaller but with sharper eyes, stood sentry.
“Members?” he asked.
“First time,” David said, his voice impressively steady. “Looking to observe.”
The man looked them over, his gaze lingering again on Imani. She felt stripped, seen. Not just her body, but the secret against her skin. He gave a curt nod and opened the door.
The air changed. It was hotter, thicker, smelling of sex, sweat, and expensive perfume. The lighting was a deep, ambient red. The space was a large, circular lounge with plush, low-slung couches and ottomans arranged in a way that felt both intimate and staged. A bar ran along one wall. And in the center, under a soft spot of slightly brighter light, was a large, circular bed.
It was empty.For now.
They found a couch in a shadowed corner, sinking into the velvet. From here, they had a view of the entire room. Other couples and small groups were scattered around, speaking in murmurs. The vibe was not of wild abandon, but of a tense, theatrical waiting.
Imani crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. The crude words in her underwear screamed. David’s hand landed on her knee, a heavy, warm weight.Anchoring. Claiming.
“You okay?” he murmured, his lips against her temple.
“I don’t know,” she breathed honestly. Her heart was a frantic animal in her chest.This was it. The fantasy made flesh. And it was terrifying.
Before he could answer, a ripple of attention moved through the room. Three people entered from a door on the far side. Two men and a woman. The woman was the blonde from the hallway. She’d removed her dress. She stood in just heels and a simple black bra and thong, her body slim, almost fragile-looking under the red light. Her husband, or partner, followed and sat rigidly on an ottoman near the bed, his hands clenched on his knees.
The third man was Black, tall, built with a powerful, easy grace. He wore only low-slung black pants. His chest was broad, carved. He said nothing, just guided the woman to the center of the circular bed with a touch on her lower back.
Imani stopped breathing. This was no pixelated fantasy. This was the squeak of leather as the man sat on the edge of the bed, the real, human tremor in the woman’s thighs as she stood before him. The slow, deliberate way he reached up and unclipped her bra, letting it fall away.
David’s hand tightened on Imani’s knee. She could feel the tension coiling in his body.
The man leaned forward and took one of the woman’s pale nipples into his mouth. She gasped, her head falling back, fingers threading into his short-cropped hair. It was not violent. It was slow, lavish, consuming. A feast.
Imani’s own body responded, a treacherous, hot pulse between her legs that shamed and excited her. This was wrong.This was holy. She was stealing something sacred and vile.
The man laid her back on the bed, hooking his thumbs in the sides of her thong and sliding it down her legs. He spread her thighs, looking at her exposed cunt for a long, silent moment, running a single, thick finger through her folds. She whimpered, back arching.
From their corner, Imani and David had a perfect, obscene view. The contrast was breathtaking, just as she’d imagined. Alabaster and obsidian. The man’s hands looked huge on her hips.
He stood, shedding his pants. His cock, already thick and heavy, sprang free. It wasn’t a monster from a film. It was real, intimidating, beautiful in its power. The blonde woman’s eyes were fixed on it, wide with a mixture of fear and raw want.
Her husband on the ottoman hadn’t moved. His face was a stone mask, but his knuckles were white.
The man climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her splayed legs. He didn’t enter her.Not yet. He leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm, and kissed her.Deeply. It was an unexpected intimacy that made Imani flinch. This wasn’t just fucking. There was a transaction here, a terrible tenderness.
He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her neck, to her breast, down her stomach.He moved lower. Then he put his mouth on her.
Imani jolted. David’s fingers dug into her leg.
The woman cried out, a sharp, unguarded sound that cut through the low music. Her hands fisted in the black sheets. The man ate her pussy with a focused, relentless dedication, his broad shoulders working. Her hips rose off the bed, meeting his tongue, his lips. Her sounds lost their edges, becoming a continuous, pleading moan.
Imani was wet. Soaking. Her own panties were a ruined, sticky secret. She was panting, her breath shallow. She dared a glance at David. His profile was sharp in the red light, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. His eyes were glued to the scene, dark with a storm she couldn’t name. His other hand was in his lap, and she could see the subtle, tense movement of his forearm.He was hard. He was touching himself. Right here.Rule two was ashes.
On the bed, the man moved up her body again. He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her soaked, open flesh. He looked over at the husband. A silent question.
The husband gave one stiff, almost imperceptible nod.
With one slow, inexorable push, he buried himself inside her.
The woman’s scream was pure sensation—shock, pleasure, overwhelming fullness. It echoed in the quiet room. He began to move, a deep, steady, devastating rhythm. The slap of skin was a counterbeat. Her cries fragmented, became sobs, pleas, prayers.
David’s hand on Imani’s knee was moving, sliding up her thigh, under the hem of her dress. His fingers found the soaked lace of her thong, traced the edge. He found the words she’d written. He pressed his fingers against them, into her.
Imani gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. The visual feed—the powerful Black man pistoning into the writhing, crying blonde—merged with the physical sensation of David’s fingers claiming her through the fabric. Fantasy and reality bled together, boundaries dissolving in the red-lit dark.
She turned her face into David’s neck, her mouth open against his skin. “He’s fucking her,” she whispered, each word a hot confession. “He’s really fucking her.”
“Watch,” David commanded, his voice guttural, his fingers pushing the lace aside, finding her bare, swollen flesh. He pushed two fingers inside her, deep and rough. “Watch him ruin her. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
On the bed, the man’s pace increased. He was driving into her now, brutally, his balls slapping against her. The woman was incoherent, mindless, her body a tool for his use. Her husband watched, his face still a mask, but one hand was now shoved down the front of his own pants, moving frantically.
“I want it,” Imani sobbed, her own hips working against David’s hand. “God, David, I want it.”
“You want this?” he hissed, fingers pistoning in and out of her in time with the stranger’s thrusts. “You want a stranger’s dick splitting you open in a room full of people? You want me to watch you become that?” He bit her earlobe. “Tell me.”
“Yes!” The word tore from her, loud enough that a woman on a nearby couch glanced over. Imani didn’t care. The world had narrowed to the sight on the bed and the fire in her cunt. “I want to be her! I want you to watch me take it!”
On the bed, the man grunted, a final, animal sound. His body locked, shuddering as he came inside the woman. She screamed again, her own climax triggered by his, her body convulsing beneath him.
As they watched the aftermath—the man pulling out, the spent, glistening evidence of him leaking from her, the husband finally standing up and walking over to his wife with a towel—David pushed Imani’s hand into her own lap, onto his raging hard-on through his jeans.
“Feel what you do to me,” he snarled in her ear. “Feel how fucking hard I am watching that. Knowing you want it.”
She squeezed him, her mind a riot of images—her body replacing the blonde’s, a stranger’s sweat dripping onto her back, David’s eyes filming it all.
The couple on the bed was leaving, the woman wrapped in a robe, leaning on her husband. The show was over. The room buzzed with a low, post-coital energy.
David pulled his fingers from Imani, bringing them to his lips, tasting her. His eyes never left hers. They were wild, feral. The rules were gone. The door wasn’t just open; they were through it.
“Bathroom,” he said, standing up, pulling her with him. “Now.”