Chapter 10: International Tease
The Singapore night pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a tapestry of blazing towers and creeping humidity. Inside, the suite’s air conditioning was a silent, arctic blast. Ellie stood before the reflective glass, a stark silhouette against the urban glow. She had undone the knot of the silk robe Bea had insisted she pack. It hung open now, the cool fabric brushing her thighs.
Her phone, propped against the complimentary orchids on the writing desk, showed Andrew’s face, pixelated and weary in the soft lamp-light of their living room. A half-empty mug sat beside him. It was mid-morning there, the kids at school, the house silent.
“You look tired,” she said, her voice a low murmur. She let her fingers trail down the parted robe, over the slope of her breast, a casual, thoughtless gesture.
“It was a long night,” Andrew replied. His eyes weren’t on hers; they were tracing the shadowed valley between her breasts, the curve of her hip just visible. “Lucy had a nightmare. I was up with her.”
“Poor thing,” Ellie said, but her tone was distant, as if commenting on a minor news item. She shifted, and the robe fell open further, revealing the black lace top of her stockings, the pale, smooth skin of her inner thighs. She had spent an hour in the hotel spa that afternoon. Waxed. Polished. Every inch of her felt new, alien, and powerfully slick. “My client dinner ran late. The regional director for Pan-Asia. Incredibly sharp.”
“I bet,” Andrew said. He took a sip from his mug. His knuckles were white around the handle.
Ellie smiled, a slow, knowing thing. She let her hand drift lower, past her navel, through the neatly trimmed strip of dark hair, until her fingers just brushed the bare, swollen skin beneath. She kept her eyes locked on the screen. “It was productive, though. We closed the preliminary agreement. Celebration is in order.”
On the screen, Andrew’s breath hitched. He saw it. The deliberate glide of her fingertips, the way they dipped lower, just out of sight. He cleared his throat. “Are you… alone?”
“For now,” she purred. She hooked a thumb under the lace of her stocking, snapping it softly against her skin. The sound was crisp in the sterile room. “The afterparty hasn’t started yet. Thought you might want a preview.”
She saw him swallow. Saw the conflict—the arousal, the dread—twist his features. This was a different game from the frantic, angry coupling on the couch. This was a performance. A presentation. She was controlling the feed.
With her other hand, she reached out of frame and brought the champagne flute into view. It was still full, beads of condensation running down the crystal. She took a slow sip, her lips wrapping around the rim, her eyes never leaving his. Then she lowered the glass and, with a deliberate slowness, tilted it. A single, cool trickle of champagne escaped the lip and fell. It traced a path between her breasts, over her stomach, and pooled in the hollow where her fingers waited.
Andrew made a sound, a choked exhalation.
Ellie’s fingers moved then, sliding through the sticky liquid, spreading it, circling her clit with a practiced, slick pressure. She let her head fall back, a soft sigh escaping her lips. It wasn’t entirely an act. The chill of the champagne, the voyeuristic thrill, the power humming in the quiet suite—it was coalescing into a tight, coiling heat low in her belly. “God, that’s cold,” she whispered, her voice husky. “And so fucking good.”
“Ellie…” His voice was strained, a warning and a plea.
She opened her eyes, looked straight into the camera. Her fingers worked faster, slipping lower, pushing inside herself with a wet, audible sound. She was already embarrassingly wet, her own arousal mixing with the champagne. “You wish you were here, don’t you?” she breathed, her hips giving a small, involuntary roll. “Wish this was your hand. Your mouth. You’d lick this off me, wouldn’t you? Every last drop.”
She was panting now, the ache sharpening. The image of Andrew, helpless and hard thousands of miles away, the imagined face of the Pan-Asian director, the phantom scent of Bea’s perfume on the robe—it all blurred into a single, driving need. “I’m so close,” she gasped, her fingers a frantic piston. “Watch me. Fucking watch me come.”
Her back arched, her free hand gripping the edge of the desk. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat, unedited and profoundly private even as she broadcast it. Her muscles clamped violently around her own fingers, waves of release rippling out until she shuddered, slumped, and was still.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing and the muted hum of the city. She slowly pulled her hand away, bringing her glistening fingers back into the frame, close to the camera. She smiled, dreamy and sated. “The afterparty,” she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Then, a knock. Three firm, official raps on the suite door.
Ellie’s gaze flicked towards the sound, then back to the screen. Her smile didn’t fade; it hardened. “Room service,” she mouthed silently.
A man’s voice, muffled but clear, filtered through the door. “Your champagne, Ms. Monk.”
Andrew stiffened. His eyes widened. “You ordered more?”
Ellie gave a languid shrug, pulling her robe closed but not tying it. She leaned into the camera, her face filling his screen. “The night is young,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “Sleep well, darling.”
She ended the call. His frozen, stricken face was replaced by her own reflection in the dark screen. She stared at herself—flushed, disheveled, victorious.
The knocking came again, more insistent.
“One moment!” she called, her voice steady. She walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the marble, the robe swinging open with each step. She didn’t bother to close it. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
A young hotel attendant stood there, a silver bucket cradled in his hands. His eyes, disciplined and downcast, took in her state of undress in a single, professional flicker. He held out the bucket. “Compliments of Mr. Varga, Ms. Monk. With his congratulations on the Pan-Asia deal.”
Ellie took the bucket, her fingers brushing his. The bottle inside was veiled in frost. “Thank you,” she said, her voice cool.
“Will there be anything else?”
She paused. The suite yawned behind her, vast and empty. The ghost of her own climax still tingled in her veins. “No,” she said finally. “That will be all.”
She closed the door, the heavy bolt thudding into place with finality. She set the bucket on the bar. Next to it lay a stack of the new business cards, her name—Eleanor Monk, Senior Account Director—embossed in sharp black ink. She picked one up, the card stock thick and substantial between her fingers.
She carried it to the bed, the silk sheets sighing as she lay back. The robe fell completely open. She touched herself again, but slowly now, a luxurious exploration. The champagne from Varga sat chilling across the room. The Pan-Asia deal was locked. Andrew’s tortured desire was a thrumming echo in her nerves.
She brought the business card to her nose, inhaling the faint scent of ink and ambition. Then, with a deliberate, grinding motion, she dragged the sharp, hard corner of the card down her sternum, over her belly, leaving a faint, pink trail. She pressed it, point first, against her clit, the pain a bright, clarifying counterpoint to the lingering pleasure.
This was hers. The power. The prize. The exquisite, solitary ache of it. She closed her eyes, the city’s neon glow painting her lids red, and let the loneliness feel like triumph.
Back in the muted daylight of his living room, Andrew sat motionless. The tablet screen had gone dark. The phantom voice—“Your champagne, Ms. Monk”—echoed in the quiet. It had been a hotel employee. It must have been.
But the timing. The proprietary tone. The fucking champagne.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly. He paced to the kitchen, his mind replaying the scene in jagged fragments: the spill of champagne on her skin, the arch of her back, the raw sound of her climax. His own painful erection strained against his jeans. He was horrified. He was desperate. He was so fucking turned on he could barely think.
He stopped at the sink, gripping the cold stainless steel edge. He pictured her, splayed and satisfied, in that sterile suite. Then he pictured the door opening. A figure—faceless, male—entering. Seeing her like that. Taking over where she, where he, had left off.
A groan escaped him, part anguish, part fury. He fumbled with his jeans, freeing himself. He leaned over the sink, his head bowed. In his mind, it wasn’t him touching her. It was the man with the champagne. It was Varga. It was some anonymous, powerful stranger from her new world. He imagined them taking her, claiming her right there on the sleek desk, her business cards fluttering to the floor.
The fantasy was vile. It was electrifying.
His release, when it came, was sharp and shameful, spurting against the white ceramic basin. He hung there, breathless, emptied, staring at the evidence of his own corruption. The silence of the house crowded in on him, accusing. He turned on the tap, the water too loud, washing the mess away, a frantic, useless cleansing.
He had no evidence. Only a voice at a door. Only the expertly orchestrated theatre of his wife’s betrayal, real or imagined. And the terrible, thrilling knowledge that the woman on that screen, the one who had looked into the camera and come with defiant fury, was someone he no longer knew how to touch.
He was still staring at the swirling water when his phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Ellie. A photo. Just the champagne bottle, beaded with moisture, sitting on the marble table beside her rumpled, empty bed. The caption: Wish you were here.
It was a peace offering. It was a taunt. It was both. Andrew dried his hands. He did not reply. The dread had settled now, cold and heavy in his gut. She was due back tomorrow. He had no idea who would be getting off the plane.