Chapter 3: The First Taste
The tiny click of the bra clasp echoed, impossibly loud in the silence that had swallowed the sleek apartment. Camille held her breath. The delicate lace straps slid down her shoulders with a whisper against her skin, then the entire garment simply… fell. It fluttered, almost in slow motion, landing softly on the emerald silk puddle of her dress at her feet.
Cool air washed over her bare breasts. She gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound. Her small, pert nipples, already peaked with arousal in her bra, tightened further instantly under the sudden exposure and the weight of two gazes.
Bruce made a noise. A raw, punched-out sound from the back of his throat. The champagne flute slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. It hit the polished concrete floor with a sharp crack, shattering into glittering shards, the pale liquid spreading in a thin, reflective pool beside Camille’s discarded clothes. He didn’t seem to notice. He dropped to his knees, not gracefully, but like his legs had simply given way. His hazel eyes, wide and dark, were fixed unblinkingly on her naked chest. His hands clenched into tight fists on his thighs, knuckles bone-white. He looked utterly wrecked, mesmerized, trembling slightly.
Darius didn’t look at Bruce. His dark eyes were on Camille, watching the flush spread from her neck down over her chest. One large hand remained possessively splayed low on her bare belly, holding her anchored firmly against the hard ridge of his erection pressing through his trousers. His other hand lifted, impossibly slow. He didn’t grab, didn’t grope. He simply let the backs of his knuckles brush the outer curve of her left breast, the touch feather-light, almost reverent. Camille flinched, a shiver rocketing through her.
"Told you," Darius murmured, his voice a low rumble directly into her ear. His breath was warm against her damp skin. "He can’t look away." That hand, the one that had brushed her, now cupped the weight of her breast fully. It felt heavy, warm, completely enveloping her smallness. His thumb brushed deliberately, slowly, over the tight peak of her nipple. The sensation was electric, a jolt straight to her throbbing core. A soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Bruce groaned again, a deeper, guttural sound. He leaned forward slightly on his knees, entranced. Darius repeated the motion on her other breast, his thumb circling, teasing the nipple into an even stiffer peak. Camille arched her back involuntarily, pressing herself more fully into his touch, her head falling back against his shoulder. The ache between her legs was a constant, demanding pulse now, the soaked silk of her panties a maddening friction.
"Bruce," Darius said, his voice cutting through the thick haze of arousal. He didn’t stop his ministrations, his thumb continuing its slow, torturous circles. "Look at her. Look how beautiful she is. How she reacts." He applied a fraction more pressure, rolling the nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger. Camille cried out, a sharp, needy sound.
Bruce’s gaze snapped from her breasts to her face, seeing the raw pleasure etched there, the parted lips, the half-lidded eyes. "God, Cam," he breathed, his voice thick with a mixture of awe, desire, and something deeper, almost painful.
"Tell him, Camille," Darius commanded softly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. His hand on her belly slid lower, dipping just beneath the waistband of her panties, his fingertips brushing the soft curls beneath. She gasped, her hips bucking slightly against his restraining hand. "Tell your husband what you feel right now. What you want."
The words felt like rocks in her throat. She stared at Bruce, kneeling amidst the broken glass, his handsome face naked with desperate need. The fantasy, his fantasy, their reality now, crashed over her. The humiliation was there, sharp and sudden, but it was instantly drowned by a tidal wave of pure, visceral craving. Seeing Bruce like this, undone by the sight of her in another man's hands, ignited something primal, possessive, and deeply, shockingly wet.
"It… it feels…" she started, her voice shaky, breathless. She swallowed. Darius’s thumb pressed deliberately against her nipple again, sending another shockwave through her. "…good, Bruce. So good." The admission burned, but felt terrifyingly true. "His hands… they’re everywhere… and I…" She faltered, her gaze flicking down to where Darius’s fingers teased at her pubic hair.
"And you want more," Darius finished for her, his voice a dark caress. It wasn't a question. His hand, the one that had been teasing her breast, slid down her torso, over the slight swell of her belly, and joined the other at the top of her panties. Both thumbs hooked under the damp silk waistband. "Don't you?"
Camille felt the cool air hit the very top of her inner thighs as the fabric stretched. She could feel the wetness, the heat radiating from her core. She looked back at Bruce, saw the raw hunger, the silent plea in his eyes. He gave a single, jerky nod, unable to speak.
"Yes," Camille whispered, the word barely audible. Then, stronger, fueled by a surge of reckless desire: "Yes."
Darius didn’t hesitate. With a slow, deliberate pull, he began to draw her panties down. The soaked silk clung for a moment, then released, sliding over the curve of her hips, down the full swell of her ass, catching momentarily on her thighs before pooling around her ankles. The cool air washed over her completely naked skin.
Bruce made a strangled sound, his gaze devouring the intimate view Darius’s actions revealed. Camille stood utterly exposed in the warm golden light, Darius’s large frame behind her, his hands now resting possessively on her bare hips. The scent of her arousal hung heavy in the air, mingling with Darius’s sandalwood cologne.
"Bedroom," Darius stated, his voice rough now with his own barely leashed hunger. He didn’t ask. He steered Camille gently but firmly away from the wreckage of glass and silk on the floor, guiding her towards a wide doorway Bruce hadn’t noticed before. The promise in that single word vibrated through the charged silence, thick and irresistible. Bruce scrambled to his feet, shaky but compelled, following the mesmerizing sight of his wife’s naked form being led away by another man, into the deeper shadows of the apartment. The faint, sultry notes of a saxophone drifted from the doorway.