The Lovers We Never Were

Just a head up this story involves infidelity. If that's a trigger for you turn back now.

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James's eyes flicked to the restaurant entrance again, pulse quickening despite himself. She was late. Olivia was never late. His wedding ring felt suddenly heavy, and he twisted it unconsciously, a habit he'd developed whenever guilt crept in.

He drummed his fingers on the pristine tablecloth, mind racing through possibilities like he would with any technical problem. But this wasn't a satellite specification or a design flaw---this was Olivia. His partner in countless late-night brainstorming sessions, the voice of precision to his creative leaps. The one person who could match his intensity hour for hour, challenge for challenge, until they crafted something extraordinary. The one person who made him question everything he thought he knew about contentment.

He should cancel. Send a text, claim fatigue, retreat to his room alone. That's what a good man would do. But he'd spent all week looking forward to this--their final dinner at the restaurant he'd heard so much about, the corner table he'd specifically requested, away from prying eyes. He'd imagined sharing this moment with her, watching her experience it for the first time.

This project had pushed them both to their limits. A joint communication satellite venture with their French aerospace client meant endless hours of debate, technical challenges, and the kind of intellectual sparring that left them both exhausted and exhilarated. He thought of last month's all-nighter, how she'd perched on his desk at 3 AM, tie discarded, heels kicked off, arguing passionately about signal degradation while stealing bites of his cold pizza. The way her eyes had lit up when they'd finally cracked the problem, her triumphant grin making his heart stutter in a way he'd forced himself to ignore. Now, on their last night in Paris, they'd agreed to dinner at the hotel's upscale restaurant---a celebration of their success, nothing more. At least, that's what he'd told himself when he'd suggested it.

Olivia trembled as she studied the deep navy silk of her dress in the mirror, its fabric clinging perfectly to every curve. She hadn't planned this---at least, that's what she kept telling herself. Her phone buzzed: a text from her husband, wishing her a good night. The familiar mix of warmth and suffocation washed over her. He was everything she should want: stable, loving, safe. Yet here she was, wearing a dress chosen to make another man want her.

She touched her wedding ring, then slowly slipped it off, placing it in her makeup bag. The indentation remained, a pale band of accusation. She hadn't planned this, but she hadn't stopped it either. Every careful choice---the dress, the perfume, the way she'd let her hair fall loose---was a step away from the woman who made sensible decisions, who valued loyalty above desire. The woman her husband had married.

It had to be tonight. Their last evening in Paris. No expectations. No consequences. If he gave in, it would be his choice. But she was intent to give him every reason to want it.

Perhaps it was Paris that made her feel bold. Or maybe it was the way James had looked at her last night--his gaze lingering just a moment too long, his eyes darkening before flicking away when she caught him. Her heart had skipped, pulse quickening as she watched his jaw tighten, his shoulders stiffen. She'd felt the shift, subtle but potent, the air between them charged in a way that was undeniably dangerous.

She wanted him to break first. To see if he'd let go of his restraint. To see if he'd take control.

She steadied herself with one final glance in the mirror. The woman reflected back at her looked nothing like the precise engineer who lived in crisp blazers and practical flats. Tonight, her hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, framing delicate cheekbones and full lips that needed no color. The navy silk hugged every curve, and stilettos made her long legs seem endless. She'd transformed herself from the sensible engineer into someone more sensual, alluring, more seductive. Someone worth making bad decisions for.

James's gaze found her the moment she entered the restaurant. The candlelight caught her chestnut hair, turning each wave to liquid gold. She was different tonight. Not just beautiful--dangerous.

His eyes followed the deliberate curve of her waist, the elegance of her posture both calculated and effortless. Olivia had always been composed, but tonight she was something else entirely--something that made the room feel smaller.

Their eyes met across the room, a fleeting uncertainty softening her gaze. She adjusted the hem of her dress; a quick movement that betrayed the composure she fought to maintain.

She was nervous.

The realization hit him with a force he hadn't expected, his pulse quickening. Olivia was always so controlled, so meticulous. But tonight, she was vulnerable, exposed in a way he'd never seen before.

His gaze found her again, lingering on the curve of her lips, the way her eyes softened as she drew closer. He could still walk away. He just didn't want to.

As Olivia drew closer, she admired James in this moment in this setting. He had always dressed well for work--clean, crisp shirts, fitted slacks, a blazer when necessary. But tonight was different. Her gaze traced over him, noting how deliberate each choice seemed. The tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up revealed forearms toned from an active lifestyle. Her hand twitched at her side as unbidden thoughts crept in--imagining them slipping beneath that fabric, seeking warm skin.

James loved his wife. But love, he has begun to realize, wasn't always enough. Stability had replaced fire; comfort had dulled urgency. He no longer felt the kind of passion that made every touch feel like a need rather than a habit. Their marriage was comfortable, but there were nights when he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was all there was. Seeing Olivia now rekindled that ache--the kind that kept him awake at night, craving something he shouldn't want.

Olivia's husband was a good man, thoughtful and devoted, but their life together was measured, predictable. He loved her independence, admired her sharp mind, but he had never understood the thrill she got from giving in. From surrendering control to someone who knew exactly what to do with it. Over the years, she had quietly let that part of herself slip away, filing it under things that don't matter. But they did matter.

Those carefully buried needs had been surfacing lately, impossible to ignore. The longing to be truly seen, to be wanted for more than her brilliant mind. To have someone--someone like James--look at her and understand exactly what she needed.

James stood as Olivia approached their table, unconsciously adjusting his cuffs - an engineer's habit of precision that betrayed his nerves. His short, slightly messy dark brown hair looked effortlessly styled, as if he had just run his fingers through it, though Olivia had seen him do exactly that countless times during difficult client meetings. His angular face was framed by a strong jawline with faint stubble, giving him a rugged, unpolished charm that contrasted with his usual professional demeanor. Even now, his fingers tapped against his thigh in that familiar pattern she'd watched during countless technical reviews - three quick taps, pause, two taps, like he was working through a problem in his head.

"You look amazing, Olivia." James greeted her at the table with a kiss on her cheek---a gesture he'd seen countless times during their stay in Paris. But his hand at her elbow lingered a fraction too long, his fingers curling slightly against her skin before he caught himself and pulled away.

"You clean up very well yourself, James. And this setting certainly doesn't hurt," Olivia replied as she sat down. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she moved past him - an unnecessary contact she couldn't quite stop herself from making.

"Red or white?" he asked. The sommelier hovered nearby, but James's eyes never left her face. The question hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond wine. It struck him how different this felt - Olivia, who had spent weeks confidently directing their entire project, challenging CEOs, and driving their team toward perfection, now watching him with soft expectation.

Olivia traced the stem of her glass, her touch lingering. A drop of condensation rolled down the crystal, followed by her fingertip. Her nail caught the light as she looked up through her lashes. Outside, thunder rolled distantly. This wasn't their project lead who had just gone toe-to-toe with aerospace executives - this was someone else entirely.

"You decide." Her voice softened, careful, so unlike the sharp authority he'd grown used to. Then, lower, meant only for him: "You know what I like."

They fell into their familiar rhythm of project discussion, their words quick and overlapping as they rehashed the client's reaction to their final presentation. "Did you see Bernard's face when--" "During the orbital decay calculations--" "Exactly!" James laughed, cutting himself off as they both reached for their water glasses. A longer pause settled between them, heavy with something new. Olivia traced the stem of her wine glass, taking her time before speaking again. "Strange to think it's our last night here." James watched her fingers on the glass. "Strange," he echoed, his voice dropping lower. Their eyes met and held when normally they would have looked away.

Outside, rain streaked down the windows, turning Paris into a watercolor of lights and shadows. Inside, the restaurant hummed with quiet energy--silverware clinking against fine china, soft French conversations floating around them, the warm scent of wine and slow-simmered sauces in the air. The candlelight between them caught the delicate curve of her collarbone as she reached for her wine glass.

"I can't believe this is our last night here," she said, leaning forward to reach for her wine. The movement caused her dress to dip, offering a glimpse of the swell of top of her breasts usually hidden beneath dress shirts and blazers. James's gaze flicked down before he could stop himself. When his eyes returned to hers, Olivia's lips curved just slightly, her expression unchanged, but the glimmer in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Everything feels different in Paris, doesn't it?" she asked, her voice soft, playful, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

James took a slow sip of his wine, trying not to watch as she bit her lower lip, releasing it slowly. His own ring felt heavy as he set down his glass. "We've accomplished a lot these past few weeks."

"We have," she agreed, her voice low. She reached for the wine bottle, arching slightly as she poured, her movements slow and precise. She ran her nail along the rim of her glass, the soft sound barely audible above the restaurant's hum.

"Different city," he offered, watching the way her throat moved as she took another sip.

"Different rules," she murmured, looking up at him through dark lashes.

His response was quiet, measured, but his pulse quickened as she shifted again, her knee brushing his under the table. "Different expectations."

The attraction hummed between them in their corner table, no longer buried beneath professionalism. Tonight, with Paris rain painting the windows and candlelight dancing across their skin, it felt dangerous--inevitable.

"Just thinking," he murmured, his tone deeper than intended. His knife scraped his plate with a screech.

Her brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering in her expression. "About what?" The words came out softer than usual. She shifted in her chair, the silk of her dress whispering against the leather seat. Under the table, her heel slipped from her shoe, her bare foot finding his calf--an accident, perhaps, but she didn't move away.

He let his eyes drag over her--slow enough that she'd feel it, but brief enough that he could pretend it was nothing. "You look--" He cleared his throat, watched her throat work as she swallowed. "Different tonight."

The waiter appeared at their table. They both started slightly, guilty. Olivia's foot withdrew, but the heat of her touch lingered.

Olivia's lips curved, just enough to be teasing. "So do you."

James smirked, reaching for his drink again to hide the slight tremor. "Must be the change of scenery."

"Must be." She took a sip of water, ice cubes clinking against her teeth. A drop escaped, trailing down her chin before she caught it with her napkin.

The restaurant wrapped around them with a warmth that invited indulgence. As the waiter arrived with their first course, James watched Olivia settle back in her chair, letting him take control of ordering the wine--a small surrender that felt anything but small.

"You know," she said finally, her voice soft but clear, though her hands twisted her napkin beneath the table, "this isn't how I thought tonight would go."

James lifted a brow, trying to steady his racing heart. "No?"

She shook her head, slow and measured. Her hair fell in loose waves, catching the candlelight as it framed her face, her eyes gleaming with something he couldn't quite name. "I thought we'd have dinner. Talk about the project. Fly home."

A small pause. Her fork clinked against her plate as she set it down with slightly too much force. Then, she tilted her head just slightly, her eyes flicking to his mouth before returning to his eyes.

"I didn't expect to be sitting here," she continued, her voice dipping just above a whisper, "wondering what would happen if you stopped pretending you don't want this."

His chest tightened, his pulse stuttering. The words hung between them, delicate but deliberate.

Her shoulders dropped just slightly, the soft fabric of her dress shifting, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone. The candlelight skimmed her skin, shadows deepening at the curve of her chest.

James's mouth went dry.

"You're playing with fire," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost rough.

Olivia hummed, the sound low and warm, sliding between them. Her fingers left the glass to trace her jawline, lingering at her pulse before drifting to her lips. She pressed her nail against her lower lip, just barely, leaving a tiny indent before releasing it. Her mouth softened, lips parting just slightly as her breath slipped out in a slow exhale.

"Maybe," she answered, her voice feather-light, drifting over him. Her scent--something subtle, jasmine and vanilla--wrapped around him, weaving into his senses.

"Would you stop me?" she asked, the words barely louder than the whisper of candle flame between them.

He could have walked away from this. He should have. But Christ, he didn't want to.

He leaned in, his posture shifting, shoulders broadening as his resolve cracked. His jaw tightened, muscles flexing as he fought for control. He could see her chest rise and fall, the gentle swell of her breasts moved with each quick inhale, straining against the delicate fabric, a subtle yet undeniable indication of her heightened state. She was trying to hide it, sitting so perfectly still. But the signs were there, faint but unmistakable.

James watched her, his voice low and rough. "No," he said, the word heavy with truth. "I wouldn't."

Her shoulders dropped, her breath leaving her in a slow, deliberate sigh. Her lips curved, the faintest smile, but her eyes stayed serious, watchful. "Good," she whispered, holding his gaze. "I don't want you to."

He set his wine glass down, careful, deliberate. A drop of wine clung to the rim, blood-red in the candlelight. He looked at her--really looked at her--the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his response, the way candlelight cast shadows along the smooth line of her collarbone.

The air around them tightened, humming with anticipation.

"Finish your wine," he murmured, voice dropping to a command.

She obeyed with deliberate grace, tongue catching a stray drop. The glass settled on white linen with quiet finality.

"Go to the bar," he said. "Wait for me."

"And then?" Her voice steady, but her eyes sparked.

"When I join you, we become different people." His fingers traced his own glass. "Just two old lovers, reuniting in Paris."

She rose, silk whispering promises. "Don't make me wait too long."

James watched her move through the restaurant, each step a calculated seduction. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. The dress clung to her hips, the silk shifting with every step, teasing at the curve of her ass as she walked. Not exaggerated, not deliberate--just natural, the way a woman carries herself when she knows she's being watched. And Olivia knew.

Her long, shapely legs moved with a confidence that was both poised and sensual. The slit in her dress parted just enough to reveal the toned length of her thigh, the fabric whispering against her skin as she walked. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor, each step a subtle declaration of control, heightening her presence with every deliberate stride. A tease designed by movement itself.

He picked up his glass, turning it slowly, the rich red wine swirling with his thoughts. He could still taste her presence, feel the heat she left behind, the echo of her gaze lingering on his skin.

She was waiting for him. But he wanted her to wait. To imagine. To anticipate. He wanted her to feel every second of his absence, to let the tension build until it was unbearable. And he was going to make her feel it. Every second of it.

She'd wanted to give him this, and tonight, Olivia seemed prepared to let him take what he desired. The desires he'd been holding back for so long.

He set his glass down with deliberate care, the sound sharp and final against the table. His attention drifted to her empty wine glass, a sign of her surrender. Of her willingness to let him lead.

He stood, his movements controlled, deliberate. Purposeful. This was his moment. And she was waiting.

The bar emerged from the hotel's hallway like a secret, the ceiling dropping low, the lighting softening to amber. Dark wood panels absorbed sound, turning conversations into murmurs, ice against glass into music. Each step deeper felt like stepping further from reality. Outside, beyond the tall windows, the rain slicked the cobblestones, turning Paris into a blur of golden streetlights and moving silhouettes under umbrellas.

A jazz trio played something slow and sultry, the upright bass thrumming low beneath the hush of a brushed snare and the lazy croon of a saxophone. It wasn't loud---just present, a steady, unhurried rhythm that seemed to sway with the flicker of candlelight. Ice shifted in glasses like quiet percussion, keeping time with the music, while the bartender's practiced movements added their own silent choreography to the scene.

She found her place at the corner of the bar--close enough to be part of the scene, far enough to create their own world. She traced the polished wood, cool and smooth beneath her touch. The bartender placed a whiskey before her without asking; she hadn't been Olivia since she'd walked through the door.

The woman who sat here now was someone else entirely. Someone who knew exactly what she wanted.

Her heart thudded with anticipation as she traced the rim of her glass. This was dangerous--she stood at the edge of something she couldn't control. But she was tired of control, tired of holding everything together. Tonight belonged to surrender.

She wanted James to take her apart until nothing remained but raw need. No more strength, no more walls. Just surrender. Submission. The thought made her shiver.

Whatever came next, she wouldn't stop him. Couldn't stop him. Her fingers trembled against the glass.

Tomorrow might bring regret. She might wake feeling foolish or broken. But as she lifted her head to find him watching her from across the room, attraction swept through her, hot and electric. This was real. And she had never wanted anything more.

Olivia sat with effortless ease, one leg crossed over the other, she lazily traced the rim of her glass as if she weren't waiting for him. Her other hand remained perfectly still on the bar - that telling stillness she adopted when reviewing complex calculations, every bit of excess energy channeled into absolute focus. Even her posture held that familiar duality: the relaxed slope of her shoulders masking the straight, precise line of her spine that she never quite let go of, even now. As if she didn't already feel the heat of his presence the moment he stepped into the bar.

By the time he slid onto the stool beside her, she was already playing along. The leather creaked softly beneath him, and the polished brass footrail caught the amber light, warm against his shoe.

The space between them felt charged, the words heavy with double meaning. Neither moved, but neither looked away, as if daring the other to break first. The jazz trio shifted into something slower, more intimate, the saxophone's low notes curling through the air like smoke. James signaled to the bartender with a subtle tilt of his head. Scotch on the rocks. Something strong, something steady. The kind of drink a man orders when he's about to make a bad decision and intends to enjoy every second of it.

The clink of ice against glass filled the space between them, a quiet punctuation to the heat already settling low in his stomach. He picked it up, rolling the glass, letting the cold bite into his skin as he let her wait now.

"I thought you might stand me up," she said breaking the silence they had held up until that moment.

James smirked, resting an elbow on the bar, his touch grazing his glass but not picking it up yet. He let his focus roam over her--not rushed, not polite. Just taking her in, the way a man looks at a woman he hasn't touched in far too long. "And miss this? Not a chance."

She exhaled softly, shaking her head. "You always say that."

"I wondered if you still think about me," she mused, swirling her drink, her nails tapping lightly against the glass. Her other hand crept to her neck, absently tracing her collarbone - an unconscious tell he'd noticed whenever she was fighting inner tension. "The way I used to feel pressed against you. The way I'd push up on my toes just to kiss you." Her spine straightened almost imperceptibly as she spoke, as if bracing herself for his response, while her crossed legs uncrossed and recrossed, betraying the composure she was trying to project.

James absorbed her words, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of her lips as she spoke. He lifted his glass with deliberate ease, letting the scotch roll across his tongue, its warmth curling in his chest.

At last, his eyes met hers. "Every damn time I close my eyes."

Olivia's lips curved as she trailed her nail along the condensation on her glass, her gaze unwavering. "And do you still like it rough?"

His smirk deepened. "Do you still like being told what to do?"

She shifted slightly, the silk of her dress brushing against his knee beneath the bar. She didn't move away. Didn't break eye contact. "Always."

James studied her, the way she tensed, just barely, when he dragged his gaze down the slope of her neck to the slow rise and fall of her chest.

"You always liked testing me." His voice dropped low, intimate.

She tilted her head, her expression poised. Seconds ticked by.

"And you always liked"--she took a deliberate sip of her drink--"putting me in my place."

"Someone had to." Quick, almost sharp.

The ice shifted in her glass. One cube clinked against another. The jazz trio finished their song, leaving a pocket of silence.

"And you think"--her words came slower now, each one carefully chosen--"you still can?"

His response was immediate: "Maybe I just want to see if you'd let me."

But her question hung in the air between them, unanswered, until she finally lifted her eyes to his. "Would you stop me if I tested you now?"

His eyes snapped back to hers, the tension electric between them. "Maybe I just want to see if you'd let me."

She was good at keeping still, at holding her composure, but James knew where to look. He saw the way her fingers gripped her own drink just a little tighter. The way she stayed perfectly still when his free hand, resting beneath the bar, traced idle circles over the bare skin just above her knee.

Olivia took her time answering, as if considering just how much she wanted to admit. Then, in a voice soft enough that only he could hear, she murmured, "I miss the way you wouldn't let me move until you were done with me."

The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them back too long.

A long pause stretched between them, the jazz filling the silence.

"And do you still picture yourself on your knees for me?" His voice was quiet, measured, testing.

Olivia didn't hesitate. "Like you always demanded?"

"I never demanded." James let each word fall separately, deliberately.

"No?" She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Then what would you call it?"

James leaned in, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "Making sure you obeyed."

Olivia swallowed. "I liked everything you did to me."

James' smirk deepened, slow and predatory.

"I remember how desperate you used to get." He let his fingers skim over the inside of her thigh, just the barest touch through the slit of her dress. "The way you used to beg when you couldn't take it anymore."

A quiet, almost imperceptible shudder ran through her. She didn't push him away. Didn't move at all.

"And now?" he asked, his thumb tracing small, lazy circles against her skin.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and when she answered, her voice was quieter now, more measured. "I'd do anything you told me to."

Then, without breaking eye contact, he let his touch trail higher. His touch drifted over the silk, between her thighs, pausing right over the heat of her sex. Even through the fabric, he could feel it--warmth, softness, something damp and aching.

Olivia inhaled sharply, her body tensing, but she didn't pull away. She didn't protest.

James watched her, fascinated, feeling the way her thighs trembled just slightly, torn between staying perfectly still and pressing into his touch.

She knew exactly how public this was.

He smirked, dragging the pad of his thumb over her just once, pressing the silk against the heat of her before pulling away.

"What are you thinking about right now?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur.

She swallowed. "That you're going to ruin me tonight."

James let out a slow, quiet exhale, then tilted his head, watching her reaction.

"I am."

He signaled the bartender, sliding cash across the counter with practiced ease. His touch was light but commanding as he led her toward the elevator.

Her heels marked their path from elevator to room, each click a countdown. The door sealed them in darkness, city lights casting long shadows through gauzy curtains. Cool air raised goosebumps on her skin as she waited.

James approached with measured steps, each one a final chance to turn back.

She held her ground.

He reached her, standing close enough that he could feel her, the warmth of her body, the steady pulse at her throat.

James lifted a hand, fingers grazing the delicate strap of her dress before sliding it off her shoulder.

It slipped down, catching briefly on her arm before falling, exposing the bare curve of her collarbone, the smooth line of her skin.

"You're shaking," he murmured, his touch ghosting over her bicep, tracing down to the sensitive dip of her elbow.

Olivia huffed a soft laugh, tilting her chin up. "You used to like that."

James caught her wrist, holding it lightly, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his fingertips.

James's hands trailed lower, skimming along her arm before settling against her wrist. "I still do."

She answered by pressing closer, her fingers curling into his shirt. The first brush of his lips was almost gentle--testing, tasting. Then she made a soft sound in her throat, and his control snapped.

The kiss turned hungry, demanding. Olivia met his intensity with her own, months of restraint dissolving into desperate need. Every touch was a confession they couldn't voice.

When James finally broke the kiss, his breath ragged against her lips, Olivia's eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze. There was a dark, primal look in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. Without a word, he spun her around, deftly finding the zipper of her dress. The sound of it sliding down was almost inaudible, but it echoed in the quiet room like a promise.

The silk of her dress slipped against her skin as it fell away, pooling at her feet in a shimmering heap. Olivia stood before him in nothing but a black bra, thong, and her heels, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the heat of his gaze on her exposed skin. She could feel his eyes tracing the curves of her body, lingering on the lace that barely concealed her.

James expertly unhooked her bra with a practiced flick. The garment joined her dress on the floor, and Olivia inhaled sharply as his arms wrapped around her from behind, cupping her breasts with a rough, possessive touch. She arched into him, her chest pressing forward as the curve of her ass nestled against his groin. A soft moan escaped her lips, unbidden and undeniable.

He leaned in, his words hot against her ear as he whispered, "I've missed these." His fingers found her nipples, pinching them just enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain through her. Olivia gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder as she reached behind her, her hand finding the hard length of his cock through his pants. She rubbed him through the fabric, feeling him grow even harder under her touch.

James's hands slid down Olivia's toned stomach, his touch deliberate and slow, savoring every inch of her skin. He teased the waistband of her thong, a tantalizing promise of what was to come.

He didn't rush, taking his time to explore the soft skin just above the lace before finally dipping lower. He brushed past her trimmed bush, eliciting a soft gasp from her as he found the heat of her, already slick and ready. He could feel her desire, her need, and it only fueled his own.

His fingers touched her clit, and he began to rub it lightly, circling the sensitive bud with a touch that was both gentle and insistent. Olivia moaned, her hips bucking against his hand, seeking more. "Take what you want." she whispered, her voice ragged with need.

James leaned in; his breath hot against her ear. "You always were my favorite fucktoy," he murmured, his voice low and rough. His hand moved to her throat, gripping her gently but firmly, a possessive hold that sent a shiver down her spine. All the while, his other hand continued its relentless assault on her clit, rubbing faster and harder, driving her closer to the edge.

Olivia's legs began to buckle, her body trembling with the intensity of it all. James held her up, his grip on her throat steady, his other hand working her with expert precision. "Are you going to cum for me?" he growled, his voice a dark promise.

"Yes!" Olivia shrieked, her body tensing as the first waves of her orgasm crashed over her. "I'm cumming!" she yelled, her voice a mix of pleasure and surrender.

James released his hold on her throat but kept her close, his arms wrapping around her as she rode out the waves of her climax. He held her tightly, his warmth pressing against her skin, as she trembled and gasped in his arms. He could feel her heart racing, her body pulsing with the aftershocks of her release, and he knew that this was just the beginning of their night together.

Olivia turned to face James, her eyes wild with lust and desperation. With a rough urgency, she began to undress him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt before tearing it open. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, her hands already moving to his belt, unbuckling it with a swift, practiced motion.

James watched her as she stripped him down, her movements frantic and eager. When she finally had him naked, she paused, her eyes meeting his with a fierce intensity. "What do you want your fucktoy to do now?" she asked, her voice a low growl.

James's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes dark with desire. "I want you choking on my cock," he said, he growled with need. "I want to see your eyes water and your drool all over those amazing tits."

Without hesitation, Olivia dropped to her knees before him, her hands wrapping around the base of his cock. She wasted no time, taking him into her mouth and gagging slightly as he hit the back of her throat. She looked up at him, her eyes watering already and guided his hands to her head, urging him to take control.

James gripped her hair, his hips moving in time with her as he began to fuck her face, the sounds of her gagging and choking filling the room. Olivia's hands moved to his ass, pulling him harder against her, urging him deeper. The lurid, wet sounds of his cock hitting the back of her throat echoed through the hotel room, a symphony of their shared desire.

Olivia took him deeper still, her throat relaxing as she took his entire length. She looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes, her makeup running in dark streaks down her cheeks. The sight of her, so utterly debauched and yet so eager, sent a wave of pleasure crashing through James.

"You're amazing," he groaned, the words rumbled in his chest with praise. "I've missed this."

Olivia released him with a gasp, her breath coming in ragged pants as drool spilled from her lips, dripping onto her naked breasts. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and lust, ready for whatever came next.

James lifted Olivia effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently. He spread her legs, his eyes locked onto hers as he lowered himself between her thighs. The first touch of his tongue against her labia and clit sent a jolt of pleasure through Olivia, and she arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Yes," she whispered, her hands tangling in his hair, encouraging him. James responded to her every cue, his tongue exploring her folds with a hunger that left her trembling. He sucked on her clit, the sensation intense and overwhelming, as he slid two fingers inside her, pumping them in and out in a rhythm that matched the movements of his tongue.

Olivia's body tensed, her senses overwhelmed as she climbed higher and higher. When her climax hit, it was explosive, her body convulsing with the force of it. James slowed his pace, letting her ride out the waves of pleasure before shifting his focus.

He trailed his tongue lower, teasing the sensitive skin around her asshole. Olivia shivered, her body tensing briefly before relaxing into the new sensation. James took his time, circling her with his tongue before gently pressing a finger against her.

"I can't wait to watch my dick slide into this tight ass." he murmured, his voice rough with desire.

Olivia's eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze with a mix of lust and determination. "It's been so long since I had such a huge dick in my ass," she admitted, her voice pleading. "But you can take whatever you want from me."

James's eyes darkened with desire, and he continued to tease her, his finger circling her asshole before slowly pressing inside. At the same time, he slid his other hand back to her pussy, pumping his fingers in and out of her.

The dual sensations were overwhelming, and Olivia's body responded eagerly. She writhed beneath him, as she built towards another climax. Filthy, lewd words spilled from her lips, a stream of consciousness that only fueled James's desire.

"Oh, fuck, you feel so good inside me," she moaned, her voice raw with need. "Stretch my ass so I can take your thick cock. Make me your filthy whore." Her words grew more desperate as she neared the edge. "Yes, right there! Fuck my ass and pussy at the same time with your fingers. I want to feel you everywhere."

"Fuck, yes," she moaned, her body tensing as her second orgasm hit. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

James didn't stop, his fingers and tongue working in tandem to draw out every last wave of pleasure. When Olivia finally came down from her high, her body was limp and sated, her eyes glazed with satisfaction. James looked up at her, a smirk playing on his lips, knowing that this was just the beginning of their night together.

James crawled up Olivia's body, his muscles taut with anticipation. He positioned himself at the entrance of her pussy, his cock throbbing with need. Olivia looked up at him, her hair a wild mess around her face, her makeup smeared in a way that only heightened her allure. She was a vision of raw, unbridled desire, and James couldn't look away.

"Please," she begged, her voice a husky whisper. "Fuck me. Take me. Ruin me."

Her words sent a surge of heat through James, and he responded by pinning her arms above her head, his grip firm around her wrists. He held her down, his body covering hers, his eyes locked onto her face as he slowly began to enter her.

Olivia gasped, her eyes widening as she felt him stretch her, inch by deliberate inch. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and intensity that left her breathless. She marveled at the feeling of him filling her, her body yielding to his with each slow, measured thrust.

"You feel so good," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "So... fucking... good."

James held her gaze, his expression a mix of concentration and desire. He moved with deliberate slowness, savoring every moment, every sensation. He could feel her body responding to his, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice rough with need. "To be taken like this? To be ruined?"

Olivia nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, this is everything I wanted." Then something shifted in her expression, a flash of vulnerability breaking through her confidence. "I'm scared," she whispered, the words barely escaping her.

"Of what?" His voice lost its edge, the space between them fragile.

Her shoulders drew in, her body unconsciously leaning toward his. "Of how much I trust you. How safe I feel, even like this." She trembled slightly, her body pressing closer against his. "I've never let anyone see me this exposed."

James drew her closer, their foreheads touching as his voice dropped to a whisper. "I've got you." His words were steady, a promise he intended to keep, even if just for tonight.

Then he kissed her, slow and tender, a contrast to the urgency they shared. The gentleness caught her off guard, shattering the last of her defenses. Each thrust drew them deeper, destroying the careful construct Olivia had fought to maintain for so long.

The room pulsed with their cries, skin slick against the sheets, each thrust met with gasping pleas. Her hands traced his shoulders, feeling the tension building in his muscles. When her nails dug in, his rhythm faltered, then intensified.

She clung to him, all pretense of control abandoned. Every touch was a confession, every moan a prayer. "Please," she panted, her voice a desperate plea. "Make me cum. I need to cum."

"Cum for me." His voice was rough, commanding. "Like the depraved slut you are."

Her body arched, surrendering completely. A violent wave of pleasure ripped through her, obeying his command.

Olivia's body convulsed, a cry tearing from her lips. Her inner muscles clenched around him, milking him with a force that made him growl. He felt her pulsing, contracting, pleading for his release. But he held back, riding out her climax, determined to see this through.

As Olivia slowly came down from her high, she realized that James hadn't joined her in release. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mix of concern and desire. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her voice soft and uncertain. "Am I not a good enough fucktoy for you?"

James's expression softened, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "You're perfect," he murmured. "But I'm not done with you yet."

Olivia's eyes flashed with renewed determination. "I want you to use me," she said, her voice steady and sure. "Any way you want. My only purpose is to make you feel good."

James's lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. "Then ride me," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But not with your pussy. I want your ass."

Olivia's eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't hesitate. She reached for the lube, coating his cock and herself liberally before straddling him. She took a deep breath, her expression a mix of concentration and anticipation as she began to lower herself onto him.

"I've never been on top like this before," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to be your best fucktoy."

James steadied her, his grip firm but patient, guiding her while letting her set the pace. "Take your time," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I want you to enjoy this as much as I do."

Olivia bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to take him into her tight ass. It was a slow, careful process, her body gradually yielding. She gasped as he finally slid fully inside her, her eyes meeting his with a mix of triumph and desire.

"That's it," James growled, his hands tightening on her hips. "Now ride me. Show me what a good fucktoy you are."

Olivia began to move, her body rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The sensation was intense, a mix of pleasure and discomfort that left her exhausted. But she didn't stop, her determination to please him driving her onward. She could feel him deep inside her, filling her completely, and the knowledge that she was giving him this pleasure sent a thrill through her.

"Like this?" she asked, her voice heavy with effort.

James's eyes were dark with desire, his words coming in ragged gasps. "Just like that," he growled. "You feel so fucking good."

Olivia's lips curved into a satisfied smile, and she continued to ride him, her body adjusting to the sensation, her movements becoming more confident and eager. She could feel his pleasure building, could see it in the tension of his muscles, the tightening of his grip on her hips. And she knew that this time, he wouldn't hold back. This time, he would give her exactly what she wanted.

James's voice was a low growl, filled with desire and command. "Ride me hard and deep," he ordered, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

Olivia complied, her body moving with a newfound urgency. She drove herself down onto him, his cock ramming deep into her ass with each powerful thrust. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and intensity that had her cursing, her voice a whisper of ecstasy.

"Fuck, yes," she gasped, her body trembling with the force of her movements.

James's hands moved from her hips to her breasts, grabbing them roughly as they bounced with her rhythm. "I want you to cum again before I do," he demanded, his voice rough with need.

Olivia's hands covered his, she pinched her own nipples hard, the sharp pain sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. She reveled in the sensation, her body aching with the need for release.

James's wrapped one arm around Olivia's waste and his other hand found her clit, rubbing it in quick, urgent circles. He could feel her pussy juices flowing, coating his crotch with her desire. The sight and sensation of her, so utterly lost in pleasure, was intoxicating.

Olivia's body began to shake, her rhythm faltering as she neared the edge. She fell forward, her hands bracing against James's chest as he took over, thrusting up into her ass with a relentless pace.

"James," she screamed, using his name for the first time, her voice a raw, desperate cry as her orgasm crashed over her. Her body curled up, every muscle tensing as waves of pleasure washed through her. She shook and trembled, as she rode out the intense climax.

James held her tightly, as he felt her body pulse around him. As her trembling subsided, she buried her face against his neck, suddenly shy despite everything they'd just done. He felt wetness against his skin - tears, not sweat - and his arms tightened instinctively around her.

"Hey," he whispered, all dominance gone from his voice, replaced by gentle concern. His fingers stroked through her hair, soothing now rather than possessive. "You okay?"

She nodded against his neck, not lifting her head. "Just... overwhelmed," she murmured. "I've never let anyone see me like this."

His heart clenched at the vulnerability in her voice. He pressed his lips to her temple, a gesture of tenderness rather than passion. For a moment, they just breathed together, the raw intensity of before settling into something softer, more fragile.

"Olivia."

It was the first time James had used her name since they left dinner, and the sound of it sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up at him, her body a wreck of sexual exhaustion, her eyes glazed with a mix of satisfaction and desire.

"I want you to finish me with your mouth," James said, his voice a rough whisper.

Olivia didn't hesitate. She scrambled down his body, her movements eager and desperate. She took his cock in her mouth, swallowing it deeply, her lips and tongue working him with a fervor that left him gasping. She slobbered over him, the sounds lewd and raw, before pulling back just enough to look up at him.

"James," she murmured, her voice husky with need. "Your cock has fucked my face, my pussy, and my ass. Please give me your cum. Make me your cumslut."

With those words, she took him deep into her throat again, humming with pleasure. The vibrations sent waves of sensation through James, his body tensing as he gripped her hair in his fists. He arched his back, thrusting deeper into her mouth as he finally let go.

His release was intense, a rush of pleasure that seemed to go on forever. Olivia swallowed every drop, her throat working as she took all of him, her eyes locked onto his. When he finally stilled, she pulled back, an exhausted smile on her swollen wet lips, her body spent.

James wrapped his arms around her, rolling them over so they lay side by side, their bodies still tangled, skin against skin, the heat of their shared passion lingering in the air. Their shared gasps intertwined with the faint hum of the city beyond the window, a distant world that felt miles away.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Words felt too heavy, too complicated. So they stayed silent, letting their bodies speak instead--hands resting, legs intertwined, hearts beating in rhythm.

Olivia's head rested on his chest, her hair spilling across his skin, the scent of her surrounding him. Her fingers drew invisible patterns along his chest, her touch featherlight, delicate. He felt the shiver that ran through her, the way her body curled closer, as if trying to melt into him.

"Stay," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile plea.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, his eyes closing as he inhaled her scent. "I'm not going anywhere."

They lay there, tangled and spent, the world outside forgotten. Her hands stilled against his skin, her body relaxing, surrendering to the quiet intimacy of the afterglow.

And as sleep slowly claimed them, James realized he didn't want to let go. Not yet.

Paris awakened first, morning light seeping through their windows. Inside, time moved slower, measured in breaths and heartbeats.

James woke to Olivia pressed against him, memorizing her warmth, the curl of her fingers on his chest. Her awakening came in waves--a shift of weight, a trailing touch, a sleepy hum against his skin.

"You're awake," she murmured.

His fingers found her shoulder. "So are you."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they couldn't keep. Finally, the words he'd been holding back slipped free: "I should go."

Olivia exhaled, rolling onto her back, her hair spilling over the pillow as she looked up at the ceiling. For a long moment, she said nothing.

The morning light crept through the window, painting her in shades of gold, softening the angles of her face. She looked peaceful, almost fragile, but her eyes were wide open, unblinking.

James watched her, his gaze tracing the curve of her shoulder, the way her chest moved in a slow, steady rhythm. He felt the familiar ache in his chest, a heaviness that threatened to anchor him to this bed, to her.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, lingering just a second too long. She closed her eyes at the touch, her lips parting in a silent sigh.

They both knew this was all they could have. One perfect night in Paris, suspended in time, before reality reclaimed them.

The silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words. He knew what she wanted to ask. Knew that he didn't have the answer she needed.

Instead, he whispered, "I'm glad it was you."

Her eyes opened, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of something raw--a flash of vulnerability before she turned her head away. A small smile played at the corner of her lips, soft and bittersweet.

She didn't ask him to stay. And he didn't offer.

James leaned down, pressing one last kiss to her shoulder, his lips lingering against her skin, memorizing everything--her warmth, her scent, the quiet tremor that ran through her body. Then he pulled away, letting the cold morning air fill the space between them.

He dressed in silence, each movement precise, methodical--the familiar routine of a man who knew how to leave. His hands hesitated on the door handle, just for a moment, his shoulders tensing with words unsaid.

But he didn't look back.

Olivia lay still, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway, counting the seconds until she heard the soft click of the door. She gripped the sheets, trying to hold onto the ghost of his touch, but the room was already cold.

Reality returned in harsh increments--a shower that couldn't wash away memory, clothes that felt too formal, streets stripped of their magic. The airport terminal's fluorescent glare made everything too sharp, too real.

James found her through the crowd, coffee cup warming his hands as he settled beside her. He gripped it too tightly, letting its heat anchor him against the urge to reach for her instead. Regret or relief--he couldn't tell which weighed heavier.

"Security was a mess," James muttered, stretching one leg out in the terminal chair. "Guy in front of me tried to bring an entire toolkit in his carry-on."

Olivia snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Amateur."

"You'd think people who travel for work would know better."

She locked her screen and set her phone aside. Her hand brushed his as she reached for her tea, a fleeting touch that left a cold ache in its wake. She didn't acknowledge it, but he saw the way her shoulders tensed, her jaw tightening.

"I had to go through extra screening. Apparently, my boots were suspicious."

James took a slow sip of his coffee. "You do have a shifty look about you."

Olivia shot him a deadpan look as he sat down beside her. "Why do I put up with you?"

James took a casual sip of his coffee. "Because I'm the only one who keeps you from missing flights while you're solving world problems in your head."

"That's fair." She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "Think we'll take off on time?"

James glanced at the departures screen. "For once, yeah. We might actually get out of here when we're supposed to."

The boarding announcement crackled over the PA, a reminder that their time was running out. Olivia's shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly, her head turning away as she blinked rapidly, gaze fixed on the runway. James saw it, his chest tightening as he fought the instinct to comfort her. But his grip curled against his thigh, nails digging into his palm. He had already crossed too many lines.

He swallowed, the taste of goodbye bitter on his tongue. Olivia stood first, her movements composed but mechanical, her face a perfect mask. James followed, adjusting the strap of his laptop case, his fingers brushing against hers as they moved toward the gate. For a second, he almost grabbed her hand, but he didn't. Couldn't.

Their conversation stayed safely in familiar territory--deadlines, meetings, the projects they'd dive into once they were back. It was easier to pretend. Easier to act like they hadn't been broken open, laid bare, vulnerable in ways that would never be spoken aloud.

They reached the gate, and Olivia paused, turning to face him. Her eyes were steady, but he saw the flicker of uncertainty, the hesitation she tried to hide.

"Thank you," she said, her voice low, raw.

James's voice was steady, but his posture was rigid. "For what?"

Her lips curved, bittersweet. "For reminding me I could feel like that. For showing me that I could let go." Her gaze faltered, lowering before rising to meet his again. "Even if it was just for one night."

A heavy silence settled between them, the weight of unspoken words pressing down. "You showed me something, too. That I could want like that. That I could feel alive again." He hesitated, his voice lowering. "I didn't think I was capable of that anymore."

Olivia's eyes softened, a sheen of tears she refused to let fall. "I'm glad it was you."

His heart cracked, the weight of her words settling heavy. "Me too."

The gate agent called for boarding, the world moving forward, pressing them onward.

Olivia took a deep breath, her shoulders squaring. "We leave this here. We take the memories, but we leave this here."

James's jaw tightened. "I know."

She looked at him for one last heartbeat, her eyes searching his, a thousand words passing between them. Then she turned, her shoulders straight, her head high, and walked down the jet bridge. She didn't look back.

James's gaze held until she was gone, the air around him heavy with absence.

Some experiences changed you without leaving a mark.

They boarded the plane in silence, their shoulders so close that the distance felt impossible to cross. They stared out opposite windows, eyes fixed on the horizon, their reflections faint and flickering against the glass.

The memory echoed between them, a whisper, fragile and haunting.

Olivia closed her eyes, letting the memory settle deep, feeling the ache of it, the beauty of it. She would carry this with her, not as a regret, but as a reminder of everything she was capable of feeling.

They didn't speak. Didn't look at each other. But they both knew--they would carry this with them. Quietly. Privately. Forever.

And that was enough.