The Favor Pt. 02

The days after that night didn't explode into anything new. No fights, no confessions. Just... something different in the air. Not tension, exactly, more like thickness. Like the quiet had weight now. Chris moved around the house like something underneath had shifted, as if he was walking across the same hardwood floors but hearing a new kind of echo.

Emma never brought up what happened. That moment when she climbed on top of him and murmured those filthy things, the way it all broke him open. But her silence didn't feel like avoidance. If anything, she seemed lighter. Easier in her body. Almost playful.

She started humming while she made coffee again. Not loud. Just a tune under her breath, like she didn't realize she was doing it. She'd fold laundry in one of his oversized shirts, no bra underneath, moving without hurry. Sprawled on the couch, reading, legs open in a way that was... casual. Except it wasn't. Not to him.

Chris noticed. Every bit of it. The shift in her walk. The way she kissed him in the kitchen. Short, sweet, but with something simmering beneath. Her fingers brushing along his hip as she passed behind him, slower than before. Not by accident.

He found himself watching her all the time. Not obsessively. Just... constantly.

And the thing that stuck with him, the thing that kept flaring up when he tried to sleep or when he caught himself staring at her across a room, was how much he'd liked it. Not just the sex. Not just the filthy talk. The idea of it - watching her with someone else. Hearing her describe it, hearing that voice say those words.

It didn't scare him anymore. It did something else. Something deeper. Darker.

He kept hearing her whisper: "You'd sit there and stroke your cock while I spread my legs for him."

It should've turned his stomach. But it didn't. Every time it came back to him, it stirred something primal. Every damn time.

The silence between them buzzed. Not awkward, just electric. She bent to load the dishwasher, and he caught her glancing over her shoulder at him. He stepped out of the shower and saw her lingering in the hallway, just watching. They didn't talk about it. Not directly. But it lived there in the air, pulsing under everything else.

Then, one night, he came into the living room and found her curled up on the couch. That same oversized shirt. Bare legs. Phone in hand. A little smile on her face, like whatever she was reading wasn't as innocent as it looked.

He sat beside her. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.

Then she looked at him. "You've been quiet."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "So have you."

She shrugged, smile lingering. "We said a lot the other night."

"Yeah," he said. "We did."

He hesitated. Then reached over, tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. "You think about it again?"

She tilted her head. "Do you?"

"All the time," he said.

Her smile changed. Softer, more reflective. "I do too. But... it's not just the sex I keep remembering. It's how you looked at me. Like I was... different."

"I always look at you," he murmured.

She leaned in and kissed him. Slow. Gentle. The kind of kiss that said I know, but also I dare you. Her palm came to rest on his chest, fingers splayed like she was grounding herself there.

They stayed that way for a while. Kissing. Touching. Breathing each other in.

Eventually, she stood, held out her hand. "Come to bed."

He didn't say anything. Just followed.

They didn't speak as they moved through the hallway. Just quiet steps, soft shadows. She led him with that same calm certainty, like she already knew how it would go.

In the bedroom, Emma let go of his hand and reached for the hem of her shirt. She pulled it over her head in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor. No dramatic pause. No performance. Just a bare, deliberate unveiling. The way she stood there, completely naked, bathed in the faint light from the hallway, made something inside Chris clench.

She climbed onto the bed without a word.

He followed, slower. Almost reverent. He slid up between her legs, his mouth meeting hers again, and the kiss was different now--more tender than frantic. Less hunger, more gravity. Her skin was warm against him, already pulsing with that low heat he was starting to recognize as the new normal.

Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, her breath soft against his cheek as he pressed into her. He entered her slowly. No rush. Just that slow, deliberate stretch that made both of them exhale at once.

Years of familiarity between them and still, this felt new.

She moaned softly, her nails tracing lines down his back. He could feel her tighten around him, the slick heat drawing him in deeper. She clung to him, breathing into his neck like she was trying to memorize the way his body felt.

Then she rolled him onto his back, straddling him, her thighs firm against his hips. Her rhythm wasn't fast--just steady. Controlled. Her eyes didn't leave his as she moved. Chris reached up, cupped her breasts in both hands, ran his thumbs over her nipples. She let out a shaky breath and arched into his touch.

He kissed them, one at a time, slow and open-mouthed. She threaded her fingers through his hair, tugged gently.

Then she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "You still think about it?" she whispered. "Watching someone else fuck me?"

His whole body responded. His cock twitched inside her, hard enough to make her smirk.

"I never stopped," he admitted, voice rough.

Her grin was small, wicked. "Would you let him touch me first? Get me wet, open me up?"

Chris groaned and grabbed her hips tighter, like he needed to anchor her.

"Stop," he said, voice strained.

"Why?" she murmured, hips rolling harder now. "It turns you on."

She started riding him faster, breath hitching, mouth parting on a moan. Her eyes didn't leave his. "You want to see it. You want to see someone else make me come. Hear me beg for it. Would you stroke yourself while he fucked me?"

He couldn't answer. He was too close, too far gone.

She leaned back slightly, her hands planted on his chest, her body grinding in tight, hungry circles. "This cock's mine," she panted, "but I'd let someone borrow me. Just once. If you watched. If you begged."

Her legs trembled. Her pace stuttered. She was close.

Chris sat up suddenly, wrapped his arms around her, and began thrusting up into her, fast and rough. Her moans turned to cries, and she came hard, her whole body shaking, her hands clinging to his shoulders.

He followed seconds later, groaning against her skin as he emptied into her. Everything inside him cracked open and spilled out. No thoughts. Just the high, the release, the way her body felt clenching around his.

When it was over, they stayed wrapped up in each other. Breathing together. Cooling down.

She curled into his chest, one hand resting over his heart, her fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against his skin. Chris stared at the ceiling, barely blinking, trying not to think too much.

But it was too late for that.

Because he already knew.

****

The morning after felt strangely calm. Chris woke before Emma and stayed still for a while, just watching her sleep beside him. The blinds were cracked open, letting thin strips of light paint the curve of her bare back. Her breathing was slow and even, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting where his hand had gripped her the night before. She looked peaceful. Not innocent, not quite, but unburdened. Like something inside her had finally loosened.

He didn't say anything when she eventually stirred. She stretched out like a cat and wandered into the kitchen, pulling one of his shirts over her head. Coffee was made the way she always made it, and he started eggs without needing to ask how she wanted them. There wasn't a conversation about the night before. They moved around each other with practiced ease, brushing shoulders occasionally, offering small smiles but no analysis. The quiet felt intentional. Not avoidance, just... preservation. Like neither of them wanted to speak too loudly and risk breaking whatever was still unfolding.

When they sat down to eat, their knees brushed under the table. Emma reached for the pepper just as Chris leaned forward, and their hands touched. Her fingers stayed there a moment too long, and when their eyes met, the smile she gave him wasn't coy--it was knowing. They didn't talk about what that meant. They didn't have to.

By the time night came around again, that feeling, whatever it was, had thickened. They curled up on the couch under a shared blanket, wine glasses resting on the table in front of them, half-full and already forgotten. The television flickered with some background noise neither of them could name. Emma leaned into him, her head against his shoulder, and her fingers traced lazy shapes along his thigh just above the knee. The gesture was small, but it sparked something bigger.

Chris hadn't been planning to say anything. Not yet. But the question had been living in his chest all day, pressing at his ribs. Finally, without looking at her, he spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

Emma tilted her face toward him, her expression soft and unreadable. "Of course."

"That night... when you said those things. Was that just dirty talk, or did you mean it?" The words felt heavy coming out, almost too heavy for the moment.

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she studied him, really studied him, like she was trying to decide how much of herself to put on the table. But when she finally nodded, her voice was clear.

"I meant it."

That simple answer landed like a stone in his gut. He turned toward her more fully, suddenly needing the details. "All of it?"

"Yeah," she said, quieter now. "I think about it. Not all the time. But often enough." Her gaze dropped briefly, then came back up. "It's not about wanting someone else. It's about what it feels like to be wanted that badly. To be looked at like I'm the only thing in the room. Like someone's starving just to get their hands on me."

He felt his throat tighten, his fingers flexing where they rested against the blanket. Her hand was still on his thigh, drawing those same quiet circles.

"There's something about that kind of attention," she continued. "The kind that's not about love. Just need. Just heat. It makes me feel like I could walk into a room and light everything on fire."

She leaned in a little closer then, her lips almost brushing his ear as her voice dropped to a whisper. "But the part that really gets me? The part that makes me wet? Is thinking about you watching. Not stopping it. Just watching. Hard. Jealous. Wanting to take me back and show me exactly who I belong to."

Chris closed his eyes for a second, swallowed against the growing pressure in his chest--and lower. He was already hard under the blanket. He didn't try to hide it.

When he opened his eyes again, Emma was looking at him in a way that was half challenge, half invitation. Her smile was slow and dangerous, her tone cooler now but still charged.

"I want to push you," she said, fingers slipping slightly higher. "I want to make you lose it. I want you to see me act like someone else's slut--just enough--and then make me pay for it."

His breath caught in his throat. "I'd bend you over the nearest surface," he said, and his voice came out hoarse, "and make damn sure you remembered whose body this is."

Emma made a low sound in the back of her throat, almost a moan, and moved closer. "I'd be soaked for him," she murmured, "but I'd be begging for you."

That broke something in him. He kissed her hard, their mouths crashing together in a tangle of teeth and tongue and raw heat. When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathing heavily, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.

"You'd come home with his hands still on your skin," he said, quieter now. "And I'd make you scrub him off. On your knees."

Her eyes fluttered shut. "God, you would," she whispered. "You'd make me say thank you. And I would."

Then she kissed him again--this time slower, more deliberate. It wasn't teasing. It was grounding. Real. When they finally broke apart again, her voice softened.

"I don't want to jump too far ahead. But if you really want this... maybe we don't just talk about it next time."

He searched her face. "What do you mean?"

"Not everything," she said. "Just... test the edges. See what it feels like when it's not just dirty words."

Emma slid her fingers between his, lacing them together, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Come dancing with me."

He blinked at her, caught off guard. "Dancing?"

"You remember dancing," she said, tilting her head with a faint smirk. "Clubs. Sticky floors. Short dresses. Long nights."

Chris chuckled under his breath, the memory flashing through him. "That was a long time ago."

"Exactly. That's why it's perfect. I want to wear something indecent and feel every pair of eyes in the room land on me." She paused, her expression sharpening just slightly. "But I want to know the whole time that you're the one who gets to take me home."

He didn't answer right away. The image was too vivid, too close to things he hadn't let himself say out loud. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than he expected.

"Okay. Let's do it."

Her smile was subtle. Warm. A little wicked. "This weekend. I'll find the place. You just bring that look you give me when you want to rip my clothes off."

He reached up and ran his thumb along her cheek. "You wear that dress," he said, "and I might not make it out of the car."

Emma bit her lip, but her eyes were serious. "Then I'll know I did it right."

They stayed close after that. No more teasing. No more talk. Just warmth and a kind of growing certainty that neither of them wanted to disturb.

The line between fantasy and reality had blurred.

And neither of them wanted to step back.

****

The week crept by with a strange, electric stillness.

They didn't bring it up again--not directly. No more whispered what-ifs or dirty spirals in the dark. But it was everywhere. In the quiet. In the way their eyes lingered a little too long. In the way she passed behind him in the kitchen and let her fingers drag slowly across the small of his back.

It was in the way she laughed, easier than usual. In the way she stretched when she got up from the couch, arms overhead, shirt riding up. Casual, sure. But not careless. Intentional. A performance she was putting on just for him, without announcing it.

Chris noticed everything. Every detail.

He watched her in a way that felt new, even after all these years. Not just with desire, but with a kind of hunger he hadn't let himself feel in a long time. The way her hips moved when she reached into a low cabinet. How her legs folded under her on the couch, the edge of her shirt sliding up just enough to show the curve of her thigh. How she licked the tip of her finger before flipping a page and then caught him staring, just for a second, before going back to her book.

She didn't say a word about any of it.

She didn't have to.

She was feeding the tension on purpose, giving him tiny doses of the woman she was about to become for him. For them. For the night she was planning.

He found her on the couch one evening, legs tucked under her, headphones in and laptop open. She was scrolling through venues with a kind of focused intent that made him both anxious and impossibly turned on. Every now and then, she'd glance up, catch him watching, and offer a barely-there smirk before going back to her search.

She didn't ask his opinion. Didn't ask what kind of place he wanted. She just watched, considered, and kept scrolling.

That Thursday night, just after ten, she padded into the bathroom where Chris was brushing his teeth. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts, hair pulled up, no pants. Her legs were bare, and she leaned against the doorframe like she was waiting for something.

"I got the dress," she said, casually.

He turned off the faucet and wiped his mouth. "You already bought it?"

Emma nodded, then disappeared into the bedroom. A few seconds later she returned, holding it up by a thin black hanger. It was nothing but a whisper of fabric. Dark. Barely long enough to cover the essentials. Her eyes gleamed when she held it in front of her.

Chris stared. "Jesus."

She grinned. "You're going to hate me."

"That short?"

"Worse," she said, dropping her voice. "No back. No bra. Nothing underneath."

His jaw clenched. He didn't say anything at first, but she saw it in his face--the way his eyes tracked the line of the dress, the sudden tightness in his shoulders, the heat blooming behind his eyes.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he muttered, half a joke, half a warning.

Emma stepped in close, letting the dress slide over the back of the chair as she pressed herself against him. Her body was soft, warm, all bare skin under cotton.

"Because I want you desperate," she whispered. "I want you wrecked by the time we get home."

Her lips brushed his, slow and hot. "I want to dance like I don't belong to anyone. And then I want you to show me that I do."

His hands found her hips, gripping her hard. The kiss that followed was anything but gentle. She gasped into his mouth, tugging at his shirt as he slid his hands under hers, fingertips skating up her ribcage to find warm, bare skin.

He cupped her breast, thumb circling her nipple until she moaned. Her hips ground into him, and he was already hard, already ready to drag her to the bed and forget the damn dress entirely.

But she pulled back before he could.

"Not yet," she said, breathless, eyes wide. "It'll be better if you wait. If you have to watch me all night knowing you can't touch me."

Chris groaned, resting his forehead against hers. "You're evil."

Emma just smiled. "You love it."

She kissed him once more, gently this time, then stepped back, adjusting the hem of her shirt like nothing had happened. "Saturday," she said. "You'll thank me."

He didn't doubt it. Not for a second.

Saturday came fast.

They didn't talk much as they got ready. She did her hair in the bathroom with the door open, and Chris sat on the bed, watching. Every now and then she'd catch his eyes in the mirror and smile--but not the playful kind. Something slower. More dangerous.

When she stepped out wearing the dress, he actually forgot how to breathe.

It clung to her like second skin. The back dipped so low it was practically indecent. Her legs looked endless. Her shoulders were bare. And the dress shimmered in the light, like it was made for rooms that only existed at midnight.

Chris couldn't speak. He just shook his head slowly, biting down a groan as she turned once to give him the full view.

"You look..." He exhaled. "You look like trouble."

"I hope so," she said.

They didn't touch much on the drive. Just a shared glance here and there. Her hand resting on his thigh at a red light, her nails grazing along the inseam of his jeans. She didn't need to do more. She was already in his head, already pushing him toward the edge.

The place she'd picked was downtown, tucked behind a narrow alley with a single red light over the door and no sign. From the outside, it looked like nothing. Just another anonymous door in a city full of them.

But the moment they stepped inside, the sound hit them like a wave.

The bass was low and heavy, vibrating through the floor and into Chris's bones. Red-tinted light bled across the ceiling. Bodies moved like shadows--pressed close together, hips grinding, arms raised. The whole place smelled like heat and sweat and perfume. Every breath tasted like something sinful.

Emma didn't hesitate. She just reached for his hand and pulled him in, weaving through the bodies like she knew exactly where she was going.

Chris followed, pulse in his throat, eyes locked on her back.

She walked like she belonged there.

The crowd swallowed them as they moved deeper into the club. It was all motion--flashes of limbs, glinting sequins, bodies pressed so tightly together it felt more like a pulse than a dance. Heat clung to everything, and the air was thick with sweat, perfume, alcohol, and something just beneath it all: hunger.

Emma led him through it with purpose, her hand tight around his. She wasn't rushing, but she didn't hesitate either. The hem of her dress rode higher with every step, the curve of her back catching flickers of red and gold light from above. Chris couldn't stop looking at her. And he wasn't the only one.

They passed a booth nestled against a half-curtained wall, and she gestured for them to slide in. The table was scratched, the cushions sticky with age, but it was dark and set back--half-hidden, intimate. Perfect.

They sat close, thigh to thigh. The music throbbed through the walls, making conversation nearly impossible. But neither of them tried to talk. There wasn't much to say. Emma rested her hand on his leg, just above the knee, her fingers playing absently with the fabric of his jeans. Her eyes drifted across the room, but every so often, they snapped back to him, as if to make sure he was still watching her.

He was. Entirely.

She ordered them drinks with a casual flick of her hand when the waitress passed, then leaned into him, her lips brushing his ear as she spoke.

"Don't get too comfortable."

Chris turned his head to look at her. "Why?"

Her smile was small. Dangerous. "Because I'm not planning on staying here."

Before he could ask what she meant, she slipped off the booth seat and onto her feet. She adjusted the straps of her dress with a slow, deliberate tug, smoothing the fabric down over her hips. The backless cut dipped even lower than he remembered. Her skin shimmered faintly under the club lights. Then she leaned down and kissed him--not long, not soft. Just a taste.

"I'm going to dance," she said. "You stay here."

"Emma--"

"Trust me," she added, with a wink that made his stomach twist.

Then she turned and walked into the crowd.

Chris watched her go, stunned silent. It wasn't just the sight of her disappearing into that sea of bodies--it was the way every head turned as she passed. Men watched her walk like she'd cast a spell. Women glanced sideways, then back again, like they couldn't quite decide if they were jealous or intrigued.

She didn't look back.

The music shifted--deeper, thicker. A slow beat with a filthy drop. And in the center of it, like she'd been summoned by the bass, Emma began to move.

Chris spotted her before anyone else did. She was near the edge of the floor at first, her body loose and easy, hips swaying with a lazy rhythm. Her arms rose slowly over her head, fingers weaving together, and she turned once, letting the hem of her dress flick outward like a dare.

She didn't look for him. Not yet. She didn't need to. She was performing--not for the room, but for herself.

And then it happened. The room began to pivot toward her.

Not all at once, but in subtle ways. Eyes started to land on her, then stay. People danced around her without getting too close. There was something about the way she moved--confident, fluid, unapologetic--that carved out space around her like she belonged in the center of the room.

She didn't force it. She just claimed it.

Chris watched, transfixed, his drink untouched in front of him. His jaw clenched when a man moved into her orbit--a tall guy, sharp jawline, button-down halfway unbuttoned, that slick, predatory kind of confidence. He didn't touch her at first. He just mirrored her rhythm, stepping in close enough to suggest intention.

Emma didn't react.

Not negatively. Not positively.

She just kept moving. Her hips rolled in time with the beat, her eyes half-lidded, her arms swaying. But the space between them started to close. Slowly. Naturally.

The man placed a hand at her waist.

Light. Testing.

Chris's entire body tensed.

Emma didn't pull away. Her hips continued to sway, and she let the touch stay. His hand drifted down a little, finding the curve of her hip, guiding the motion. Chris could see it happening, second by second, and yet, he couldn't look away. Couldn't even blink.

And then she did something that made the air leave his lungs.

She leaned back into him.

Her ass pressed gently against the man's hips. Her head tilted slightly, lips parting as she rolled her body in a tight, deliberate arc that aligned her entire back against the stranger's chest. Her arm reached back, curling around his neck. The movement was fluid. Erotic. Devastating.

And still, her eyes never left Chris.

Through it all, through the grinding, the touching, the raw sexual heat building between her and this stranger, she was watching him.

Watching his reaction. Not the man behind her. Not the others who had stopped to stare. Him.

And Chris felt it. All of it.

The ache in his chest. The burn low in his gut. The throb already building in his cock.

She was doing it on purpose.

And he was letting her.

When the man's hands slid up her sides, higher now, a little bolder, Chris sat forward in the booth. His fingers clenched the edge of the table. A small part of him wanted to stand, to cross the floor and peel her away from the stranger's arms. But another part of him, the darker part, needed to see what she would do next.

The man's hand reached her ribs. Drifted up.

And for just one moment, his palm cupped her breast.

Chris stopped breathing.

Emma didn't flinch. She didn't shove him away. But she didn't lean in further, either. Her body paused mid-sway, like she'd reached her limit--not of tolerance, but of performance.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch Chris's eye from across the room.

There was no smile. No apology. No question.

Just a look.

One that said: That's enough.

And then she moved.

With a dancer's grace, she slid out of the man's hold, peeled herself out of the spotlight she'd created, and vanished into the crowd without hesitation.

Chris was already on his feet.

He didn't remember standing.

One second, he was gripping the edge of the booth like it might keep him tethered, and the next, he was pushing through the crowd, heat rising behind his ribs. The dance floor pressed in around him, sweaty bodies, flashing lights, the echo of bass bouncing off concrete walls, but he didn't see any of it. He was moving on instinct, eyes locked on the glimpse of her dark hair as she slipped through a gap in the dancers and turned the corner toward the back hallway.

Chris followed, his pulse a steady roar in his ears. She'd looked at him. Not once, but twice. First during the dance, and then again when she left. And that last glance, sharp, daring, full of challenge--had said everything.

She was waiting for him.

The hallway was narrow, dimly lit, and lined with doors that probably led to storage or staff bathrooms. It smelled faintly of bleach and stale air. Chris caught the edge of a door swinging shut and picked up his pace, pushing it open without thinking.

It was a bathroom. Single stall. Clean enough, dimly lit, quiet.

Emma was already inside.

She didn't speak. Didn't smile. Just grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him in, slamming the door shut behind him with a loud click of the lock. Then she pushed him hard against the wall. Her body hit his like a wave: heat and sweat and the scent of her perfume mixing with something wilder. Her breath was hot against his neck, her hips grinding against his, and her mouth was already finding his jaw, his throat, his ear.

"You liked watching me," she whispered, biting the shell of his ear just enough to make him flinch. Her voice was raw now. Less composed, more breath than words. "You liked seeing someone else's hands on me."

Chris groaned, his hands already finding her hips, pulling her tight against his aching cock.

"You let him touch you," he growled.

"I let him want me," she said, dragging her lips down his throat. "You saw what I gave him. But you also saw what I didn't."

She kissed him then, fierce and wet and messy. Her hands slid under his shirt, nails raking lightly down his chest, then lower, working at his belt with feverish determination.

"I could feel you watching," she breathed against his mouth. "You were so close to losing it."

"I was losing it," he said, voice hoarse.

Her grin was a flash of teeth, dangerous and wicked. "That's the part that gets me off. Knowing you wanted to rip me away from him. Knowing you wanted to mark me. Remind me."

His belt came loose with a sharp clink. She dropped to her knees without ceremony, looking up at him with pupils blown wide and breath coming fast.

"Just like old times," she said, barely above a whisper. "Bar bathrooms. Me on my knees. Your cock down my throat."

Chris's head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud. She was already pulling him free, her hand wrapping around the base of his cock, her mouth open and waiting. She licked him once, slowly, from base to tip, her tongue teasing the underside just enough to make him shudder. Then she took him in.

Hot. Wet. Deep.

She didn't rush. She knew exactly how to use her mouth, how to build tension like a skill, not a service. She sucked him slowly at first, letting him feel every inch as she bobbed her head in a steady rhythm. Her hands were on his thighs, gripping hard. Her eyes didn't close. She watched him, even as her lips stretched around him.

Chris groaned, one hand sliding into her hair, not forcing, just holding. "You're fucking unreal," he gasped.

She moaned around him, and the vibration made his knees buckle slightly. Saliva began to drip from her chin. Her pace increased, mouth working faster now, more eager, more reckless. She was making noise now, messy slurps and wet gasps, like she wanted him to drown in the sound of it.

Then she pulled back, her lips glossy, a string of spit connecting her mouth to the tip of his cock.

"Did you think about it?" she asked, panting. "When you watched me grind on him, did you imagine me sucking his cock?"

Chris growled, grabbing the back of her head and pushing her back down onto him. She took it, let him fuck her mouth without resistance, gagging a little as he thrust deeper, but never backing off. Her eyes watered, and still she moaned, still she wanted more.

"Mine," he hissed, voice raw. "You're mine."

Her hands clutched at him, nails digging into his thighs as he moved harder now, hips jerking forward with each stroke.

"Say it," he demanded, holding her down for a beat too long. "Say who this mouth belongs to."

She managed it between gasps and strokes, voice barely a whisper. "You... only you..."

That was all it took.

Chris came with a groan, hips jerking, spilling into her mouth. She swallowed everything. Every drop. Never breaking eye contact, never looking away. She licked him clean with a slow drag of her tongue, then sat back on her heels, hair mussed, lips swollen, chin wet, and grinned like she owned him.

"You taste like jealousy," she said.

Then she stood slowly, brushing her lips across his in a kiss that was shockingly gentle. "I haven't come yet," she whispered into his mouth.

Chris barely had time to register the words before she leaned back against the bathroom sink and hooked her thumbs beneath the hem of her dress. She didn't rush. Just dragged the thin fabric up and over her hips until it pooled at her waist, revealing the soft, slick heat between her thighs.

No panties. Just bare, glistening skin and that familiar scent that hit him like a drug.

She looked down at him with something dark and daring in her eyes. "Get on your knees."

He didn't hesitate.

The tile was cold against his knees as he dropped in front of her, his hands settling on her thighs. Her skin was warm and still trembling slightly, her breath shallow. He kissed his way up the inside of her leg, slow and deliberate, tasting sweat and perfume and something uniquely her. Her fingers slid into his hair, threading gently, guiding him closer.

"Fuck, baby," she breathed, hips already starting to tilt forward. "You have no idea how wet I've been since I walked into that room."

Chris looked up at her, eyes locked on hers, then leaned in and ran his tongue along the length of her slit--slow, one steady drag from bottom to top. She gasped, her knees buckling slightly, and gripped the counter behind her for balance.

He did it again, slower this time, savoring the taste, the way she opened for him. Then he flattened his tongue and circled her clit, gentle at first, just teasing pressure. Emma moaned low and deep, one hand still in his hair, the other bracing her weight on the counter.

"You saw how they looked at me," she whispered, voice catching. "All those men. Wanting me. Imagining this pussy... wondering what I sound like when I come."

Chris groaned into her, the sound vibrating against her folds. She hissed through her teeth and pushed her hips forward.

"But they didn't get to touch me," she went on, breathless. "They don't get this. Just you. Only you get to make me fall apart."

He sucked her clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, then let go with a soft pop before diving back in. His hands gripped her ass, pulling her closer to his mouth, encouraging her to grind against his face. She didn't need the help--her hips were already rolling, slow and desperate, chasing every flick of his tongue.

"God, yes," she gasped. "Just like that--right fucking there..."

He focused on that spot, flicking faster now, then flattening his tongue and pressing firm, rhythmic circles against her. Her thighs started to tremble, her moans coming sharper, higher, one hand slapping the counter now, nails dragging along the edge.

"I want you to eat my pussy like it's yours," she said, voice breaking with the force of it. "Like I'm the only thing you'll ever taste again."

Chris growled, sinking one hand between her legs and sliding two fingers inside her while his mouth never left her clit. She cried out, head tipping back against the mirror, her breath fogging the glass.

"Fuck, Chris... don't stop... don't you fucking stop..."

Her voice was wild now, loud and reckless. She was grinding into his mouth, using his face, her thighs squeezing tighter as she spiraled up toward the edge. Her hands were tangled in his hair, holding on like she'd float away if she let go.

And then she froze.

A single, sharp breath.

Then the shudder.

She came hard, harder than she expected, hips jerking, thighs quivering, moaning his name over and over like it was the only word she remembered. Her whole body pulsed around his fingers, her clit throbbing against his tongue as she unraveled against him.

He didn't pull away.

He licked her through it, slow and steady, holding her up as her knees buckled and her moans turned into soft, breathless whimpers.

When she finally looked down at him, her lips were parted, her chest rising and falling like she'd run a mile. Her thighs glistened. Her fingers relaxed in his hair.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered.

Chris kissed the inside of her thigh, then the other, before standing slowly.

Her hands came to his face, cupping his cheeks, and she kissed him again. Deep and messy and full of something that wasn't just lust. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned into his mouth.

Then she rested her forehead against his and exhaled.

"I needed that," she said with a soft laugh.

"I noticed," he murmured.

Emma pulled her dress back down, not bothering to check the mirror. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, and her skin glowed with the unmistakable heat of satisfaction.

Without hesitation, she reached behind her and slid the lock free. The latch clicked open, and she eased the door outward with one hand.

The hallway wasn't empty.

Three--no, four people--stood nearby. Two men and a couple. One woman in heels, one in boots. They weren't pretending to wait anymore. If they ever were. Their posture was too still, too pointed. One man leaned against the wall, drink in hand, but he wasn't sipping. He was staring.

Their eyes moved first to her. They drank her in.

Her bare shoulders. Her glowing skin. The disheveled hair. The sheen on her inner thighs. The unmistakable afterglow of a woman who had just been thoroughly devoured and hadn't bothered to hide it.

Then their eyes flicked to him.

To Chris.

He saw it in their faces, the shift. Not disgust. Not judgment.

It was hunger. Curiosity. A touch of envy.

One of the women smiled slowly, like she knew something now she hadn't before. One of the men let out a quiet breath through his nose, the kind you make when you see something that rattles your restraint.

No one said a word.

Emma didn't flinch. She didn't shrink from their stares. She stepped out into the hallway like she belonged there, like the show was over and she was the star who'd just dropped the curtain.

She reached back and took Chris's hand in hers, her fingers weaving through his, warm and easy.

She didn't speak.

She didn't have to.

Together, they moved past the silent audience, her hips swaying with that same measured rhythm, his steps steady beside her. They passed the bar. The booths. The still-swaying bodies on the dance floor. Heads turned as they moved, conversations dimming around them like a ripple through still water.

No one stopped them.

But they watched. Oh, they watched.

And neither of them looked away.

When they stepped out into the night, the city felt cool and distant by comparison. The noise faded behind the door. The air smelled cleaner, emptier.

But the charge between them hadn't gone anywhere.

Emma didn't wait. She slipped off her heels as soon as they reached the car, tossed them into the back seat, and climbed in after him--straddling his lap before he could even turn the key. Her dress rode high again, exposing skin that still radiated heat. Her hands were already beneath his shirt, fingers grazing along his stomach like she was winding him back up.

"I still haven't come," she murmured again, but this time it wasn't playful. It was a statement. A truth.

Chris groaned, his hands gripping her thighs as her hips began to grind down into him.

She kissed him, long and slow, her tongue teasing his, her breath hot and demanding. And when she finally pulled back, she didn't go far--just close enough to let her words slip like a secret against his ear.

"Let's go home," she said.

Then, after a beat, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, soft and wicked:

"Or not."

Chris froze. "What do you mean?"

Her smile curved against his skin. "I'm not sure I'm done being watched."