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Morning light filters softly through the curtains, casting gentle patterns across the tangled sheets where Isobel and I lie wrapped around each other. The mirror above the bed reflects the peaceful scene: two souls still entwined in the quiet aftermath of a night spent surrendering to each other over and over.
Her eyes are still closed as she traces lazy circles on my skin, her fingers warm and steady. I inhale the familiar scent of her, feel the steady rhythm of her breath against my cheek.
Eventually, she shifts, mumbles something unintelligible, then slowly blinks up at the ceiling, at us.
She lets out a small, breathy laugh. "That mirror might've been overkill."
I look at her, messy hair and soft cheeks and the faintest bruising of pleasure across her neck and collarbone. "No," I say. "It was perfect." I lean over and press a kiss to her forehead. "I've never seen us like that. All of us."
She flushes lightly, her smile fading into something more tender. "It wasn't too real? Too much?"
"No, Iz, it was everything." I lower my voice to a whisper. "And that face you made when I--"
She kisses me to interrupt. "You're a menace," she scolds playfully. Then reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand to take a sip. She groans as her body stretches across me. "I'm sore as hell. Please tell me whatever you planned today has minimal walking included."
I laugh, but I feel it too. A deep ache settling in my bones. It isn't painful. It's the kind you get after a night of being loved hard and completely. The memory flashes through my mind. The moans, the sighs, the way she growled my name as my harnessed hips pressed into hers.
I let out an audible groan.
Her eyebrow rises, her voice drops just a little, playful and warm. "Jo, are you thinking naughty thoughts?"
I kiss the spot just below her ear, slowly, deliberately, just to feel her shiver. "Always."
She laughs but leans into me, her hand traveling up my arm. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Even after everything we did last night?"
"I can't get enough of you. And I'm a little sad we didn't get to use that." I nod toward the one toy still in its package.
She picks it up, turns it over and her eyes widen. "Oh..." she says slowly. Her tongue glides over her bottom lip. "You mean to tell me... you brought this and didn't even try to sneak it into dinner last night?"
She straddles my lap, package still in hand, and leans in until her mouth is just barely brushing mine.
"You're right," she whispers. "That's a tragedy we'll have to remedy soon. Maybe at brunch with your mother next weekend."
My heart lurches at the prospect, heat pooling in the pit of my stomach immediately.
Then she laughs softly. "I'm kidding. Mostly."
I flip her over, pinning her. "I'm not."
Isobel's breath catches as her back hits the sheets. Surprise flashes in her eyes before it melts into heat. She blinks up at me, wide-eyed and grinning.
"You wouldn't," she teases, breathless, her fingers curling into my arms. "You wouldn't dare."
But her voice betrays her--low, electric, thrilled.
She bites her bottom lip, gaze dropping to the package now sitting beside her head on the bed.
"... Would you?"
"Oh, I would. Though maybe not with my mom as a witness. How about we start today with a risky brunch of our own."
Isobel laughs, that full-bodied kind that crinkles her eyes and makes my chest ache with love. She props herself up on her elbows, still breathless, still pinned.
"Oh my god," she says, smirking. "And I'm assuming I'll be the one wearing the underwear with the remote-controlled vibe in them? Are you trying to ruin me in public?"
"You can play coy all you want, but your anticipation is written all over your face."
She doesn't respond, she just leans up, just enough to kiss my lips. So hot, it might singe. She pulls back, heavy lidded. "You better hope I can keep a straight face in front of the mimosa crowd, Mrs. Hart. Because if I squirm too much, we're going to have a table of retirees giving us very judgmental side-eye."
She takes advantage of my kiss-drunk brain and slips from under me. She sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed, hair a little wild, her skin still flushed in the prettiest ways. As she stands--entirely unbothered by her own lack of clothing--she adds, "Just remember: whatever you dish out, I will return. Tenfold."
Then she turns, walks towards the bathroom with an extra sway in her hips, and calls over her shoulder, "Better choose our table wisely. Somewhere far from the families."
I'm left in a puddle, holding the package and grinning like an idiot.
The hostess, young and unassuming, gives us a cheerful nod. "Right this way," she says, leading Isobel and I through the airy, sunlit restaurant. We pass loud birthday tables, other couples clinking glasses, and families just out on the town.
We're seated in a private corner, tucked near a floor-to-ceiling window with lush greenery just beyond the glass. This area is separated from the rest of the room by a tall planter wall and a trailing fern that spills just enough to make us feel removed, hidden.
There are tables nearby with a clear view of ours, but they're empty for now. That quiet absence lends the illusion of privacy. We are, for now, dangerously out of view.
Isobel slides into the booth, smoothing her dress with innocent precision. She lifts a brow at me as I sit down across from her. "I see my request has been honored."
"Anything for you."
Her lips twitch in amusement. "Prove it."
The waiter drops off waters and menus before disappearing.
I feel the remote in my pocket. The power in my hands.
The click is audible in our seclusion.
Isobel's eyes widen for a split second as the toy hums quietly to life beneath her. She straightens, sucking in a breath that turns into a soft, startled laugh. Her hand flutters over her napkin as she narrows her eyes at me, her voice low and tight through a smile.
"God, can a girl at least get a mimosa before..." Her sentence trails off and she bites her lip, leans forward and just barely stops her eyes from rolling.
I'm wet instantly.
"Izie, you were saying?" I tease, my face the picture of calm.
"... You're evil."
"You married me anyway."
"Careful," she murmurs, adjusting her posture as subtly as she can, "If you think I won't give you a taste of your own medicine later, you've got another thing coming."
I lean forward, chin propped on my hand. "Later's a long way off. Better order quick, you're already trembling."
Isobel exhales--half arousal, half a silent curse--and reaches for her menu with hands that aren't quite steady. The initial shock has worn off, the vibrations are gentle now, a tease. But I know her body and I know exactly what each setting can do to it.
The waiter returns, tablet in hand, ready to take our order. I give him my order, then turn to my wife.
"And for you, babe?" I ask innocently.
She picks up her menu, points to it and begins explaining what she wants.
Beneath the table, there's another click.
Isobel's voice hitches mid-sentence. She jumps, just a little, but enough to notice. Her knee knocks lightly against the underside of the table, and she lets out a sharp breath, cheeks flushing despite her best efforts to stay composed. She shoots me a look.
The waiter looks confused. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that last part."
I hide my smirk behind my hand.
Isobel clears her throat and sits a little straighter, though I don't miss the way her fingers tremble as she grips the menu.
"Sorry," she says, a little too smooth to be natural. "I'll have the brioche French toast." She snaps the menu closed and hands it off, adding, "And a French 75. Heavy on the gin."
The waiter nods and walks away.
"That's a serious drink for a Sunday morning, Iz."
She narrows her eyes at me, lips parting in an unsteady smile. "Oh, don't worry," she says. Her voice is lower now, just for me to hear. "At this rate, you're going to kill me before it arrives anyway." She shifts in her seat again and whimpers softly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
I swallow. Hard.
Her fingers trace lightly over my hand across the table, sending a thrill straight between my legs. We lock eyes, the heat is unmistakable.
"You're really enjoying this, huh?" she teases, a sly smile tugging at her lips.
I don't deny it. I couldn't even if I wanted to.
"Maybe even more than you," I say.
Click.
"Joelle," she hisses, her voice just short of a full-blown moan. Her nails dig into my hand. Her eyes close again, this time a half a second longer than the last.
I chuckle, breathy, in love, and extremely turned on. "Yes, Mrs. Hart?"
She shifts again, a slow, grinding motion that makes my imagination spiral. Her composure crumbles, fast and glorious. She exhales sharply, jaw tense, thighs squeezing together tighter.
"God, Jo, I can't --" Her voice falters.
I see it in her eyes, she's close. Too close.
I bring the intensity back down to one.
Her eyes snap to me, even as her nails leave the dents in my skin.
"You're cruel," she says, though I know she doesn't mean it. She's breathless. I am too.
The waiter brings our drinks, oblivious. Isobel thanks him sweetly and he walks away none the wiser.
She looks at me over the rim of her drink. There's a plead in her eyes masquerading as a challenge.
She leans in slightly. One hand moves from her cheek, down her neck, trails across her collarbone and lands on her cleavage.
My eyebrow twitches upward, my eyes flickering between her wandering hand and the fire in her eyes. I dare her silently. Go on then.
She takes a sip of her drink and lets her fingers dip beneath the collar of her dress. Her fingers play on her nipple; it hardens at her touch. She watches me watch her and I'm mesmerized. She's sexy and she knows just how to use it to get to me.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips and she smirks.
For a moment, I let her think she's winning. Then--
Click.
This button changes the rhythm. Makes the vibrations come in waves.
Her breath catches. A visible shudder runs through her. She steadies herself against the table, back arching subtly and when she inhales, it's shaky.
"Fuck," she whispers. "We're going to need... to-go boxes."
I lean back, taking her in. "I fully intend to eat my meal at this table."
"Jo," she warns, but it's barely that. It comes out as a whimper and only ignites me further.
"Izie," I return. "What's wrong, baby, you can't even last until the food arrives?"
She laughs, it's husky, hot. The look she gives me is beautiful and dangerous. It says: you'll pay for every bit of this torture later. And god, I hope so. My heart flutters. My clit pulses. "And whose fault do you think that is? I swear to god Jo, you better eat fast or--"
She doesn't finish.
As if right on cue, he appears with two plates of everything we ordered (though nothing we're truly craving). Isobel thanks him politely, her voice too tight, a bit robotic.
She downs her drink before she even looks at her food.
I cut into my omelet, calm as ever, as if I hadn't spent the last ten minutes turning my wife into a desperate mess.
"The weather's nice today, isn't it?"
She glares at me. I smile at her.
"We should go for a walk."
She growls; she actually growls. It's deep and visceral. "We are going straight back to the hotel after this, and you are going to fuck me blind."
I pause, she nearly breaks me, but I recover quickly. "Hm, we'll see. Need to finish our food first, right? Eat up, baby."
Isobel stabs into a piece of French toast like it wronged her personally. Eyes flicking to mine every few seconds like I might change my mind.
I don't.
I watch her as she eats. She takes small bites. Chews slowly. Swallows hard.
The next bite is halfway to her mouth when--
Click.
She inhales sharply at the change in frequency. Her fork drops. It clatters loudly against her plate.
An elderly couple now sit at a table nearby. They turn their heads briefly, I smile politely at them, then they turn back.
"You're making a scene," Isobel mutters, cheeks flushed.
"Not yet." I take a bite. I sip my drink. "But we're close."
Her eyes glaze. Her body tenses. I can see the wave building. Too fast, too strong. Her hands curl into fists. She puts a finger in her mouth to bite on.
She looks so needy, I almost want to give it to her.
But no, I won't let her lose it here.
Another click turns it off completely.
She gasps, ripped from a dream, groans and mutters curses my way.
"Fuck you."
"Soon," I promise.
As I finish my plate, my eyes don't leave hers. She's mad now--pissed even--but she won't be for long.
I tap my napkin to my mouth then place it down.
"There's a single-occupancy bathroom," I say, taking the last sip of my drink. I don't have to elaborate. I rise from the table, smooth my shirt, and nod toward the hallway. "Five minutes."
Isobel does not wait the five minutes. Not even ten seconds go by before she is stepping into the bathroom behind me. The moment the door shuts, her lips are on mine. Desperate. Heated. Immediate.
She crowds me against the sink, grabbing at my shirt, nails dragging over my collarbone as her body presses into mine. Her kiss is breathless, furious, the kind that threatens to suffocate.
I reach around her, twist the lock, and press her back against the door. Her breath hitches.
I slide my hand under her dress. She's soaked. Absolutely drenched.
"See," I murmur against her the crook of her neck. "You made it through brunch."
"You're insufferable," she says, in between her hungry kisses. "You know that?"
"I know." My fingers find the toy. I turn it on high and press it harder against her. It hums mercilessly for just a second, then I switch it back off.
Isobel buckles but she's in good hands.
"Color, baby?" I whisper against her lips.
"Green, so fucking green."
I drop to my knees.
She chokes on a breath.
I lift the hem of her dress and inhale sharply at the sight.
She wasn't the only one drenched.
The underwear's clinging to her like it's daring me to tear it off. "God, look at you," I say, my hands running up her thighs. I spread her and my mouth waters.
"Joelle." My name comes out like a strangled moan. "Shut the fuck up and fuck me. Please."
The word hits me hard. Please. That's the difference between a game and a surrender.
I hook her panties aside and press my mouth to her without another word.
She lets out a broken sound, head falling back against the door with a dull thud. Her hands tangle in my hair. She bites her lip.
I work her slowly at first, teasing, circling, kissing like I've got all morning. But she's twitching beneath me, breath ragged, chasing every stroke of my tongue.
"Oh god, Jo, Joelle--"
I press two fingers into her and she shatters.
Her whole body arches forward, a guttural, strangled sound slipping from her throat as the pleasure tears through her. She grabs the back of my head and holds me there like she needs the anchor.
Her thighs tremble around my face. Her knees give out.
I rise just in time to catch her, kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on my lips.
She slumps into my arms, forehead to mine, breath ragged, utterly ruined.
"You," she whispers, "are the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
"I know." My voice comes out low. It's thick with arousal. With love. With seven years of hunger for the one woman I could never get my fill of. "Let's go back to the hotel so you can punish me properly."
She nods, dazed. "Oh, I will."
And she does.
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