Sharing

John’s Valentine’s surprise wasn’t roses or champagne—it was Paul’s email, tucked beside my wineglass with a wicked grin. “Your fantasy,” he purred. “Make it real.” One call sealed it: a hotel rendezvous with the silver-fox stranger whose voice alone had me wet and squirming by dessert.

Dressed to unravel him—skimpy skirt, sheer stockings, lace so thin it might as well vanish—I watched Paul’s hungry gaze devour me across the bar. John’s possessive kiss goodbye was all the permission I needed. Paul’s fingers teased higher beneath the table, his whispered offer curling like smoke: “Room 109…if you want me.”

Want him? I ached.

The second the door closed, we were a frenzy of teeth, tongues, and desperate hands. His thick fingers split my soaked thong, his mouth worshiped my pussy until I screamed, and his cock—god, that cock—stretched me open on the bed, then my knees, as I begged him to take my ass rough and deep. He spilled across my trembling skin, marking me as thoroughly as John’s feverish reclaiming later—fucking my throat in the car, my ass at dawn—would prove just how much he’d loved every filthy second.

But that first taste of Paul’s dominance? Unforgettable…and far from the last. Ready to ruin me again, gentlemen?