The party was a subdued affair—COVID restrictions meant only a handful of us, all "in our bubble," gathered at our family friends’ house. My husband was away for work in Johannesburg, leaving me alone in a room full of couples. The air smelled of spiced wine and faint cigarette smoke, the kind of night that should’ve been forgettable

The wine swam in my veins, a warm, golden haze blurring the edges of my judgment. The music pulsed like a second heartbeat, bass thrumming through my body, making me sway where I stood. The night was too alive, too intoxicating. I knew I should slow down, Pity! my hubby was 1500kms away,

And then there was him. The hosts’ son—mid to late -twenties, all sharp smiles and lingering fit, handsome with model looks. His gaze had been on me since I walked in—heavy, possessive, a predator sizing up his prey. He didn’t just look at me; he devoured me with his eyes, stripping me bare with every lingering glance.

While everyone else was absorbed in pool games or some loud movie, I nursed my wine, boredom gnawing at me. He slid into the empty space beside me, his knee brushing mine. "You look like you’d rather be anywhere else," he said, voice low.

I laughed, too tipsy to care about his smirk.

The music in the side room was loud enough to drown out hesitation. He leaned in, lips grazing my ear. "Come outside with me. Just for a smoke." I didn’t smoke but I followed anyway. Following him out onto the deck where the night swallowed us whole.

I should’ve said no. But the wine had made me reckless, and the way his fingers brushed my wrist sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

The second the door closed behind us, his hands were on me—rough, demanding, no pretense left. His mouth crashed against mine, hot and insistent, his tongue claiming me before I could protest. And oh, God, I should have protested. But my body betrayed me, arching into him, my muffled whimpers lost between his lips.

"Fuck, you taste good," he growled, his fingers already pushing my thong aside, slipping inside me with no hesitation. I gasped, my hips jerking against his hand, my mind screaming no even as my body clenched around his fingers.

"We—we can’t—" I tried to say, but the words dissolved into a moan as he curled his fingers just right inside me, stealing my breath.

"Let’s go to the sun room," he murmured, licking his fingers clean as he pulled back.

I should’ve run. But I didn’t.

The second we crossed the threshold, his hands were everywhere—gently pushing me onto the couch, yanking my skirt open, his mouth searing a path down my throat. My bra came undone without thought, my nipples pebbling under the cool air before his mouth closed over one, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.

"Someone will see—" I panted, even as I lifted my hips to help him strip my thong away.

"They’re busy," he murmured against my thigh, his breath scorching my skin. "You’ve got time to be my good little slut."

Then his mouth was on me, in me, tongue fucking me deep while his fingers teased my clit. I writhed, my legs spreading wider, my fingers tangling in his hair as I ground against his face shamelessly.

"You’re dripping for me," he groaned, lapping at me like a man starved. "Gonna fuck you so deep, you’ll forget your own name."

This is wrong, I thought, even as my hips arched toward him.He didn’t ask. Just kissed me,

I should’ve said no.

But when he surged up, his cock pressing against my soaked entrance, all I could do was whimper. "Tell me to stop," he challenged, his voice rough with lust. I didn’t. He sheathed himself inside me in one brutal thrust, mercilessly, stealing my breath. My nails dug into his shoulders as he set a punishing pace, each snap of his hips dragging a broken moan from my lips. There was no going back or trying to stop him. My body was his.

"That’s it, take it," he growled, his teeth sinking into my neck. "You love this. Love being used."

I did. God, I did.

The room spun, pleasure and guilt twisting together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. When he came, it was with a groan against my lips, his cum flooding me as my body clenched around him, milking every last drop.

Then, just like that, it was over.

He pulled out, tucking himself away while I lay there, dazed and fucked-out, my thighs sticky with the evidence of my betrayal.

When it was over, I was reassembled—skirt smoothed, bra fastened, wine glass untouched beside me. The house was quiet. 1 AM. I stumbled back inside, my thighs sticky, my mouth sour with the memory of him.

He was at the dining table, eating a sandwich like nothing had happened. "Hey, you fell asleep on the couch," he said loudly, grinning. His mother called from the kitchen, "Everything alright, dear? you need another sandwich?"

Rage burned through me—at him, at myself, at the slick heat still dripping between my thighs. Because even as fury coiled in my gut, so did something darker.

NEED

And I knew—knew—I’d be back for more.