Saturday evening, she stood before her mirror, turning slowly. She'd chosen a slinky black cocktail dress that clung to every curve—low-cut in front to show the swell of her breasts, short enough that bending over would reveal the lacy tops of her thigh-high stockings. No panties underneath; the risk made her feel alive. Her heels were strappy and high, elongating her legs. Makeup was sultry: smoky eyes, red lips. She looked like sin wrapped in elegance.
Driving to their mansion, her p***y was already wet, lips slick with anticipation. The fantasy had taken on a life of its own. What if she saw it again? What if more happened?
The house was lit up beautifully when she arrived. Valet parking, soft jazz floating from inside. Marcus opened the door himself, dressed in a tailored black suit
