Erotic Bedtime Stories

Billy woke to the scent of coffee and something buttery, warm.

When he opened his eyes, Zoe was standing beside the bed with a tray: coffee, pastries, and in the centre of it all, a small white card propped against the mug. She was wearing nothing but an apron.

“Happy birthday,” she murmured, her voice low and soft in the morning light.

Billy blinked away sleep, stifling a yawn as he stretched beneath the covers. “Morning. And thanks hun.”

He wriggled backwards, propping up his pillow behind his back as he sat up.

She set the tray down on the nightstand then leaned forward. Her warm lips brushed his, the faint scent of last night’s shampoo lingering. She gave his lower lip a small nip before straightening.

“Ouch,” he said, grinning.

There was a second mug of coffee on the tray, and she took that before crossing around to her side of the bed. She untied her apron and dropped it to the floor then slid naked under the covers next to him.

He took a sip of coffee before picking up the card, then looked sideways at his wife, brow raised. “No present?”

Zoe’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “What do you give the man who has everything?” She tapped the card with one finger. “This is your present.”

He raised an eyebrow then opened the envelope, pulling out a card. Nothing, special, nothing funny, nothing naughty, just a bunch of flowers and the words ‘Happy Birthday’. Not her usual sort of card at all.

He looked at her, then at the card again, intrigued. He flipped it open. Below a trite, pre-printed Birthday greeting, it read, in Zoe’s careful script: ‘For one night only, anything you want. No questions asked. No consequences. No regrets.’

He looked at her and laughed lightly. “Anything I want. Really?”

She nodded.

“Within reason,” he said.

“Or without reason. There are no rules, no limitations.” She held up a hand, “Except legality. It has to be legal. I’m not going to jail for the sake of your birthday.”

“I guess that rules out murdering your mother,” he said.

She laughed.

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Cherie didn’t quite know how it was that they all ended up in the spa pool. She hadn’t intended to. Maybe it was the wine, because it was very good wine. Or maybe it was the gummies. She was just nicely high from the combination of cannabis and alcohol. So maybe that was why. The part of her brain that was sensible, that said no to things, had been clouded over, or maybe switched off altogether.

What was even more surprising than being in the pool, with her husband Brendon and the couple from the neighbouring chalet, was that they were all naked.

Sarah, Angus’s wife, had suggested skinny-dipping, and the part of Cherie's brain that was supposed to say ‘perhaps another time’ said ‘why not’—then she spoke those words out loud to the surprised look from Brendon.

Solara at the Cliffs was possibly the most exclusive resort on the island. It was certainly the most expensive, and would have been out of their league if not for Brendon’s promotion and her long-service bonus.

It was his idea. Forget sensible, let’s live a little, he had said when they had started discussing plans for their anniversary.

Solara turned out to be wonderful, even nicer than the online pics. Everything was exquisite; everything reeked of the utmost luxury.

They had met Angus and Sarah on the first day—just a friendly wave from their neighbouring balconies. That had led to drinks, then dinner on the first night. Then an invitation to come over to their chalet the next night.

Angus and Sarah had the larger, even more upmarket model chalet with its own private hot tub.

Two or three glasses of wine, and a round of gummies later, here they were. Somewhere in the haze, she remembered Sarah asking her if they swung—if they were swingers—and she had shaken her head. But that hadn’t stopped her stripping off in front of them as she hopped into the hot tub.

Brendon had been a little more reluctant and at first had tried to get into the pool with his bathers on, but Cherie, now feeling loose and uninhibited, had laughed at him and tugged them down.

Now the warm, bubbling water lapped at and tickled her nipples.

She was aroused, cuddling with Brendon, naked in the warm, bubbling water. No, they weren’t swingers, but if they wanted to make love here under the stars, on this very romantic evening, on their anniversary, who was to stop them?

And if Sarah and Angus wanted to make love with each other, she was certainly not going to object to that. She might even—she felt a small fanny flutter as she thought—she might even watch. And there was nothing wrong with that, was there? Just like watching porn together, which they had done plenty of times.

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Nobody could really say, afterwards, how it turned into an orgy. It was just the regular, monthly, after hours meeting of the Kandulla County Book Club at the public library, and in the past they had always been very sedate, quite genteel events.

Some blamed the book, of course, or the wine. But they’d only had perhaps one glass each when it started, so it wasn’t the wine. And how could a book be the cause of such mayhem? True, it was a highly erotically charged book, once you got past the overly slow begi nning, and the intricate backstory about the princess. But once they got to Nepal, the shift in tone was abrupt, and really quite shocking.

Still, Miss Haversham, the librarian, who was conducting the reading that day made a good fist of it. She refused to let herself get embarrassed by words like ‘cock’ or ‘erect nipples’ and even managed to get the phrase, ‘pink, pulsating pussy’ out with a straight face.

It all started when Angela Strathairn, the newest and youngest member of the group at just 25, clearly a little turned on, and thinking that nobody was watching, slipped her hand discreetly up under her skirt when they got to the first cunnilingus scene (or ‘coon-ill-gus’ as Miss Haversham struggled to pronounce it).

Angela was looking a little flushed and still thinking she was fooling everyone, when Hank Leary, the town barber, sitting next to her, who had been watching out of the corner of his eye, casually placed his hand on the chair arm between them, then let it drift carefully down on her side.

Still under the illusion that everyone else was too engrossed in the book to notice, Angela pulled out a cushion from behind her and put it in her lap as Hank’s hand began to move slowly and rhythmically beneath it.

On the other side of the room, Sister Anna (really just Anna, but everybody called her that because of the three months she had spent in a convent) who could see everything that was going on beneath the cushion, put her head on the shoulder of Mike Lennox from the city council, and when he put his arm around her and they began snogging, it was the most overt display of intimacy to that point, and couldn’t really be ignored, but still nobody commented, because well – you know, decorum and all that.

And Miss Haversham kept reading, possibly the only person in the room not seeing what was happening. When Mike’s hand unbuttoned a couple of buttons on Sister Anna’s blouse, and slipped inside, she uttered a little squeak of pleasure.

But Miss Haversham kept reading.

Something about that squeak, or possibly the fact that the chapter had progressed to a threesome, in a tent, at Everest base camp in a blizzard, loosened everyone’s inhibitions.

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In the first year after his wife died, Geoffrey Sampson didn’t have sex with anyone. Not even with himself.

It wasn’t through a lack of desire. It was the weight of quiet. Of waking to cold sheets beside him. Of brushing his teeth in a mirror that only showed one face now.

But his physical needs didn’t die with his wife, and over time the pressure built until it became unbearable.

He could have gone to a dating site, but the truth was that he didn’t want a relationship. And even a one-night-stand came with expectations that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

So it was an escort, he decided. Not a street hooker or some poor sex worker banging ten guys a day in a brothel, but an escort. Someone you took out for drinks, and dinner, and then to a hotel. Someone classy, elegant. But someone for whom the outcome was a dead cert. He didn’t want to go through all the palaver for a quick peck on the cheek and the promise of another date.

And it had to be someone who would be gone the next day, and he would never have to look them in the eye again. He didn’t want that shame.

Tanya had died over a year ago, in a stupid, senseless way. And he was not over her. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.

That didn’t take away his needs.

He missed her face. Her lips. The way she knew exactly where to touch him, and exactly when. He missed her laugh, her frowns, the tiny scar just above her eye—one she’d never explained, though he must have asked a dozen times.

He missed the sound of her voice. And the sharp, sparkling mind behind it—quick enough to out-debate him on almost anything, though often she let him win. He missed the way she could glam up like a supermodel, but preferred to wear a t-shirt and track pants, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail under a baseball cap.

He missed the way she drove, so sure of herself, so confident, yet so careful, in a jeep that seemed two sizes too big for her.

In the end, the only way he managed to click send on the enquiry form was by telling himself Tanya would want him to be happy. She wouldn’t want him sad, or lonely, or left with nothing but silence and frustration for the rest of his life.

She really wouldn’t. He knew that. They had even talked about what would happen if one of them died. As a theoretical exercise, with no idea of what lay around the corner.

And so he’d browsed the ads, wondering if the photos were real. Most of them looked too good to be true: a parade of flawless bodies in lingerie, pouty lips, carefully deliberate poses. The one he kept coming back to, returning to three times before finally clicking ‘message me’, was different. A woman whose face he couldn’t even see.

His first thought was that she must be coyote ugly. The body was great, the lingerie sensual yet tasteful, and the photo had an arty quality, her face left deliberately in shadow. But then he’d stopped himself. There were other reasons to hide a face.

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The hotel door clicked shut behind them.

Before Geoffrey could say a word, Delilah was on him—hands at his chest, mouth to his neck, urgent and close.

It caught him off guard. Not awkward, not tentative. Hungry. Like she’d been holding it back all night. Or perhaps like she was going to keep things moving at such a rate that he’d have no time to think about –

Just as suddenly she stepped back.

“Sit,” she said, nodding to the armchair by the window.

He did as she said, lowering himself into it, hands resting on the arms. His pulse already up, already tight in his throat.

Delilah took her phone from her bag, thumbed across the screen. A moment later, music filled the room. Not what he expected. No thumping bass or clichéd saxophone. Something quieter. Sparse piano notes drifting like smoke: dissonant, uneven.

Delilah set the phone aside and faced him.

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They lay in silence for a long while. Geoffrey on his back, Delilah curled against his side, her head resting just below his shoulder. The music had stopped, leaving only the hush of the room and the faint murmur of air conditioning.

Eventually, he moved. Slow. Careful not to disturb her too much.

Delilah shifted as he sat up, her hand sliding across his stomach lightly as if in reflex. Her eyes half-closed now, watching him.

He stood, reached for his trousers where they’d fallen across the chair. Found his wallet.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just sat up a little straighter in the bed, the sheet folding across her chest.

Then, quietly: “Don’t.”

His hand paused. “It’s what we agreed.”

Delilah’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “Yeah, well. I changed my mind.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Her hair was messy, eyes darker now with smudged make-up.

“Delilah—”

“Susan,” she said.

He paused, unsure. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that.”

“I know that I’m not. More fool me.”

“I don’t understand…” he began.

“Then sit down and I’ll tell you,” she said. She tucked her legs under herself, pulling the sheet higher. “You’re not the only one with a sob story.”

Geoffrey didn’t move. Didn’t push it. He just stood there, wallet in hand, waiting.

“Put it away and come back to bed,” she said, patting the sheet.

He did, tossing the wallet on the nightstand and sliding in beside her.

“But while I’m telling you, I’m going to do something to you. Something, I suspect nobody has done to you before.”

“Am I going to regret this?” he asked. “In fact, am I going to survive this?”

She laughed. “No and yes, in that order.” She rolled out of bed and fished something out of her handbag. A small felt purse. She said, “Afterwards, you’re going to ask me how I know how to do this. I’m not going to tell you. Let’s be clear about that up front.”

Geoffrey raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I won’t even ask,” he said.

“Yes you will,” she said. “But it’s my little secret.”

“Deal,” he agreed.

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The bottle sat on the vanity, next to his shaver and deodorant. Neville stared at it.
It stared back.

He could barely even remember ordering it in a slightly alcoholic haze after one too many rum and cokes with his Uber Eats Pad Thai on Saturday night.

The email had been just your typical spam bullshit, except instead of promising pills to increase the size of his dick, or ‘Lose 10kg in 10 days—scientifically proven,’ it offered something else. Hope.

That, probably, was why he had clicked on the link. And hope was why he had drunkenly fumbled his credit card out of his wallet and filled in a few details.

Now, in the cold hard light of day, and sobriety, he could barely believe he had wasted his money. He was… what was the word. Desperate? Vulnerable? Both.

Desperate, vulnerable people made poor decisions. And people like that preyed on people like him.

He had to go back to his spam folder to find the email, re-read it and find out exactly what it was that he had wasted $27.95 on (plus postage).

He was going to toss it in the trash, but… desperation… hope.

He unscrewed the cap. Smelled nothing. Maybe the faintest musk, if he really concentrated. Otherwise—just water.
He should bin it. But he’d paid for it.

A small card that came in the packing had the instructions, repeating the email. One dab behind each ear, once per day.

Neville shrugged. Why not. He had opened it now.

He touched a fingertip to the rim, upended the bottle, then dabbed the liquid behind one ear, repeating for the other ear.

Didn’t feel any different. Didn’t smell any different either.

He capped the bottle and set it aside.

The bus was late, as usual. Neville stood with his hands in his pockets, watching cars crawl past.

A woman walked by—blonde, sharp suit. He caught her eye, managed a small smile.

She looked away, leaving the smile stranded on his face.

Strike one.

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He hummed and ahhed in front of his office building for a while, before making up his mind. He couldn’t go to work like this.

Instead he called in sick and walked through the park for a while, hoping the scent would wear off. It clearly hadn’t as he practically had to fight off two female joggers in their twenties and a mounted policewoman.

Eventually he decided he just had to go home, and he dare not risk the bus again, so he hailed a taxi instead, which resulted in his second blowjob of the morning (and it wasn’t even 9am yet) when the driver turned out to be an attractive woman in her early fifties who drove him to an underground car park and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

In the enclosed space of the taxi, the cologne must have been overpowering.

She didn’t even charge him for the ride.

He spent most of the day fretting about whether or not to call Chanel, but thought that if he didn’t she was the sort to track him down and turn up at his apartment unannounced, that is if the attraction hadn’t turned to revulsion the moment she was out of the reach of the cologne.

But he did call, and the attraction didn’t seem to have worn off, because she wanted to meet straight away.

“There’s a little bar on the corner of fourth,” she said. “Let’s meet there, then you can come back to my place or we can get a hotel, up to you.”

He was prepared for this. He had thought about it. It wasn’t really safe for him to go out.

“You come here,” he said, and gave her his address. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” she said, and arrived in eight.

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He let her lead him. Blindfolded, barefoot, trousers still tangled around his ankles. His heart hammering harder now—not fear, not exactly. Just the weight of not knowing what was coming next.

Floorboards gave way to carpet. The air felt cooler in here. Quieter.

The bedroom.

She stopped him in the centre of the room. Let go of his hand for a moment.

Neville stood, listening. He heard the whisper of fabric, something brushing against wood. The faint creak of a bed frame.

Then Chanel was in front of him again.

Her hands on his shoulders, guiding him down, until his legs hit the edge of the bed.

“Lie back,” she murmured.

Neville obeyed. The mattress was firm beneath him, sheets cool against his skin.

And then her hands were at his wrists.

Soft fabric again. Silk, sliding around his skin.

She tied one wrist first, snug but not tight. Then the other.

And when she moved to his ankles, there was a pause.

Chanel’s hand rested lightly on his thigh, just above the knee.

Her voice was lower now. Slower.

“Tell me you want this,” she said. “And tell me if you don’t. Right now.”

Neville swallowed. His heart felt too big for his chest.

“I want it,” he said quietly. “I really want it.”

He felt her breath, warm against his face as she leaned in just for a moment.

“Good,” she said, and kissed him, long and hard, sucking in his lower lip when she finally pulled away.

His second ankle was secured.

When she was done, Neville lay there, blindfolded, stretched out, nothing to do but feel.

Helpless. Vulnerable.

But it felt surprisingly good.

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It was an unusual day at work, to say the least.

Neville had barely stepped through the front doors when Sandi looked up from her computer, her usual bright smile lingering just a little too long. Her eyes flicked over him, slow and deliberate, before she went back to typing — the slight forward lean giving him a glimpse of her deep, soft cleavage.

He hadn’t even put on any pheromax, hoping for a day of rest. But the effects of the previous day must have lingered.

That morning, he was halfway through presenting the quarterly figures when he noticed Helen watching him. Not the polite, occasional glance of a manager, but a steady look, pen tapping idly against her lip as if she were weighing something up.

When he finished his point, she let the silence hang for a beat, eyes lingering on him a fraction longer than felt strictly professional. Then she nodded once and said, “Good work, Neville. You can run the follow‑up with the board next week.”

As the meeting broke up, she brushed past him in the doorway. The cedar bite of her cologne mixed with his for a moment and she paused almost imperceptibly before moving on.

Later, on his way to get some lunch, he nearly collided with her stepping out of her office in the narrow corridor.

“Sorry,” he said, shifting aside.

Her hand came to his forearm to steady herself, warm through the fabric. She didn’t let go right away. “You’ve been… distracting lately,” she said, low enough that no one else could hear.

“Distracting?”

Her mouth tilted. “In a good way.” She released him and walked on, heels clicking, leaving him with a thought he decided was best ignored.

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Neville unlocked his front door, drained in every way — his muscles sore, his mind fogged, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He reached into his pocket to fish out his keys, and his fingers brushed against lace. Helen’s panties. She’d handed them to him after, a smirk on her lips. “Souvenir,” she’d said. “Keep them.”

He stepped inside and stopped dead.

Chanel was sitting in one of his recliner armchairs, wearing nothing but a sly smile.

“Surprise,” she said.

“How did you—?”

“I persuaded the super to let me in.”

“Like that? No wonder he did what you asked.”

She laughed. “No, I was fully clothed. But I can be very persuasive, without or without clothes.”

Neville nodded. He knew exactly how persuasive she could be.

“I bought you flowers,” she said, indicating them with a wave of her arm. “I thought your place could use a little brightening up.”

They were on a side table by the armchair, in one of his mother’s antique vases. Roses, a dusty pink colour that reminded him of Helen’s panties in his trouser pocket. He felt exhausted just thinking about that, and Chanel noticed.

“You look like a man who needs taking care of,” she said. “And I know just how.”

‘Just how’ turned out to be Thai food, delivered in a timely fashion from her favourite restaurant by a rather sweaty cycle delivery rider. Chanel was right. It was exactly what Neville needed; he was starving. No wonder, given his rather… er… strenuous day.

They ate on opposite armchairs. She was completely comfortable in her nakedness, and sitting cross-legged as she was, the sight of the soft curls between her thighs, the faint parting of pink lips, was enough to distract him from his food.

“Stop staring at my pussy,” she purred at one point, a forkful of noodles halfway to her mouth.

“Why?” he asked.

She laughed. “Good point. Stare all you want.”

He felt comfortable with Chanel. He was so used to having to pretend, to perform, but around her he felt he could just be himself. Whether that would be true without the lingering effects of the pheromax, he couldn’t say. But for now, it was enough.

“So... tell me about your day,” she said.

He shrugged, his cheeks growing hot as he thought of Sandi and Helen. “Just the usual. Paperwork and spreadsheets. Crunching numbers.”

She chuckled, a light, delightful laugh. “That’s such an odd phrase, isn’t it? I’ve never thought of numbers as being particularly crunchy.”

He smiled.

Her gaze grew more intense. She put down her now-empty plate and leaned closer. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Neville felt the hot flush rising in his cheeks. He looked away, pretending to cough to cover his embarrassment. There was no way he could tell her what had happened that day. Not Chanel.

“Just crunchy numbers,” he managed.

“I’m a divorce lawyer,” she said. “It’s my job to know when I’m being lied to — and with you it’s not even hard. What happened today?”

“You won’t like me if I tell you,” he said.

She tilted her head, regarding him for a long moment. “Perhaps I should be the judge of that. What exactly did you do? Steal some stationery? Murder someone? Masturbate in your boss’s coffee?”

“Close, but not quite,” he said.

She stood and straddled his leg, her thigh in between his. She leaned close, her nipples grazing his arm. “All the details, please.”

She didn’t seem upset or angry. Not yet, anyway.

He sighed. “Okay. You asked. I know you’ll storm out in a minute, but… you asked.”

She waited as he collected his thoughts, trying to find a slightly more decorous way to tell the story. There was none.

“Sandi, the receptionist,” he said.

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The next few weeks were a blur.

Restaurants. Bars. Clothing stores where he wouldn’t have stepped inside on his own. Hairdressers who looked at him like a blank canvas. Swanky parties full of people who knew exactly which fork to use for what course, while Neville stood there in his new suit, with his new haircut, and his new designer stubble, wondering if anyone could tell he didn’t belong.

Chanel was always at his side—fingers hooked through his, a hand on his shoulder, or pressed into the small of his back. Guiding him, anchoring him. Sometimes letting him get lost on purpose.

They drove places in her sporty Mercedes. The car had been in the shop the day they met on the bus, and Neville figured he’d be forever thankful for routine maintenance.

And every morning, after his shower, Neville would stand in front of the mirror, heart knocking quietly in his chest, and splash on a little of the cologne. Just a dab behind each ear. Just enough so she gave him that look. Not too much, or she’d never let him leave for work.

There were nights that ended early, tangled up in hotel sheets. Nights that didn’t end at all.

The sex was extraordinary. He didn’t have a whole lot of experience of sex, but still he knew that it was something special. Sometimes she tied him up, sometimes she let him tie her up and do particularly nasty things to her, but mostly that was for special occasions, like birthdays and Christmas, and… well… Friday nights.

Other times the sex was more… normal? Was that the right word to use? Certainly never pedestrian, always thrilling, and always with that warm afterglow, lying in each other’s arms.

And through it all, Neville felt like he was holding his breath.

Like any moment now, someone would tap him on the shoulder and tell him it was over. That he didn’t get to have all this.

He lost track of time. He lost track of himself. He lost track of the cologne until the morning when he splashed a little onto his palm and the bottle just gurgled and spat a few drops onto his hand. He shook it, but it was empty. How had he not realised?

He took a deep breath, but didn’t panic.

He’d just order some more. How long would it take to arrive? A week? He could survive that long. He could ‘catch the flu’ or go to see his father in Williamstown. Or have a work trip to Fiji. Anything not to be around her without the cologne. Anything to avoid breaking the illusion.

If he was a better man then he would tell the truth. He would admit to Chanel that the only reason she liked him was because of the contents of a bottle. But Neville was not a better man. He had been desperate. He had been vulnerable. And when the opportunity arose he had taken it and he hadn't looked back.

And he wasn’t about to start now.

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Jason sat alone at a high pub table, picking at his dinner. The restaurant was full, and it was the only one within walking distance of his Airbnb. He couldn’t be bothered to get a taxi or an Uber, so he’d accepted a seat in the bar.

“Same meal, same kitchen,” they’d assured him. Even so, he’d ordered steak and chips – a basic meal even a London pub kitchen couldn’t screw up. Surely.

It was three days since he’d arrived in the city. Ten days since he started the business trip. Six months since the divorce. Almost two years since he’d last had sex with anyone besides his own right hand. Exactly forty-five years since he’d arrived in this world. Today was his birthday.

The pub offered ten percent off if you signed up for their loyalty programme, so he had, although he doubted he would ever be back. He’d had to include his birthdate on the form and when his steak arrived, it came with a cupcake and a lit candle.

He blew it out quickly, then slid it to the edge of the table. Nothing looked lonelier than someone having dinner alone on their birthday.

He picked at the steak. Overdone. He had asked for medium-rare. It had come medium-well. Apparently, this kitchen could screw up a steak. He considered sending it back. Not worth the effort. And he didn’t trust the chef not to spit on the next one if he did.

He cut off the outer edges – the most charred – and stuck with the centre, which was chewy but at least edible. The chips were nice. Twice-fried beer-batter chips. Not good for his waistline though. He’d been trying to get that under control since the divorce. Still hoping for a new relationship. But right now, all he felt was old, bald, and pudgy. The women he swiped right on never swiped back.

The first girl slid into the chair opposite with feline grace. He stopped with a forkful of chips halfway to his mouth and gawped. She was gorgeous. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. With makeup, Botox, and whatever else nowadays, it was hard to tell.

Her friend stood next to her, just as gorgeous – a matching pair, but not identical. One had blonde hair, long and curled into ringlets with a slight reddish colour through them. The one sitting had long dark hair that tickled the top of her cleavage. And as different as they were, they were birds of a feather. The kind of gorgeous young women for whom life was easy.

They would never want for sex, or money, or overseas holidays to Mallorca or the Greek Islands. Their lives were undoubtedly golden, and probably always had been.

He knew, without needing to ask, that they had been the popular girls at school. Cheerleaders, or netball stars. Prom Queens, or whatever the equivalent was here in England.

He knew the type. He resented their beauty, their easy smiles, and their want of nothing. He resented them just for being alive.

Yet the question remained: what were they doing at his table?

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The apartment wasn’t fancy. Clean, tidy, lived-in. A battered blue couch, a low coffee table with a few magazines, and a framed poster of an old French movie on the wall. It felt real—not some kind of setup.

And then it hit him. The thought came out of nowhere, cold and sharp in his gut.

The jealous husband scam.

That was how it worked, wasn’t it? Two girls—or one—get some sad middle-aged man back to their place, get him naked, maybe already in bed. Then the door bursts open. Some shaved-headed bruiser with a gun or a bat.

What the fuck are you doing with my wife?!

Jason’s mouth went dry. His gaze flicked toward the front door. How easy would it be for someone else to have a key code? How easy would it be to get robbed, blackmailed, beaten to hell?

He must have frozen a little, because Kirsty noticed. She tilted her head, watching him with that same unreadable half-smile.

“Relax, Jason,” she said, voice light. “You look like you’re about to make a run for it.”

He tried to laugh. It came out brittle. “Do you... live here alone?”

“Just us,” Kirsty said, dropping her keys in a fruit bowl. “Why?”

Jason shook his head. “Nothing. Paranoid thought.”

Bella stepped out of the kitchen, already pouring vodka into three mismatched shot glasses held in one hand. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re wondering when the jealous boyfriends are going to burst in.”

Jason stared. That shook him more than it should have. Like she’d been reading his mind.

Kirsty grinned. “It’s a thing, right? I heard about it somewhere.”

Jason ran a hand over his head. “Never crossed my mind.”

Bella handed him a glass, then set the bottle down on the coffee table in front of Kirsty. “No husbands. No boyfriends. No hidden cameras. Pinky swear.”

She didn’t offer him a pinky.

Even so, this seemed… real. But didn’t all good scams? Whatever. He was in it now. If something bad was going to happen, then it was going to happen, and whatever happened, it was going to be more interesting than Netflix back at the AirBnB.

“I must look like such a sad case,” he muttered.

Kirsty clinked her glass against his. “Maybe. But you’re our sad case tonight. Salut!”

In unison, she and Bella tossed back their shot glasses and held them high in the air.

After the briefest of hesitations (Was it spiked?), Jason did the same.

“Another?” Kirsty asked, already tipping the bottle toward his glass. Her dark hair hung in loose waves over her shoulder, and the black camisole she wore dipped low enough to show the edge of one breast.

“Why not,” Jason said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. He wasn’t a wild man. Suits, office politics, and spreadsheets. That was his world. Not this.

Bella perched on the arm of the couch, legs slightly apart, little black dress riding up a little more each time she moved. He could see a glimpse of her panties, lacy and pink. She caught him looking and spread her legs slightly wider then raised the hem of her little black dress, slowly, deliberately. She tossed her empty vodka glass down onto the sofa, where it bounced once before settling. Jason could not take his eyes away from the V of her panties.

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When Piper took her bra off, unashamedly tossing it onto the coffee table and turning a slow circle to make sure they all got a good look, Josie snuck a glance at her husband. Roy’s eyes were fixed on Piper’s chest—on her seamless tan and the hard, dark points of her nipples.

And Josie was a little surprised to find that she didn’t mind. It even turned her on a little, watching Roy stare at another, semi-naked woman. All Piper was wearing was a matching pair of lacy green panties. Her dress lay discarded on the arm of the sofa.

It was her third spin, and each time she had landed on the same challenge: remove one item of clothing.

Shoes had come off first, then the dress, and on this most recent spin it was either her bra or her panties. She had teased them for a moment, slipping her fingers into her waistband, but then laughed, reached behind, and unfastened her bra, tossing it down with—what did they call that?—gay abandon.

Next, Josie had stolen a glance at Jake to see if he minded his wife getting her puppies out in public. Well… not really public. It was a private living room, and they were long-time friends, not strangers. But he had just nodded appreciatively, admiring his wife. Josie liked that. She liked it when Roy looked at her that way—which he still did, even after seven years of marriage.

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The next weekend had dawned full of expectation.

Jake and Piper’s place was newer than Josie and Roy’s—sleek lines, open-plan kitchen, and a timber deck that overlooked a patch of native bush.

When Josie and Roy walked in, half expecting that the previous weekend’s conversation would be forgotten, or glossed over, or passed off as just a drunken fancy, they automatically headed for the dining room, where they usually played gin rummy, or Scattergories. But today, Piper and Jake greeted them with a hug and directed them towards the living room.

Clearly, Piper and Jake had not forgotten the previous week’s conversation. The room was dimly, but warmly lit by two table lamps. Scented candles were positioned in strategic places around the room but unlit, as if they were unsure how romantic to make it.

Any lingering doubts about the evening were instantly dispelled by the sight of the vibrator, the blindfold, and the tube of lube that lay on the coffee table next to an iPad.

Josie drew in a deep breath.

“You guys don’t mess around,” Roy murmured beside her.

“Accessories, suggested by the site,” Piper said brightly. “I couldn't find handcuffs, feathers or ping pong balls in time, and there are balloons in the party cupboard if we need them.”

“What kind of site was that?” Roy asked, raising both eyebrows.

Piper nodded towards the iPad. “I found a game,” she said. “But first things first. Cheers.”

The wine was already poured—a deep red, in large, bulbous glasses. Piper picked up hers and swallowed half of it in one gulp. Josie wasn’t far behind, feeling the warmth drift through her bloodstream. Loosening her. Freeing her.

She picked up the vibrator and asked, perfectly innocently, “What’s this thing?”

Piper snorted into her wine.

Grinning, Josie set it back down and reached for her glass again, letting her gaze drift across the room. She felt like she was seeing them all differently—and it wasn’t just the lamplight.

Jake had that crooked, boyish grin that always made him look like he was up to something. His beard was neatly trimmed, his dark eyes lively and sharp, like the mind behind them.

Piper looked as luminous as ever. Her brunette curls framed a face straight out of a perfume ad—intelligent eyes, full, sensuous lips that seemed just waiting for an opportunity to smile.

Roy, steady and solid beside her, wore his usual calm. Brows relaxed, mouth set in a neutral line. But Josie knew that face. The faint crease between his eyebrows meant he was thinking—watching, processing. Just like always.

They looked exactly the same. And yet somehow, every one of them looked different.

Or maybe, Josie thought, the change was just within her.

Maybe the wine, the soft lights, and sight of the objects on the table had only softened the edges of something that was ready to crack open.

They were all on their second glass when Piper opened the iPad and showed them what she had found.

“It’s an online game,” she explained. “Date Night Fun Games dot com. There’s a bunch of stuff for couples, and a couple of games that are suitable for either couples or…”

“Swingers,” Roy contributed. It was the first time any of them had said that word out loud.

“Swingers,” Piper agreed with a long look at Josie.

She nodded lightly. Even if it was a one-off, that was what they were doing tonight.

“I was searching for spin-the-bottle apps,” Piper continued. “That’s how I found the site. I checked out their version of spin the bottle and it looks fun. You can play as a couple or add players, up to about twelve, I think.”

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When it was her turn again, Piper didn’t reach for the iPad. Instead, she shifted position on the couch, hooking one leg over the armrest and letting it rest there casually, spreading her legs. Her green lace panties left little to the imagination in the ambient lamplight, and the moment hung in the air, warm and slow.

She smiled. “So... are we ready for the Steamy round?”

Her voice was light, but her eyes held steady on each of them in turn. “Now’s the time to back out—if you’re not fully, completely on board with this.”

Josie glanced around the room. The game had done its work—slowly, challenge by challenge, melting their inhibitions. They were ready. Eager, even. But no one had crossed a line yet. Not really. Nothing that couldn’t be laughed off or tucked away again by morning.

She felt the damp tingle between her legs and knew that, here and now, she wanted this. Tomorrow, in the cold, hard light of day—who could say? Maybe she’d regret it. But tonight, she wouldn’t hold back. She would give in to temptation. To desire.

Piper raised a brow. “Hands up if you’re opting out. Otherwise...” She picked up a vodka shot. “Bottoms up.”

Four shot glasses clinked, then slammed empty onto the table.

Piper stood and lit a few candles, then dimmed the table lamps. The low, flickering light added to the sense of mystery and possibility, and the scented wax added an exotic tinge to the already aromatic air.

They all leaned forward to see what Piper’s first Steamy challenge would be. The bottle spun around to point to Josie. There was, as always, a slight delay—building the suspense—before the challenge was revealed.

“Oh. Wow,” Josie said.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” Roy said.

Piper locked eyes with Josie, questioning. “I’m okay with this if you are. Are you?”

Josie took a deep breath.

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It wasn’t raining.

That in itself felt like a minor miracle to Daniel as he and Orla wandered arm-in-arm along the path winding through the estate. Southern Ireland’s famed grey skies had given them three straight days of drizzle, but now the air was bright and fresh, cool sunlight dappling the leaves. The smell was all moss and green things.

“So you used to come here as a girl,” Daniel said.

“Aye,” Orla nodded. “But that was a long time ago. I’d not seen the old man in years.”

“Then why did he leave it all to you?” Daniel asked.

“No idea. Still doesn’t seem real,” Orla said, nudging his hip with hers as the path narrowed for a moment. Her red hair caught the light like copper wire. “All this. Ours. It’s… too much.”

Daniel tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, watching Orla stroll on ahead of him. Red hair like something painted, loose and blowing in the breeze. Worn jeans. Old boots. She fit here. He felt like an imposter – London-born, city boy through and through.

And she was right. It didn’t feel real. Six years in a cramped London bedsit had not prepared them for the wide-open spaces of the Irish countryside. Especially not for this place.

"Back in the day I always thought these woods were a magical place," Orla said. "Full of elves and fairies. I used to run around trying to spot one, pretending I did when I never did.”

“This is a magical place,” Daniel said. “Even a hard-shelled Londoner like me can feel it.”

Their boots crunched over a bed of fallen leaves. Around them, the grounds stretched wide and unruly—rows of ash and oak trees, clumps of wild ferns. The estate itself loomed in the distance behind them now, ivy curling up its stone walls. Out here, it felt less like a country manor and more like stepping into a Hans Christian Andersen tale.

Orla stopped suddenly, tugging Daniel’s sleeve. “Look.”

Ahead, through a break in the trees, there was a clearing. In its centre: a round pond edged with stones, water as still and clear as glass.

“I remember this place,” she said. “I used to go swimming here. In summer anyway.”

A few steps and they emerged from the forest into the clearing.

Daniel blinked.

They were not alone. It was a woman. A rather small woman, but definitely a woman. That would have been obvious even if she hadn’t been almost naked. She wore nothing but a bra that seemed to be made of leaves stitched together.

She lay half-reclined on a flat rock in the sunshine, her feet dangling in the pond, surrounded by reeds and colourful flowers. Slim, pale-limbed, flame-green hair cascading over bare shoulders. The hair between her legs was the same colour as that on her head. Her hand was between her thighs, moving in an urgent rhythm. Eyes closed, lips parted.

Daniel stared. “What… the… fuck?!”

The woman’s eyes snapped open. Brilliant green, sharp as broken glass.

“Oh for feck’s sake,” she muttered. “Can’t a girl have five minutes to herself?”

There was a frozen beat—then the woman scrambled upright in a flurry of water and pale skin, reaching for a smock hanging from a nearby branch. Bright green and apparently also stitched together from leaves. She pulled on a matching pair of knickers, then a pair of green leather boots with golden buckles.

Orla’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again. “Sorry! We didn’t mean to—”

The woman cut her off with a wave. “They all say that. You caught me fair and square. No point denying it.”

Daniel glanced at Orla, utterly lost.

“Sorry,” said Orla, simply.

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Daniel woke to the sound of waves and the heat of the sun on his skin.

He squinted against the brightness, a dry, metallic taste in his mouth. For a moment, there was nothing but blue sky and palm trees swaying gently overhead.

Where the hell…?

He was lying on a lounger — thick white cushion, wooden frame — a striped umbrella casting slatted shade across his bare chest.

Beside him: a small table. On it, the remains of a cocktail — something pinkish, melting ice, a damp paper umbrella that had fallen into the glass.

Daniel pushed himself up slowly, head thick and fuzzy.

His first thought was that he’d had too much to drink.

His second: someone had slipped something into it. Had he been roofied? Why? Who would do that to him?

And where the hell was he?

He sat there for a moment, letting the heat and the sound of the surf settle his brain. Everything before today felt blurry. He strained to remember… anything.

He was a journalist, he lived in London. He could remember the schools he had gone to, the sports he had played, albeit briefly and not well. He could remember girlfriends, meeting Orla. His proposal, her turning him down, because she didn’t think you could tie two people together with a ring and she didn’t need a piece of paper to know that she loved him.

He could remember the project he was working on. An expose of a corrupt politician. Was that why he had been drugged?

He remembered getting the news about the death of Orla’s grandfather. Learning about the inheritance. And then… nothing. Just a haze. There was a flicker in the back of his mind like watching an old silent movie, except it was out of focus. A strange dream. Something about the estate. About leprechauns. Orla. But it felt distant, slippery as seafoam.

He rubbed a hand through his hair and looked around properly.

The beach stretched wide and perfect in both directions. White sand. Blue water. A picture postcard.

And everywhere he looked there were women. Dozens of them.

Some stretched out on loungers, others walking slowly along the shore, hips swaying, sunlight caressing smooth tanned skin. A group was playing beach volleyball just a little way down, laughing and calling to each other as the ball arced back and forth.

And not a stitch of clothing in sight. No swimsuits, no bikinis, no sarongs. They were all completely naked.

Daniel’s gaze drifted from face to face, body to body. From the swaying breasts to the alluring fuzz between their legs.

Every single one: gorgeous.

All shapes, all colours. All beautiful.

And not one man in sight.

He sat up straighter, heart picking up pace now.

Where were all the men?

He had a horrible thought and grabbed at his crotch, but the full package was still there. Meat and two veg.

Nor was he naked, that was a relief. He was wearing his bathers. His favourite blue ones.

It wasn’t that he was shy, but he wasn’t one to flaunt himself in public. Not even on a nudist beach, because that’s undoubtedly where he had found himself.

A nudist beach.

For women only.

Was he even supposed to be here. Would someone notice him in a minute and start screaming for the police?

About time he left, he thought, despite the, ahem, sensational views. And the ocean wasn’t bad either.

He got to his feet, looked around for shoes, or a towel, but couldn’t see either. A path led away from the beach, lined with palm trees and bright flowers.

He followed it, bare feet crunching on fine gravel. It led through a gorgeous tropical forest. Birds twittering, leaves rustling in a light breeze, the scent of tropical flowers mingling with the sweet salt air of the ocean.

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The first thing she noticed was the weight of the gown.

Silk. Heavy, expensive. Layers of it, rustling as she moved.

Orla stood at the edge of the ballroom, one gloved hand resting lightly against the gilded frame of the door, watching candlelight flicker across the polished floor.

Music filled the air—soft violins and harpsichord. Couples gliding past in bright silks and powdered wigs.

France. Eighteenth century, her mind supplied automatically.

Though she had no idea how she knew that. Or why she understood the conversations going on around her. Everyone was speaking French, yet somehow she understood it fluently.

When she glanced down at herself, she wasn’t wearing her usual maid’s uniform, but a sumptuous golden gown that shimmered in the candlelight, its bodice tightly fitted and trimmed with delicate lace, the full skirt billowing around her like spun sunlight. The sleeves ended in soft ruffles at her elbows, completing the picture of effortless, gilded elegance.

She was Orla. A sous-chef from London. She knew that, yet somehow it seemed like a dream.

She was Monique. Her parents—aristocrats, once—had died penniless, and she would have been out on the street if not for Mademoiselle D’Aubigny who had taken her in as a servant.

She reached up and adjusted her mask, which was slipping down her nose. Nobody must know her true identity. A serving wench, at a masquerade ball. Unheard of!

But tonight, her mistress had felt unwell. But the prince was going to be there. A very eligible bachelor. Young, handsome, unmarried, the older of twins, and therefore the heir to the throne.

If Mademoiselle D’Aubigny could not attend, then Monique would attend in her place, but she must, under no circumstances reveal her true identity to the prince.

They were of similar age and size, and Monique would wear Mademoiselle D’Aubigny’s favourite wig, a fiery red.

Now she drifted forward, letting herself move with the tide of dancers, her gloved fingers trailing along golden banisters. The floor gleamed like a mirror beneath her feet.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

A man’s voice. Gentle, cultured.

She turned to find him—a tall figure in deep green, his mask glittering with gold leaf. He offered his hand.

Orla took it.

They danced.

Her body moved as though it already knew the steps. Slow turns. Gliding. Her skirts whispering around her legs.

Another man came next. This one in pale blue, smelling faintly of spice. Another hand at her waist. Another turn around the floor.

Her pulse picked up, breath light behind the mask.

She drifted further into the room, as if caught on a current.

Gloved hands touched her arms now—one, two, three different men in passing. Kisses brushed her skin. Her neck. The curve of her shoulder.

One man lifted her hand to his lips. Another pressed against her from behind, a warm solid presence as she breathed in the scent of cologne and wine.

Mademoiselle D’Aubigny they called her. The gown and the red wig a giveaway despite the mask.

She floated in it—heat and colour and music.

The prince swept into the ballroom like a spark setting silk alight—commanding, vibrant, and impossible to ignore. Clad in a crimson tunic embroidered with gold thread, he moved with the easy grace of someone born to rule, his posture straight, his chin slightly lifted, every step measured and deliberate. The crowd parted instinctively as he passed, men offering slight bows, women dipping curtsies, not merely out of protocol but from the quiet pressure of his presence.

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He put his swim shorts back on before heading back down to the pool. He couldn’t quite say why. Habit, maybe.

Just... a lifetime of not being naked in public. A hard habit to break.

He strolled toward the bar near the water, passing slow-moving clusters of women. The only one wearing clothes was the female bartender in the swim-up bar, who wore a cream halter top.

Every pair of eyes seemed to follow him as he passed.

As if every woman here already knew his name.

The bar wasn’t busy—it extended from a few low tables scattered beneath wide white umbrellas, to a swim up serving area in the pool where a handful of women were lounging with tall, sweating glasses in hand.

Daniel stepped up to the counter, his hands resting against the polished timber.

The bartender was yet another striking woman. She looked up and smiled.

“Mr Quinn. What’ll it be?”

Daniel hesitated. “Whatever I had earlier, maybe.”

“Another Screaming Orgasm coming up,” she said with a wink.

At his raised eyebrow, she laughed. “Baileys, vodka and Kahlua. Plus a couple of extras. It’s quite safe.”

As she mixed the drink, Daniel glanced back toward the pool.

Two women leaned over the side of the pool, laughing at some private joke, one blonde, one brunette, sleek as seals in the midday light.

The blonde looked around and caught his eye first. Her eyes widened slightly and she ran a tongue across her top lip.

Daniel felt his heart begin to quicken.

He took the drink with a nod of thanks and crossed to one of the loungers on the ocean side of the pool, settling down with as much nonchalance as he could manage. The sun warmed his shoulders. Quiet music drifted from hidden speakers.

A splash broke the stillness.

He looked up. The blonde was swimming toward him, arms slicing cleanly through the water. She rose out of the water in one fluid movement—skin glistening, droplets tracing the curve of her hips. Her breasts, high and golden in the sunlight, caught his breath.

She didn’t bother with a towel. Just flipped her hair back, sending water flying in a glittering arc. Up close, she was even more striking: high cheekbones, cool blue eyes, a full mouth with a hint of gloss.

Daniel set his glass down, heart pounding.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, voice low and lightly accented—Eastern European, maybe.

“No,” Daniel said. “Go ahead.”

She sat—not on the lounger beside him, but on his lap. Her skin was cool against his, one arm slipping easily around his neck.

“I’m Anya,” she said.

“Daniel.”

She smiled like she already knew.

Her fingers trailed down his shoulder, then across his chest—slow, exploratory.

Daniel swallowed.

No one around them seemed to notice. A few heads turned, but no one stared.

Anya leaned in, her lips close to his ear.

“You’re the only man here this week.”

Daniel nodded, throat dry. “So I’ve heard.”

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One of her handmaids was still turning down the bed as the two princes entered. They paused just inside the door, lingering in the candlelight, and for a moment Orla wondered what they were waiting for. Then she realised—it was her choice. One, the other, or both. Here, in this candlelit chamber in the Château de Montvallon, she was the one with the power to decide.

Orla had been bathed and dressed by two handmaids who undressed her layer by layer, then guided her into a deep tub of warm, scented water and washed her from head to toe with gentle, practised hands—neglecting nothing. It felt strange at first to be touched like that by a woman, but she had lain back, letting herself drift in the warmth and the soft, unhurried touch of their fingers. Afterwards, they had anointed her with lavender and perfumed oils before easing her back into her gold silk dress—she had no other.

Her underthings, damp with the outpouring of her pleasure—not once, but twice—had been taken away without a word. Now, beneath the structured weight of silk and lacing, she wore nothing at all. As she moved, the shifting fabric stirred little currents of air that played against her bare sex—cool, teasing, and strangely invigorating.

Both princes had changed from the pomp of the ballroom into more casual, but no less elegant, court dress suited to the château. They wore embroidered coats—François in crimson velvet, Pierre in deep blue brocade—with fine lace at their cuffs and open collars. Their stockings were still pulled tight over lean calves, and their shoes, though simpler now, were no less polished.

Their wigs were gone. Both wore their long dark hair tied back with ribbon—François’s neatly bound and dusted with a faint trace of silver powder, a lingering formality from the ballroom; Pierre’s darker and worn with just a hint less discipline. The contrast between them was even more pronounced now—one the measured heir, the other a prince of appetite.

They smelled of ambergris and bergamot, with an undercurrent of musk. Expensive, masculine, intoxicating. The scent stirred something deep in her belly.

They had already explored each other’s bodies in the carriage, tangled and breathless, but the space had been too cramped, the jolting wheels too jarring for anything more than feverish groping.

Still, she had learned one important thing.

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The afternoon passed in a whirl of nothing. When he tried to remember later how he had passed the time, it all seemed a blur. A few more cocktails at the pool bar might have had something to do with that, and he dozed on a lounger by the pool after lunch, in the shade of a large leafy palm.

At one point, he joined in the beach volleyball, but the girls ran rings around him, and with only two players on a team, he felt he was letting his side down and begged off.

He played cards on the balcony with Anya and Isabella and a friend of theirs from Lithuania—a lithe, sensuous, voluptuous girl who came across as a bit of a bimbo, but won every hand.

Beatrice, he called her, because he couldn’t pronounce her actual name.

She left at dinnertime to meet up with another group of friends, and so he had dinner with the other two—both of whom turned out to be good at more than just bed. Anya was a lawyer from Moscow, and Isabella was a doctor from Helsinki.

They were great conversationalists too, despite English being a second language for both of them. Drinks after dinner led to aperitifs in his room, and he woke up the next morning with a mild hangover and a warm naked body pressed in close on either side.

He woke with an erection—a morning chubby—but the two girls quickly took care of that for him.

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Orla opened her eyes.

Morning light streamed through tall windows.

The castle—and the princes—had vanished. This room, though elegant, was different. Familiar. It was the estate house. Their bedroom.

Daniel lay beside her, asleep, the sheet tangled around his hips.

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Zoe

The morning began, as most of them did lately, with the soft hum of the espresso machine and the quiet shuffle of socks on wood floors. The kitchen filled with the aroma of coffee and the gentle glow of a sky that couldn’t yet decide if it wanted to rain.

Zoe leaned against the kitchen bench, her hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug that had once been part of a wedding gift set.

Ethan had finished his coffee. He sat at the table, still in his PJs, reading the news on his tablet.

“Are you retired, or just unemployed and forgot to tell me,” Zoe asked with a smile.

“Retired,” Ethan said. “Until eleven. No client meetings this morning and I’ll be late home, Barry has scheduled another spontaneous three-hour ‘strategy meeting’ to discuss that mining company. The one I can’t name.”

She raised an eyebrow and pushed off from the counter to rinse a spoon in the sink. “He’s scheduled a ‘spontaneous’ meeting?”

“Yup. That’s how he rolls.”

Zoe grinned as she dried her hands. “Is this the same Barry who thought GDPR was a new German porn site?”

“That was just an office rumour, but yeah.”

She crossed the room and leaned against the fridge. “Should we be worried he’s strategizing anything?”

“Only if we value our continued relationship with one of our biggest clients.”

A yellow sticky note on the fridge door caught her eye—‘Plumber – Thursday 9am.’. She plucked it off and checked the date on her watch. “Today’s Friday,” she said. “Did the –”

Ethan shook his head. “Nope. I waited until ten. No show. No call. No text. Nothing.”

“Bloody tradies,” she said. “If I operated like that, I’d get disbarred.”

“Well, I turned off the stop tap, and we’ll just have to use the spare bathroom for a few more days.”

Zoe sighed and reached for her phone. “I’m going to give him a rocket.”

“I already called. Went to voicemail.”

“Of course.”

There was a silence between them, familiar and companionable, routine.

“What have you got on today?” he asked, without looking up from his tablet.

Zoe hesitated, then set her mug down. “New pro bono. Murder case. Nineteen-year-old woman. Accused is her uncle.”

Ethan looked up, shaking his head sadly. “And?”

“Guilty. I’d bet my teeth.”

“But you’re taking it?”

“You know I don’t have a choice.” She walked over to the table and sat across from him.

He nodded slowly. “That’s going to be rough.”

“Yup. He’s one of those guys who never stops smiling. It’s like being watched by a doll.”

Zoe traced a finger along the tabletop, then broke the silence with a tone that tried, and failed, to be offhand. As if she hadn’t rehearsed this in her mind before speaking.

“Got a message last night.”

“Oh?”

Zoe moved to the sink, rinsing her cup again even though it was already clean. “From Sam.”

He blinked a couple of times and lowered the tablet. “Sam? Who’s he?”

“She. My old roommate.”

“Ahhhh,” he grinned. “Samantha, the walking embodiment of chaos theory.”

She smiled.

“What’d she want?”

Zoe reached for a dish towel and dried the mug slowly. “She’s passing through town. Thought she might check in, maybe see if we’ve got a couch she could crash on.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely. “That’s…Wow. Haven’t heard that name in… what would it be now?”

“Eleven years. Not since graduation.”

“I didn’t think you guys were still in touch. She didn’t even come to our wedding.”

“She was in Lithuania,” Zoe said, as if that explained everything. “And we’re not. Still in touch, I mean.”

“So she just messaged you out of nowhere?”

“Pretty much. Said she was on her way to Melbourne for a week. Gallery opening or something.”

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Ethan

“I really was only joking,” Ethan said, hovering by the back door with his coffee.

It was Saturday morning. The sky was cloudless, the sun casting strong shadows which Zoe was pleased about because they gave her better contrast: bolder lines, more drama.

They were all out on the back deck facing the canal and the wide swathe of native bush beyond. Sunny, secluded, private. Perfect.

“You should be careful what you joke about,” Sam said, loosening the belt of her borrowed bathrobe. “Humour has consequences.”

A nipple peered out at him through the loose folds of the robe and a dark flash down there. Panties or pubes?

“I should go.”

“And yet here you are,” Sam winked at him. “Have you never seen a naked woman before?”

“Of course I have. I just haven’t seen—um you.”

She opened the robe and let it fall. She wasn’t wearing panties.

“Okay then,” she said. “Glad we’ve got that out of the way.”

Ethan’s breath caught. He tried to tear his gaze away but couldn’t.

Her breasts were small but full, firm with darker areolas than he’d imagined—nipples slightly pebbled from the cool morning air. Her belly was flat but soft, with a faint silver line running vertically from her navel, which was a neat oval, not too deep. Her blonde hair wasn’t natural, he deduced, from her pubic hair which was a dark brunette, wild and unapologetic.

She had the kind of body that didn’t try to be perfect—it just was. And it was the small imperfections that made it so. Her thighs were strong, the tops faintly paler than the rest of her sun-bronzed skin. A small bruise darkened the inside of one knee. There was a faded scar on her side just under her ribs.

When his eyes finally dragged themselves up to hers, he found her gaze calm and steady. There was no teasing, no provocation. She was just there, as she was.

Ethan’s mouth opened slightly, as if to respond, then closed again.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, apparently completely at ease. “Are you ashamed of my body?”

“No! I mean—No.”

“So should I be ashamed of it?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Great.” She pointed to the bench seat at the edge of the deck. “You sit over there.”

The late morning sun filtered through the trees, dappling the deck in shifting patches of gold. Zoe had set up the easel near the railing where the light was best, her sketchpad angled just so.

She’d pulled a chair into the centre of the space for Sam, who now sat on it—one leg down, the other bent with her foot up on the seat, legs spread, leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Do you think we could try another pose?” Zoe asked, carefully.

“What?” Sam said, glancing down between her legs. “You no good at drawing front bums?”

“It’s art, not a biology lesson,” Zoe said, flicking a pencil at her. “Put your foo-foo away so I can get on with it.”

Ethan sat off to the side, elbows on his knees, staring very intently at the railing just past Sam’s left shoulder.

“You know you’re allowed to look, right?” Sam said, eyes twinkling. “That’s sort of the point.”

Ethan gave a tight smile. “I’m trying to be respectful.”

“Mm.” Sam grinned. “If you respected me then you wouldn’t be embarrassed to look at me.”

Ethan didn’t quite know what to say to that.

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Ethan

They were in the lounge, warm and full from a beef Wellington Ethan had made — one of his specialties. He had a glass of whisky; the girls had stuck with wine. He felt like a cigar, which was odd. He’d never smoked a cigar in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.

The easel with Zoe’s drawing of Sam was in the corner.

“It’s brilliant,” Sam said. “I feel honoured to have been drawn by you.”

“Says the woman who won the Golden Lion at the Venice Biennale,” Zoe said, gesturing at the bicycle chain cock-and-balls, which had been moved to pride of place on the coffee table.

Sam pretended to blush.

Zoe turned to Ethan. “And she’s been commissioned to make a piece for the British Royal Family,” she said, quite proudly.

“It’s so funny,” Sam said. “Years of starving in a garret for my art, pouring my heart and soul into it… then one day I pick up a bit of rusty old bicycle chain and boom — lightning strikes.”

“Not exactly starving in garrets,” Zoe laughed.

Sam shrugged. “No, you’re right. More like fucking rich art patrons so I could stay in their fuck pads.”

“Sam!” Zoe exclaimed.

Sam shrugged again. “You know me. No filter. And actually, that bit about the art patrons isn’t really true … well, maybe just a little.”

“So, how is the love life?” Zoe asked. “Still seeing that puppeteer, or whatever he was?”

“Marionettist,” Sam corrected her. “You know — strings, not a hand up its arse. But it was okay, because I let him put his hand up my arse.”

When the others laughed awkwardly, Sam grinned. “Just wanted to see the look on Ethan’s face. And no—long gone. There’ve been a few guys, a few girls since then, but nobody serious. I guess I never got over the love of my life.”

“Who was that?” Ethan asked without thinking—then clamped his mouth shut as the words escaped.

The room went still.

“Sorry. No filter,” Sam said more softly. Her eyes held his for a moment. “But don’t worry, Ethan — I’m not here to take her away from you.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Zoe said, a little too quickly, sliding her hand over Ethan’s.

Sam cleared her throat, took a sip of wine. She looked embarrassed. That was a first.

“So anyway — Love life is shit, to be honest. I’ve been single for a month. And I haven’t had sex in… God, three whole weeks. I swear my clit’s going to wither away like a dried-up rosebud.”

“Aren’t you on Tinder?” Zoe asked.

“Tinder!” Sam threw up her hands. “Do you know what kind of weirdos crawl out of that algorithm? It’s an arcade claw machine full of gym selfies and dick pics.”

Zoe raised her eyebrows. Ethan cleared his throat into his glass.

Sam tilted her head. “Honestly, I envy you two.”

Ethan glanced at Zoe. She didn’t look at him, just swirled her wine, her expression unreadable.

“Married,” Sam went on, almost idly. “Safe. Able to bonk whenever you feel like it without swiping through a thousand guys named Brayden who say ‘loyalty is everything’ while they’re already swiping right on someone else.” She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “It must be so nice. No pressure. No pretending. Just… sex on demand.”

Zoe was staring into her wine as if it might contain answers.

“Yeah,” she said, a touch too quickly. “It’s… wonderful.”

“It’s wonderful,” Ethan echoed.

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Zoe could feel it building — the heat, the pulse, the rush — until it broke in a long, drawn-out cry and a fierce shudder, her thighs trembling around Sam’s face.

Sam stayed there, drawing out the aftershocks with softer, lingering strokes before finally looking up, lips glistening. She rose slowly, and Zoe pulled her into a deep kiss, tasting herself there, pressing close until their bodies were flush once more.

They were still standing, breathless, bodies flushed in the candlelight. Zoe could feel her heartbeat in every part of her, the taste of her pleasure still on Sam’s lips.

She took Sam’s hand, guiding her backward until the backs of her knees touched the bed. A gentle push sent her tumbling onto the spread, hair spilling over the pillow. Zoe stepped between her legs and eased them open, admiring the deep black lace framing soft, wanting flesh. She bent to kiss the inside of Sam’s thigh, then straightened and turned her head toward the armchair.

Ethan was still watching like he’d forgotten to breathe.

Zoe’s voice was low but clear. “Get over here, Ethan.”

The words hung in the air for a beat, equal parts invitation and command. She saw the way his eyes darkened, the way he stood almost without thinking, crossing the space toward them.

Sam’s lips curved into a small, hungry smile as Zoe stepped aside, letting him come forward, her hands still resting on Sam’s thighs as if presenting her.

Ethan dropped to his knees between Sam’s parted thighs, his hands sliding up the the warm, bare skin. He glanced up at Zoe, almost as if seeking permission, and she gave him the faintest nod.

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