The club was tucked underground—no signs, just a crimson door and the distant hum of a saxophone. Elena and Marc had found it by accident, following music through the rain-soaked streets of Paris. Inside, it was all velvet, shadows, and slow seduction.
And behind the mic stood Ava.
She sang like sin—low, smoky, and unhurried. Her voice wrapped around every lyric, her gaze resting now and then on Elena, then on Marc. She didn’t just perform. She devoured the room.
After her set, they found her at the bar.
“You two,” she said, sipping absinthe, “look like you came in hungry.”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “What do you think we’re craving?”
Ava just smiled. “Something a little off-menu.”
They took her back to their hotel.
The rain still fell against the tall windows, blurring the city lights, as Ava stepped out of her black dress with the same elegance she sang with—slow, graceful, irresistible.
Elena pressed Ava to the window, kissing her with a hunger she hadn’t felt in years. Marc stood behind, watching his wife and the woman who had bewitched them both. When Elena pulled Ava toward the bed, Marc followed, undressing with shaking hands.
Ava lay back, legs open, as Elena kissed down her stomach and Marc stroked himself at the sight. Then Elena made her moan—loud and low—her tongue exploring while Marc took Elena from behind, both of them watching Ava unravel.
They took turns. Marc between Ava’s thighs, Ava riding Elena’s face, the three of them tangled in rhythm and breath. Moans and jazz filled the room, the city below forgotten. The sheets were ruined. The night went on.
When it was over, Ava slipped Marc’s shirt over her bare skin and lit a cigarette by the window.
“No encore needed,” she said with a grin, glancing back at them.
“But next time,” Elena replied, voice hoarse and smiling, “we’ll tip extra for the private performance.”
