Eli sat on the edge of the bed, fingers entwined, heart pulsing with anticipation and nerves. The room glowed in warm amber light, its velvet curtains drawn closed, cocooning them from the world outside. Every part of the evening had been planned—by her.
Mara stood by the mirror, lips painted deep red, eyes glinting with mischief and care. She had asked him if he was ready weeks ago, and again last night, and again just before she stepped into the shower. Each time, Eli had nodded—not out of obedience, but trust.
He loved her. He trusted her.
Now, she walked slowly toward him in heels and silk. She touched his cheek, then kissed him—soft, slow, meaningful.
“You’re still sure?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes. I want this because you want this.”
A knock echoed gently at the door. Mara smiled, not at the door, but at Eli. “Stay right here.”
Eli’s breath caught as she opened it.
The man was taller, confident, warm-toned skin under a fitted button-down. Mara kissed him like she meant it, and for a moment Eli felt a pang—not of jealousy, but awe. Watching her so fully in her own power was like witnessing a goddess. And he was the one she’d come back to.
As the night unfolded, Eli remained on the bed, clothed, watching. His chest swelled with emotion—desire, tension, reverence. Mara would occasionally glance back at him, eyes locking, silently saying, You’re still mine.
And when it was over—when the guest left with a knowing nod and the soft click of the door—Mara returned to him. She straddled his lap, kissed his lips, and whispered:
“Now I want you.”
It wasn’t about what she did with another man. It was about how she made him feel afterward—like the center of her world.