We Belong Together

Gianna's hooked. Can't walk away. That first fuck after too many martinis should have ended there. Now she lives for it—bending Chanel over the desk before deadlines, dragging her into hotel bathrooms during lunch, taking her apart at the apartment until they both collapse. Then Chanel starts flinching at every ring of her phone. "My husband. It's too risky." She ghosts. Deletes messages. Pretends nothing ever happened. Until Gianna shows up at the door. Nothing but a trench coat, red lingerie underneath, and a hard drive that can ruin everything. She steps inside, locks the door, and the coat hits the floor. "You walk away? Fine. Then your husband finds out." Gianna's voice is low, hard. She crowds Chanel against the wall, fingers already yanking the belt off Chanel's robe. "These videos don't stay quiet unless you let me stay." She pushes. Hard. Chanel stumbles backward, protests turning into moans the second Gianna's mouth finds her throat. The coat's gone. Lingerie straps dig into skin. Gianna walks her up the stairs like she owns the place, one hand clamped around Chanel's wrist, the other already between her legs. They hit the bedroom and Gianna throws her down on the marital bed, crawls over her, tears the lace away. "You miss this," Gianna growls, spitting into her palm before sliding two fingers deep. Chanel arches, biting her lip bloody to keep from crying out. Downstairs the husband laughs at something on TV. Gianna grins, twists her wrist, fucks harder. Chanel shatters first, thighs shaking, eyes rolling back, but Gianna doesn't stop. She flips her over, yanks her hips up, eats her like she's starving—tongue, teeth, fingers, relentless. Chanel comes again. Louder. Clawing at the sheets. Gianna's palm presses over her mouth and the moans turn guttural, wet. Gianna flips again, straddles her face, grinds down until Chanel's tongue finds her clit and sucks like punishment. They trade orgasms back and forth until the sheets are soaked and both of them are shaking. When it's over Gianna doesn't leave. She crawls back between Chanel's legs, slower now, kissing every mark she left behind. "This isn't ending," she whispers. "You know that, right?" Downstairs the husband pours another drink. Upstairs the affair starts all over again.