Daddies Girls Resort

Clair has booked her father and herself into a very special resort

The sticker on Jim's suitcase was peeling at the edges—a faded cartoon sun wearing sunglasses, the last remnant of a family beach trip Claire barely remembered. She watched her father's broad shoulders tense as he hauled their luggage out of the cab, his wedding ring glinting under the resort's palm-frond awning. He’d kept it on. That was good. Claire had worried he might take it off for the trip.

Behind the reception desk, a woman with a clipboard smiled too brightly. "Mr. Olson? We’ve been expecting you." Her gaze flicked to Claire, lingering just a second too long on the way her sundress clung to her hips. Claire bit her lip to keep from grinning. They knew. Of course they knew. That’s why the woman’s coral-painted nails tapped twice on the reservation sheet before sliding two keycards across the counter—one white, one red.

The white keycard went to Jim. "Sir, our staff will escort you to the Hibiscus Spa for your complimentary welcome treatment," the receptionist purred, her fingers brushing his palm with deliberate slowness. Claire watched her father's Adam's apple bob—he'd always been too polite to question anything—before he shot her a hesitant look. "Go on, Daddy," she chirped, bouncing on her toes. "I'll unpack for us!"

The moment Jim disappeared behind frosted glass doors with a male attendant, the receptionist's demeanor shifted. She snapped her fingers, and suddenly Claire was flanked by two women in crisp linen uniforms. "Red card means no luggage checks, sweetheart," one whispered, winking as she plucked Claire's duffel from her shoulder. The other draped a chilled towel around Claire's neck, its scent—something tropical and impossibly warm—making her thighs press together. "Standard procedure," the first woman murmured. "We’ll have your things waiting in the bungalow. Along with... amenities."

The path to Bungalow 12 wound through a jungle so lush it felt like being swallowed whole. Every few steps, Claire caught glimpses of other couples—older men with younger girls, all with the same dazed, hungry look. One girl, no older than Claire herself, was feeding strawberries to a silver-haired man while his hand disappeared beneath her ruffled skirt. Claire's breath hitched. She'd read the forums, studied the brochures, but seeing it—smelling it, the salt-and-coconut oil tang of sex thick in the air—was different.

Her bungalow was all dark teak and billowing white curtains, the bed an absurd expanse of silk sheets with a single red teddy laid atop them. The garment was even filthier than she'd imagined—lace so sheer it might as well be smoke, cut high on the hips with satin ribbons meant for untying. Claire traced a finger over the neckline, already imagining how the dip between her breasts would look through the fabric. A knock interrupted her. The attendants had returned, one carrying a tray with two frosted glasses and a pitcher of something that swirled pink and gold. "His aphrodisiac's mixed with the massage oil," the woman said, setting the tray beside a lamp shaped like a woman's torso. "He'll be... suggestible. But you'll need to guide him."

The knock came just as Claire was tying the final satin ribbon behind her neck—three sharp raps that made the bungalow’s bamboo door rattle. She froze, the teddy clinging to her like a second skin, suddenly aware of how the lace nipped at her bare nipples, how the ribbons at her hips would unravel with one tug. Through the frosted glass, she could see the broad silhouette of her father, his shoulders slightly slumped, his head tilted as if listening for movement inside.

"Claire?" Jim's voice was thick, slower than usual—the aphrodisiac, no doubt. She could practically hear the drug humming through his veins, feel the heat of it radiating through the door. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she padded across the teak floor, her bare feet soundless against the wood. One deep breath, then she swung the door open.

Jim blinked at her, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted. His polo shirt clung to his chest with sweat, the fabric darkened in patches where the massage oil hadn’t quite dried. His gaze dragged down her body—slow, deliberate—and Claire watched the exact moment his breath caught. "Jesus," he choked out, one hand flying to the doorframe to steady himself. "What—what are you wearing?"

Claire stepped back, letting the humid island air fill the space between them. "You like it?" She twirled, the teddy flaring just enough to give him a glimpse of bare ass before the lace settled back against her skin. She’d practiced this move in her bedroom mirror for weeks, the way her hips would sway, how her hair would catch the lamplight. But no rehearsal could’ve prepared her for the way Jim’s knuckles whitened around the doorframe, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

Jim's fingers twitched at his sides, his wedding ring catching the low light as if winking at her. Claire could see the pulse jumping in his throat—fast, erratic, like a moth battering against glass. The aphrodisiac was doing its work; his pupils were so wide they swallowed the blue of his irises, leaving only a thin ring of color. She reached for him, her fingers brushing the damp fabric over his chest, and felt the shudder that rolled through him. "Daddy," she murmured, leaning in until her breath warmed his jaw. "You're shaking."

He made a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a protest—and when Claire pressed closer, the heat of him seared through the lace. His hands hovered over her hips, trembling, close enough that she could feel the static prickle of his touch without him actually making contact. "We can't," he managed, but his voice was rough, ruined, the words crumbling as his gaze snagged on the ribbon between her breasts. Claire smiled. She'd chosen red for a reason.

One tug. That was all it took. The ribbon slithered loose, the teddy gaping open to expose the swell of her breasts, the peaked nipples she'd rubbed to stiffness before he arrived. Jim's breath left him in a rush. His hands finally landed on her—big, calloused palms skimming up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her tits with a reverence that made her toes curl. "Fuck," he whispered, and the curse, so rare from him, sent a bolt of heat straight to Claire's core.

She didn't give him time to think. Rising onto her toes, she caught his mouth with hers, swallowing his startled gasp. His lips were chapped from the sun, tasting of salt and the herbal tang of whatever they'd rubbed into his skin. Claire licked into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, and when he groaned—deep, helpless—she felt the hard line of his cock press against her stomach. "Claire," he panted against her lips, but his hips jerked forward anyway, grinding against her in a way that was anything but paternal.

Jim’s hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging into the lace as if he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer. Claire solved that problem for him. She dropped to her knees right there in the doorway, the teak floor warm against her bare skin, and reached for his belt with practiced fingers. The leather hissed as she yanked it free, the buckle clattering against the doorframe. Jim’s breath hitched—sharp, audible—when her nails grazed the fly of his khakis. "Wait," he choked out, but his hips jerked forward anyway, betraying him.

The first touch of her fingers against his cock drew a ragged groan from him. He was already hard, thick with want, his skin fever-hot against her palm. Claire didn’t tease. She leaned in, her lips parting, and swallowed him whole in one smooth motion. The taste of him—salt and the faint bitterness of the massage oil—flooded her mouth. Above her, Jim made a sound like he’d been punched, his hands flying to her hair, tangling in the strands. "Christ, Claire—" His voice shattered as she hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, her tongue tracing the vein along his length.

She’d imagined this moment a thousand times—the weight of him on her tongue, the way his thighs trembled when she flicked her gaze up at him through her lashes. But reality was better. The way his fingers tightened in her hair, not guiding, just holding on, as if she were the only solid thing in the world. The stifled curses he bit back when she took him deeper, her throat working around him. The hitch in his breath when she pulled off just to lick a slow stripe from base to tip, her fingers working his shaft in time with her mouth.

Jim’s hips stuttered forward, his cock brushing the back of her throat. Claire gagged, tears pricking at her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she moaned around him, the vibration wringing a broken noise from his chest. "Fuck, baby, I’m—" His warning was raw, desperate, his whole body tensing. Claire didn’t let up. She sucked harder, her fingers digging into his thighs, and that was all it took. Jim came with a groan that sounded almost pained, his release flooding her mouth, hot and bitter. She swallowed every drop, her tongue lapping at him until he shuddered, oversensitive.

Jim's knees buckled. He caught himself on the doorframe, his breath coming in ragged gasps as Claire slowly released him with a wet pop. His fingers trembled where they still clutched her hair—not pulling, just anchored, like he'd float away otherwise. Claire licked her lips deliberately, tasting him again, and watched his blown pupils dilate further.

"Jesus," he rasped, his voice wrecked. His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip, smearing a bead of moisture she'd missed. The touch lingered, his calloused pad catching on the delicate skin. Claire turned her head just enough to suck the tip of his thumb into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it. Jim made a noise like a wounded animal.

The lamp's glow cast long shadows across the rumpled sheets as Claire rose, her knees protesting the teak floor's unforgiving hardness. She guided Jim backward with small steps, their mouths never parting, until his calves hit the edge of the bed. He sat heavily, the bamboo frame creaking under his weight. Claire climbed into his lap, straddling him, the lace teddy riding up to bare her thighs against his still-clothed ones.

Jim's hands hovered over her hips again—that maddening hesitation—until Claire took them and placed them firmly on her ass. "Touch me," she breathed against his mouth. "Properly." His fingers flexed, sinking into her flesh through the lace, and the groan it pulled from him vibrated against her tongue.

Jim's fingers dug into the lace, the material straining under his grip as Claire rolled her hips against him. The friction was maddening—just enough to make him groan into her mouth, not enough to give either of them relief. She could feel the damp heat of him through his khakis, the way his cock twitched against her even after coming down her throat. "Still so hard," she murmured, nipping at his lower lip. "Didn't know Daddy could go again so fast."

His breath hitched at the name, his hips jerking up involuntarily. Claire rocked against him, slow and deliberate, the lace catching on his zipper. Jim's hands slid up her back, fingers tracing the knobs of her spine until they found the remaining ribbons of her teddy. "This thing," he growled, his voice rough with want, "is a fucking crime." With one sharp tug, the ribbons gave way, the lace peeling open like gift wrap.

Claire gasped as the night air hit her bare skin, her nipples pebbling instantly. Jim didn't hesitate this time. His mouth was on her throat, his teeth scraping the tender skin below her ear as his hands cupped her breasts. "So perfect," he muttered against her collarbone, his thumbs brushing her nipples in slow circles. Claire arched into his touch, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him closer. The aphrodisiac had stripped away his inhibitions, but the hunger in his touch was all his own.

She reached between them, popping the button of his khakis with practiced ease. The zipper hissed down, and Jim's cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her palm. He was already half-hard again, precome beading at the tip. Claire stroked him slowly, her thumb smearing the moisture in tight circles around the head. Jim's groan was ragged, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as his hips jerked into her fist.

Jim’s breath was a ragged, humid thing against Claire’s throat as she stroked him back to full hardness, his cock pulsing in her grip like a second heartbeat. She could feel the tension coiling in his thighs beneath her, the way his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips—not pushing her away, but anchoring himself, as if he might dissolve into the humid night air otherwise. "Claire," he gasped, the word breaking apart as she tightened her grip, her thumb swiping over the slick head of him. "We—fuck—we shouldn’t—"

She silenced him with a kiss, her tongue sliding against his, stealing the protest from his lips. His hands trembled where they gripped her, the wedding band cool against her overheated skin. Claire rocked forward, aligning herself over him, the blunt head of his cock catching at her entrance. She was already wet, had been since the moment she’d seen him through the frosted glass of the bungalow door. Jim groaned into her mouth, his hips jerking up instinctively, but Claire held herself just out of reach, teasing them both. "Say you want me," she whispered against his lips, her voice low, rough with need. "Say it, Daddy."

His fingers flexed on her hips, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. For a heartbeat, she thought he might refuse—might summon some last shred of restraint—but then his grip tightened, and he dragged her down onto him in one fluid motion. Claire cried out as he filled her, the stretch burning in the best way, her body clenching around him instantly. Jim’s groan was guttural, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he shuddered beneath her. "Christ," he rasped, his voice wrecked. "You feel—god, Claire—"

She didn’t let him finish. Rolling her hips, she took him deeper, her nails scraping down his chest as she found a rhythm that had them both gasping. The sound of skin against skin, the wet slap of their bodies moving together, was obscene in the quiet of the bungalow. Claire braced her hands on his shoulders, riding him with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips, each movement dragging a broken sound from Jim’s throat. His hands slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her down for a searing kiss. His tongue was hot and insistent, his teeth catching her lower lip in a way that sent sparks skittering down her spine.

Jim's hands slid down to grip Claire's waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft dip just above her hips as he lifted her slightly—just enough to drive himself deeper with a sharp upward thrust that punched a gasp from her lungs. The bedframe creaked in protest, bamboo groaning under their combined weight as Claire arched into him, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick shoulders. "God, Daddy," she whimpered, the honorific slipping out unbidden, and Jim's response was immediate—a growl low in his throat as he flipped her onto her back in one fluid motion, pinning her wrists to the mattress above her head.

The sudden shift left Claire breathless, her legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as Jim loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. The aphrodisiac had burned away the last of his hesitation; his pupils were blown black with want, his lips parted around ragged breaths. "You've been planning this," he accused, his voice rough as he ground into her, the friction wringing a moan from them both. "That fucking resort name—the keycards—" His hips stuttered as Claire tightened around him, her ankles locking at the small of his back. "Christ, Claire, you little schemer."

She grinned up at him, exhilarated by the way his control unraveled with every roll of his hips. "Worked, didn't it?" she taunted, lifting her chin to nip at his stubbled jaw. Jim's grip on her wrists tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her pulse jump—as he surged into her again, his rhythm turning frantic. The headboard thumped against the wall in time with their coupling, the sound muffled by the thick jungle air.

Claire's thighs trembled as the coil in her belly tightened, pleasure building with each snap of Jim's hips. She could feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed to hers, the scrape of his wedding band against her inner wrist, the way his breath hitched every time she clenched around him. "Close," she gasped, her toes curling against his back. Jim groaned, his forehead dropping to hers as his pace turned erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm. "Me too, baby—fuck—"

Jim’s release hit him like a collapsing dam—his whole body tensed, a ragged shout torn from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. Claire felt the hot spill of him, the pulsing throb of his cock as it emptied, and that was all it took to tip her over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her in waves, her back arching off the mattress as she clamped around him, her vision whiting out at the edges.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their mingled panting breaths and the distant hum of jungle insects outside. Jim’s forehead remained pressed to hers, his fingers still tight around her wrists, though his grip had softened. When he finally lifted his head, his face was flushed, his blue eyes almost black with lingering arousal. He looked wrecked—hair mussed from her fingers, lips swollen from her kisses—and Claire felt a surge of possessive pride. *She* had done this to him.

Slowly, Jim released her wrists, his hands trailing down her arms in a caress that left goosebumps in its wake. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone. "Christ," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "What the hell have we done?"

Claire smiled, stretching beneath him like a satisfied cat. "Something amazing," she murmured, tracing the line of his collarbone with her fingertips. She could feel him still inside her, softening but reluctant to pull away. "And we’re not done yet."

Jim’s laugh was a rough, disbelieving thing, warm against her temple as he rolled onto his back, taking her with him. Claire sprawled across his chest, her ear pressed to the frantic thud of his heartbeat. The scent of sex clung to them—sweat and salt and the herbal tang of the massage oil still on his skin. His fingers traced idle circles on her bare shoulder, but she could feel the tension humming beneath his touch, the way his muscles twitched when she shifted against him.

"Your mother," he started, then stopped, his throat working around the words. Claire lifted her head just enough to see the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of guilt that darkened his gaze before he blinked it away. She pressed a finger to his lips before he could say more.

"She hasn’t touched you in years," Claire murmured, dragging her nail lightly down his stubbled chin. The truth of it hung between them—the way his side of the bed had stayed cold long before this trip, the late nights he’d spent in his study with a bottle of bourbon instead of his wife’s bed. Jim’s exhale was sharp, his grip tightening on her hip as if she’d struck a nerve.

A knock at the bungalow door startled them both. Claire barely had time to grab the discarded teddy before a female voice called through the bamboo, "Complimentary champagne, Mr. Olson!" Jim stiffened beneath her, his hands flying to her waist as if to shield her. Claire just grinned, pressing a kiss to his sternum before sliding off the bed.

Claire padded barefoot to the door, the ruined teddy barely clinging to her curves. She cracked it open just enough to glimpse the attendant—same coral nails, same knowing smirk—holding a silver tray with two flutes and an iced bottle. "Complimentary for first-timers," the woman purred, her gaze flicking past Claire to where Jim sat frozen on the bed, sheets pooled around his waist. "Though judging by the sounds earlier, congratulations might be more appropriate."

Heat prickled up Claire's neck as she took the tray, but she held the woman's gaze. "Thanks," she said, louder than necessary, letting the door swing wider. Let her look. Let her see Jim's flushed skin, the bite marks on his shoulders, the way his hands fisted in the tangled sheets. The attendant's smirk widened before she melted back into the jungle shadows.

Jim was staring at the champagne like it might detonate. "They know," he hissed as Claire set the tray on the bedside table. The condensation on the bottle mirrored the sheen on his chest. Claire popped the cork with practiced ease, the sound making him flinch.

"Of course they know." She poured, watching bubbles spiral to the rim. "That's the point of Daddies Girls." Pressing a flute into his hand, she climbed back into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips. The lace teddy gaped open, her bare skin flush against his abdomen. "Drink, Daddy." She clinked her glass against his, the crystal ringing clear in the humid air.

The champagne bubbles burst against Jim’s tongue—too sweet, too cold, a shock after the salt-heat of Claire’s skin. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, the delicate flutter of her pulse beneath the damp tendrils of hair. His fingers twitched around the flute, the glass slippery with condensation. "Claire," he started, then faltered, his voice sandpaper-rough. The words tangled in his throat—*This is wrong, we can’t, what happens when we go home*—but the way her bare thighs flexed against his hips stole his breath.

Claire set her glass aside with a decisive clink. The remaining champagne sloshed, pale gold in the lamplight. She took his flute from him too, her fingers lingering on his, and leaned in until her lips brushed his ear. "Stop thinking," she whispered, her breath hot. Her teeth grazed his earlobe, and Jim shuddered, his hands finding her waist again as if pulled by invisible strings. "Just feel."

The bungalow’s bamboo walls creaked as a gust of wind rattled through the jungle outside. Somewhere beyond the gauzy curtains, a gecko chirped, its call sharp against the low hum of insects. Claire’s hands slid up his chest, her nails scraping lightly through the coarse hair. Jim’s breath hitched—she’d always known how to touch him, even when she was just a kid sneaking into his lap during thunderstorms. But now her touch burned, deliberate and knowing, tracing the lines of his body like she’d mapped him in her dreams.

Jim’s grip tightened on her hips as she rocked against him, the friction drawing a groan from his chest. He was hard again, achingly so, the champagne doing nothing to dull the aphrodisiac’s fire in his blood. Claire’s smile was slow, satisfied, as she felt him twitch against her. "Told you we weren’t done," she murmured, her lips trailing down his neck. Her tongue flicked over the pulse point at his throat, and Jim’s head thudded back against the headboard.

Jim's fingers dug into Claire's hips hard enough to bruise as she rolled her pelvis against him, the slick heat between her thighs dragging along his length. The champagne flute toppled to the floor, forgotten, its contents soaking into the teakwood. "You're fucking insatiable," he growled, but the way his hips jerked up betrayed him. Claire laughed—a low, throaty sound that vibrated against his collarbone where she mouthed at his skin.

She reached between them, guiding him to her entrance with a practiced ease that made his breath catch. This time, she took him slowly, inch by inch, her body stretching to accommodate him with a soft, shuddering sigh. Jim's thumbs pressed into the dimples at the base of her spine, his control fraying as she sank down until their hips met. "Christ," he rasped, his forehead dropping to hers. "You feel—"

Claire cut him off with a kiss, her tongue sliding against his as she began to move. The pace was languid, deliberate—each roll of her hips drawing him deeper, each withdrawal leaving him gasping. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin as she set a rhythm that had them both panting. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady, hollow thump, but neither cared.

Jim's hands slid up her back, tracing the knobs of her spine before tangling in her sweat-damp hair. He tugged gently, tilting her head back to expose the long line of her throat. His mouth was hot and desperate against her skin, teeth scraping over her pulse point before soothing the sting with his tongue. Claire moaned, her hips stuttering, and Jim seized the opportunity to flip her onto her back in one fluid motion.

Jim pinned Claire beneath him, his breath ragged against her throat as he drove into her with a desperation that made her toes curl. The sheets were damp beneath her back, the humid air clinging to their sweat-slicked skin. Claire arched into him, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as his thrusts grew uneven, his control unraveling with each snap of his hips. "Look at me," he gritted out, his voice raw—and when she met his gaze, the raw hunger in his eyes stole her breath.

Claire's climax hit like a tidal wave, her back bowing off the mattress as she clenched around him with a choked cry. Jim followed with a groan that sounded ripped from his chest, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he spilled inside her, his whole body shuddering with the force of it. For a long moment, the only sound was their mingled panting breaths and the distant cry of a night bird beyond the bungalow's walls.

Jim rolled onto his side, taking Claire with him, his arms banded around her waist as if he feared she might vanish. His fingers traced idle patterns on her hip, his wedding ring cool against her overheated skin. "Claire," he started, then stopped, his throat working around unspoken words.

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't." Her voice was soft but firm. "Not tonight." The resort's rules were clear—no guilt, no regrets, just pleasure. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw tensed, but when she shifted against him, his grip tightened instinctively.

The morning sun bled through the bungalow’s gauzy curtains, painting stripes of gold across the rumpled sheets. Claire blinked awake to the unfamiliar weight of Jim’s arm draped over her waist, his calloused palm resting just below her bare breast. His breathing was deep and even against the back of her neck, the rhythm of it syncing with the gentle rise and fall of her own chest.

She shifted slightly, wincing at the pleasant ache between her thighs—evidence of how thoroughly they’d explored each other last night. The champagne bottle stood empty on the nightstand, its silhouette elongated by the dawn light. Claire traced a finger along Jim’s forearm, marveling at the dusting of blond hair bleached even lighter by the sun. He stirred behind her, his grip tightening reflexively before he froze.

“Morning,” Claire murmured, rolling onto her back to face him. Jim’s eyes were wary, the blue of them clouded with something heavier than sleep. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, his gaze darting from her tousled hair to the love bites purpling her collarbone. The sheet had slipped low on his hips, revealing the scratches she’d left down his abdomen.

Jim cleared his throat. “Claire, we need to—”

The resort's breakfast gong sounded in the distance—three deep, resonant tones that sent macaws screeching from the palm trees outside. Jim flinched at the noise, his fingers twitching against Claire’s hip before he pulled his hand away like he’d been burned. She caught his wrist before he could retreat fully, her thumb pressing into his pulse point. It hammered against her touch. "Hungry?" she asked, deliberately misunderstanding the tension in his jaw.

Jim opened his mouth—to protest, to rationalize—but Claire slithered out of bed before he could speak, stretching shamelessly in the shaft of sunlight. The lace teddy lay in ruins on the floor, but she didn’t bother covering the marks he’d left on her. Let him look. Let him remember.

The ensuite shower was all slate tile and glass, the water pressure strong enough to make her gasp. Claire stepped under the spray, tilting her face up as the heat sluiced down her body. She didn’t turn when she heard the bathroom door creak open, didn’t react to the sudden hitch in Jim’s breathing. The shower door clicked a moment later, and then his hands were on her waist, his chest pressed to her back. His cock nudged against her ass, already half-hard.

"So we’re doing this," he muttered into her wet hair. Not a question. A surrender. Claire smiled against the water, reaching back to grip his thigh. His skin was slick under her fingers, the muscles taut.

The water sluiced between their bodies as Jim pressed Claire against the shower tiles, his hands roaming her slick skin with a hunger that surprised even him. Steam curled around them, thick with the scent of coconut shampoo and something darker, muskier. Claire arched into his touch, her backside rubbing against his erection with deliberate friction. "Thought you were done with me," she teased, glancing over her shoulder through the veil of wet hair.

Jim growled, his teeth grazing her shoulder as his fingers dipped between her thighs from behind. She was still swollen from last night, sensitive in a way that made her gasp when his thumb circled her clit. "Never," he muttered, his voice rough against her skin. The water beat down on them, masking the shaky exhale that escaped him when Claire reached back to grip his shaft, her fingers tightening in a way that made his knees weak.

She guided him into her with a slow, torturous slide, her body welcoming him despite the soreness. Jim groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder blade as he bottomed out, the heat of her almost too much to bear. Claire rocked back against him, her hands braced on the tile as he set a pace that was equal parts punishment and worship—hard enough to make her whimper, slow enough to make her beg.

The shower stall fogged with steam, the glass walls streaked with condensation as their bodies moved together. Claire's moans bounced off the tiles, mingling with the slap of wet skin and the hiss of the spray. Jim's hands gripped her hips, his fingers leaving crescent-shaped indents in her flesh as he drove into her with a desperation that bordered on violence. "Mine," he snarled against her neck, the word more animal than human.

The water turned cold long before they stumbled out of the shower, skin pruned and steaming. Claire reached for a towel first, wrapping it around herself with deliberate slowness, watching Jim's gaze track the droplets sliding down her thighs. He toweled off roughly, his movements jerky with residual tension, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he scrubbed at his hair.

A crisp white envelope lay on the teakwood dresser, embossed with the DG's logo. Claire slit it open with a fingernail, scanning the contents with a smirk. "Private beach dinner tonight," she announced, holding up two keycards. "Sunset seating. Adults only."

Jim's towel paused mid-swipe across his chest. "Claire—"

She pressed a finger to his lips, her damp skin cool against his morning stubble. "No thinking today," she murmured, stepping into his space until the terrycloth rasped between them. "Just feeling." His resolve visibly crumbled when she rose onto her toes to lick a stray droplet from his collarbone.

The envelope also contained two silk blindfolds—one black, one crimson—and Claire’s pulse jumped when she saw them. She held them up between her fingers, letting the fabric flutter like captured moths. Jim’s breath caught audibly.

"Thought you didn’t want to think today," he muttered, but his hand closed around the black one, his knuckles whitening. Claire grinned, stepping back to let the towel pool at her feet. His gaze tracked the movement like a starving man watching a feast being unveiled.

The resort provided lunch in their bungalow—fresh mango, seared tuna, a sweating pitcher of sangria—but neither of them ate much. Claire fed Jim a slice of fruit, her fingers lingering on his lips, and when he sucked the juice from her fingertips, the plate was forgotten. The bed was still unmade from the night before, the sheets stiff with dried champagne and sweat. Jim pressed her into them with a groan, his mouth hot on her throat, his hips slotting between her thighs like they’d been designed to fit there.

Afterward, Claire dozed with her cheek pressed to Jim’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder, but she could feel the tension creeping back into his body. The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, painting tiger stripes across their tangled legs.

The private beach was a crescent of white sand framed by torches flickering in the dusk. Claire adjusted the crimson blindfold, the silk cool against her heated skin as Jim led her by the hand, his grip alternating between too tight and barely there. The surf hissed against the shore, drowning out his uneven breaths.

"Steps," he warned, his voice rough. His palm pressed flat against the small of her back as they descended wooden stairs—three, five—until sand gave way to a plush rug. The scent of grilled lobster and saffron rice mingled with the salt air. Claire’s stomach growled, but not for food.

A server’s footsteps receded, leaving them in silence. Jim exhaled sharply when Claire reached across the table, her fingers finding his wrist first, then tracing up to the black silk tied around his eyes. "You look good like this," she murmured, her thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw. "All tied up for me."

Jim’s fork clattered onto his plate. His hand shot out, catching hers mid-taunt. "You’re playing with fire," he growled, but the tremor in his grip betrayed him.

Jim's fingers tightened around Claire's wrist—not enough to hurt, but enough to make her pulse jump under his thumb. The blindfold hid his eyes, but she could picture the way they'd darkened, the pupils swallowing the blue. The server had left their lobster tails untouched, the butter congealing in its dish. Claire leaned forward, her knee brushing his beneath the table. "And if I like playing with fire?" she murmured, twisting her wrist just enough to feel his grip tighten in response.

A gust of wind off the ocean sent the torches guttering, casting erratic shadows across the linen tablecloth. Jim's free hand fumbled for his water glass, knocking it over in his haste. Ice cubes skittered across the table like fleeing diamonds. "Fuck," he muttered, releasing her to mop at the spill with his napkin. The blindfold slipped askew, revealing one bloodshot eye. Claire reached out and adjusted it slowly, her fingers lingering on the knot at the back of his head.

She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden platform. Jim's head snapped up, tracking her movement by sound alone as she circled the table. The resort had positioned them well—no other diners in sight, just the endless roll of waves and the occasional cry of a night heron. Claire positioned herself behind Jim's chair, her hands sliding over his shoulders. She felt the shudder that ran through him when her thumbs dug into the knotted muscles at the base of his neck.

"Dessert," she announced, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. Jim's breath hitched as her hands drifted lower, slipping beneath the collar of his linen shirt. The top button gave way with a quiet *pop*. Then another. Claire pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the exposed vertebra at the top of his spine, tasting salt and the faint herbal tang of the resort's shampoo. "Unless you'd rather go back to the—"

Jim’s hand shot up to catch hers as it reached for the third button, his fingers hot and unsteady against her wrist. "Not here," he ground out, though his head tilted back against her shoulder, baring more of his throat to her mouth. The blindfold had slipped completely askew now, revealing eyes blown black with want. Claire smirked against his pulse point, nipping the skin just to feel him jerk beneath her.

The crash of waves swallowed his groan as she pressed her hips against the back of his chair, the thin fabric of her sundress doing nothing to hide her heat. "Then where, Daddy?" she purred, dragging her nails down his chest. The remaining buttons gave way beneath her fingers, his shirt falling open to reveal the scratches she’d left last night—angry red lines faded to pink.

Jim stood so abruptly the chair toppled behind him. His hands found her waist, spinning her toward the shoreline where the tide lapped at the sand. "There," he growled, nodding toward a dimly lit cabana half-hidden by swaying palms. The resort had clearly anticipated this—thick cushions piled on a raised platform, curtains tied back with silk cords. A bottle of champagne stood sweating in a bucket of ice beside two untouched flutes.

Claire didn’t wait for him. She kicked off her sandals, the warm sand swallowing her feet as she strode toward the cabana. The dress slipped from her shoulders halfway there, pooling around her ankles like shed skin. She heard Jim’s choked curse behind her, the crunch of his hurried footsteps.

Jim caught Claire just as she reached the cabana steps, his hands gripping her bare hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. The moon painted her skin in silver, highlighting every curve and dip—the dimples at the small of her back, the swell of her ass still faintly reddened from his palm last night. "You little tease," he rasped, spinning her to face him. The blindfold hung around his neck like a broken noose, his eyes wild in the torchlight.

Claire grinned, arching into him as his mouth crashed down on hers. The taste of sangria lingered on his tongue, sweet and spiced, and she bit his lower lip just to hear him groan. His hands roamed her body with a possessiveness that thrilled her—cupping her breasts, squeezing her waist, dragging down to grip the backs of her thighs. When he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, her nails scoring his shoulders as he carried her up the steps.

The cabana cushions were cool against her back, the silk curtains fluttering in the sea breeze. Jim hovered over her, his chest heaving, his cock straining against his linen pants. Claire reached for him, but he caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand while the other yanked his belt loose. The buckle clattered to the wooden platform, followed by the wet slap of fabric hitting the floor.

"Last chance to behave," he warned, though the tremor in his voice ruined the threat. Claire bucked her hips, rubbing herself against the hard length of him, and felt his control snap. His fingers dug into her thighs as he spread her wider, his breath hot against her neck. "Christ, you're soaked already."

Claire arched beneath him like a bowstring pulled taut, her breath hitching as Jim's cock pressed against her entrance—not pushing in yet, just there, maddening in its proximity. The ocean's rhythm matched the pounding of her pulse, waves crashing in time with the blood rushing in her ears.

Jim's grip on her wrists tightened, his wedding band digging into her flesh. "Look at me," he demanded, voice roughened by restraint. When her lashes fluttered open, his expression nearly undid her—jaw clenched, lips parted around ragged breaths, eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored her own. The torchlight caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the flush creeping down his chest where her nails had raked earlier.

She tested his hold, twisting her wrists just enough to feel his fingers flex in warning. The answering throb between her legs was almost painful. "Daddy," she gasped, deliberately rolling her hips to rub against him. The slick sound of skin on skin drew a groan from deep in Jim's chest. His hips jerked forward instinctively, the blunt head of his cock catching on her folds before he pulled back with a shudder.

"Patience," he ground out, though his voice cracked on the word. His free hand slid down her torso, calloused fingertips tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her navel—then lower, through the damp thatch of curls to find her swollen clit. Claire's back bowed off the cushions as he circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, his touch alternating between feather-light and punishing.

The cabana cushions smelled of salt and sunscreen, the fabric still warm from their bodies when Claire finally twisted free of Jim’s grip. She rolled atop him, pinning his wrists to the pillows with a grin that made his pulse stutter. Sand gritted between their sweat-slicked skin as she leaned down to lick the seawater from his collarbone. "Hear that?" she murmured against his throat.

Jim froze. Beyond the fluttering curtains, faint laughter carried on the breeze—feminine, punctuated by a deeper chuckle. The rhythmic creak of bamboo followed, then a moan too deliberate to be accidental. Claire’s thighs tightened around Jim’s hips as she lifted her head, her eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "Neighbors," she whispered.

Jim’s grip on her waist spasmed. "We shouldn’t—"

Claire silenced him by grinding down, her slick heat dragging along his half-hard length. "They’re just like us," she breathed, her nails scoring his chest. "Daddy’s girl next door getting properly claimed." The moan came again—higher this time, theatrical—followed by a masculine growl. Jim’s hips jerked upward involuntarily, his cock twitching against Claire’s thigh.

The moan from the neighboring cabana crescendoed—high, theatrical, unmistakably for their benefit—and Claire’s fingers dug into Jim’s chest hard enough to leave crescent moons. His breath hitched, his hips bucking beneath her as the sound twisted something primal in his gut. "They’re performing," Claire whispered, her lips brushing his earlobe. The realization sent a shudder through him, his cock twitching against her thigh where she still hovered just out of reach.

Another moan, closer now—feminine, breathless—followed by the unmistakable slap of skin on skin. Jim’s head thudded back against the cushions, his throat working as Claire shifted to straddle his hips fully, her slick heat pressing against him without taking him in. "They know we’re listening," she murmured, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles. The friction drew a ragged groan from Jim’s chest, his fingers gripping her waist hard enough to bruise. "Just like we knew last night."

A man’s voice cut through the night—deep, roughened with pleasure—uttering a single, guttural word: "Daddy’s girl." Claire stilled atop Jim, her thighs tightening around him as the word hung in the salt-thick air. Jim’s pulse hammered against her palm where she’d pressed it to his throat. The silence between them was charged, electric, until a feminine giggle broke it—playful, teasing—followed by the creak of bamboo as their unseen neighbors shifted positions.

Claire leaned down, her hair curtaining their faces as she nipped at Jim’s lower lip. "Let’s meet them," she breathed, the words more suggestion than request. Jim’s grip on her hips tightened reflexively, his breath coming faster. She rocked against him, her clit dragging along his length with each movement, and felt the exact moment his resolve crumbled—his hips jerking upward, his cock straining toward her heat.

The neighboring cabana's silk curtains fluttered apart on a gust of salt-laced wind, revealing a tangle of limbs in the torchlight—a girl no older than Claire arched over a broad-shouldered man, her blonde braid swinging like a pendulum as she rode him. Their gazes locked onto Jim and Claire simultaneously, the girl's pink lips curving into a smirk identical to Claire's.

"Looks like we have an audience, Daddy," the blonde purred, rolling her hips in a slow circle that made the man beneath her groan. His hands—thick-fingered, a wedding band glinting—gripped her waist hard enough to leave marks. Claire felt Jim shudder beneath her, his cock twitching against her thigh at the blatant display.

The blonde girl leaned back, bracing her palms on her father's thighs, and Claire's breath caught. They were mirrors—the same pert breasts, the same wicked grin, the same possessive grip on their fathers' wrists. The man's gaze raked over Claire with a hunger that should've made Jim bristle, but instead, she felt his hips jerk upward, his fingers digging into her hips as if to say mine.

"Join us," the blonde gasped, her rhythm stuttering as her father sat up to nip at her throat. The movement pressed him deeper inside her, drawing a moan that dissolved into laughter. "DG's rules—no spectators, only participants."

Jim's grip on Claire's hips tightened possessively as the blonde girl arched her back, her breasts glistening in the torchlight. The older man beneath her—his thick forearms corded with tension as he held her waist—locked eyes with Jim in silent challenge. Claire felt the exact moment Jim's hesitation shattered; his cock twitched against her thigh, his breathing turning ragged as the blonde's invitation hung between them.

"Rules are rules," Claire murmured against Jim's ear before nipping his earlobe. She rose from his lap in one fluid motion, her bare feet sinking into the warm sand as she stepped toward the neighboring cabana. Jim caught her wrist before she'd taken two steps, his fingers hot against her pulse point.

The blonde girl laughed—a bright, knowing sound—and reached out to Claire. Their fingertips brushed, and Claire felt the shared current of understanding between them. These weren't strangers; they were reflections. The blonde's father groaned as his daughter shifted to make room, his cock glistening between her thighs when she knelt aside.

Jim's wedding band dug into Claire's wrist as he pulled her back against his chest. She could feel the thunder of his heartbeat against her shoulder blades, the way his cock strained against the small of her back. "This what you want?" he growled in her ear, his voice roughened by the sight of the other couple—the way the blonde's father was already palming himself, watching them with hungry eyes.

Claire's pulse throbbed where Jim's fingers still gripped her wrist—too tight to be gentle, not tight enough to hurt. The blonde girl's smirk widened as she watched them, her fingers trailing down her own father's chest in a mirror of Claire's earlier movements. The older man's gaze never left Jim's face, his nostrils flaring like he could scent the pheromones thickening the air between them.

"Rules are rules," the blonde repeated, her voice gone husky as she rocked back onto her father's cock with deliberate slowness. The wet sound of their joining made Jim's grip on Claire tighten reflexively.

Claire twisted in his hold until their noses nearly touched. "Say yes," she breathed, her free hand sliding down his chest to circle his nipple through the linen. His sharp inhale told her everything she needed to know—the way his body betrayed him even as his jaw clenched with residual hesitation.

The decision unspooled between them in the space of three heartbeats. Then Jim released Claire's wrist only to grab her by the hips, spinning her toward the neighboring cabana with a growl that vibrated through her bones. The blonde girl's laughter curled around them like smoke as Claire stepped onto the sun-warmed planks, Jim's hands hot on her waist like he couldn't bear to let her go completely.

The blonde girl—Lily, she purred when Claire arched a questioning brow—shifted sideways without breaking rhythm, her father’s thick cock glistening between her thighs as she made space on the cushions. Claire felt Jim’s breath hitch against her neck, his fingers spasming on her hips as Lily’s father reached out. His calloused palm grazed Claire’s knee, rough in contrast to the silk cushion beneath her, and the contact sent a visible tremor through Jim.

"First-timers?" Lily’s father rumbled, his voice deeper than Jim’s, edged with the same midwestern vowels. His wedding band caught the torchlight when he stroked his daughter’s thigh—claiming, Claire realized, just as Jim’s grip on her tightened in response. Lily giggled, rolling her hips in a slow circle that made her father groan, his other hand sliding up to cup Claire’s calf.

Jim’s growl vibrated against Claire’s back as he stepped fully into the cabana, his chest pressing flush against her shoulder blades. The heat of him was a brand through the thin linen shirt he’d hastily buttoned. "You touch her," he warned, his voice raw, "you watch me with yours."

Lily’s laugh was bright as breaking glass. "That’s the point, Daddy." She rocked forward, bracing her hands on Claire’s knees, her blonde braid swinging between them. Up close, Claire could see the freckles dusting her shoulders, the same shade as the ones Jim loved to trace on Claire’s collarbone. Lily’s breath hitched when Claire’s fingers tangled in her braid, tugging just enough to tilt her head back. "Christ," Lily gasped, her hips stuttering mid-movement. "You’re just like me."

Claire's fingers tightened in Lily's braid, her pulse thrumming as the blonde girl gasped—not in protest, but in recognition. The air between them crackled with shared understanding, a current that arched from Claire to Lily and back again. Behind her, Jim's breath was ragged against her nape, his cock pressing insistently against the small of her back. Claire turned her head just enough to catch his expression—jaw clenched, pupils blown wide with reluctant arousal—before Lily's father cleared his throat.

"No rules here but one," the older man rumbled, his thick fingers tracing circles on Claire's knee. His wedding band glinted as he squeezed her thigh, the gesture possessive enough to make Jim's grip on Claire's hips tighten reflexively. "Everyone gets what they need." His gaze flicked to Jim, challenging. "Even you, cowboy."

Lily giggled, rolling her hips in a slow circle that made her father groan. The sound was raw, unfiltered—the kind of noise Jim had tried to stifle last night when Claire first took him in her mouth. Claire felt the exact moment Jim's resistance wavered; his fingers spasmed on her waist, his breath hitching as Lily arched her back, offering her pert breasts to the torchlight.

"Touch her," Lily murmured, releasing her father's cock with a wet pop to reach for Claire. Her fingers grazed Claire's inner thigh, nails scraping lightly upward. "She's yours, isn't she?"

Jim's wedding band bit into Claire's hip as Lily's fingers skimmed higher—not touching, not quite, but close enough that Claire could feel the heat radiating from her fingertips. The older man groaned as Lily shifted her weight, his thick cock bobbing between his thighs, flushed and glistening in the torchlight. Claire turned her head just enough to catch Jim's expression—his jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar, his pupils blown black with arousal despite the conflict tightening his shoulders.

"Rules are rules," Lily murmured again, her breath hitching when Claire tightened her grip on the blonde braid. She rocked back onto her father's lap with deliberate slowness, her pert breasts brushing Claire's knee. "But she's yours to claim first."

The unspoken challenge hung between them—Lily's father watching Jim with predatory focus, his hand still possessively cupping Claire's thigh. Jim's exhale was ragged against Claire's nape before he spun her around to face him, his fingers tangling in her hair as he crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was all teeth and desperation, his tongue sweeping past her lips with none of last night's hesitation. Claire melted into him, her nails scoring his back through the thin linen shirt as their neighbors' soft moans filled the cabana.

When Jim broke the kiss, his thumb swiped roughly across Claire's lower lip. "Mine," he growled—not to her, but to the older man still watching them with hungry eyes. Lily's delighted giggle dissolved into a gasp as her father suddenly stood, lifting her effortlessly despite their joined bodies. The cabana's cushions dipped under their combined weight as he settled onto them, Lily straddling his lap with her back pressed to his chest.

The torchlight flickered across Lily's flushed skin as she arched against her father's chest, her breath hitching when Claire's fingers skimmed up her inner thigh. Jim's grip on Claire's waist tightened—not restraining, but anchoring—as Lily's father groaned, his thick fingers kneading his daughter's hip while watching them with hooded eyes. "Still shy, cowboy?" the older man taunted, his voice roughened by the way Lily rolled her hips in slow circles.

Claire felt the tremor that ran through Jim at the challenge, the way his cock twitched against her lower back despite his rigid posture. She turned in his arms, pressing her lips to the pulse hammering at his throat. "Let me show you how good it feels," she murmured against his skin, her hand sliding back to grip him through the linen pants he'd barely had time to fasten. The damp spot at the front told her everything she needed to know—how quickly he'd hardened again at the sight of the other couple.

Lily's gasp broke through the tension as her father suddenly lifted her, pivoting so she knelt astride his thighs facing them. The movement pressed her breasts against Claire's arm, her blonde braid brushing Jim's clenched fist where it still gripped Claire's hip. "Touch her," Lily breathed, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. "She's just like me."

"Your turn," Mark rumbled, his gaze locking onto Jim's while his thumbs spread Lily open. The girl whimpered into the cushions, her fingers twisting in the fabric as her father exposed her to the humid night air—and Claire's fascinated stare. "Unless you're still—"

Jim moved before the taunt could land. His hands found Claire's waist, spinning her toward the cushions with a growl that vibrated through her bones. The linen of his shirt rasped against her bare back as he crowded her from behind, his cock pressing insistently against her ass through the thin fabric. Claire's breath hitched when she felt his fingers—rough from years of construction work—slide down her spine to mimic Mark's grip on Lily.

"Like this?" Jim murmured against her ear, his voice thick with reluctant arousal. His thumbs pressed into the dimples above her ass, spreading her with none of the hesitation he'd shown their first night. Claire's moan tangled with Lily's as both fathers positioned their daughters in perfect symmetry—knees wide, backs arched, offered up like twin sacrifices to some long-forgotten god of twisted desire.

Claire's breath hitched as Jim's fingers dug into her hips, the rough linen of his shirt scraping against her bare back. The cabana's silk curtains billowed around them, carrying the scent of salt and arousal as Lily's giggles dissolved into ragged moans beside them. Claire tilted her head just enough to see—Mark's thick fingers tangled in his daughter's blonde braid, her back arched obscenely as he knelt behind her. The torchlight painted their sweat-slicked bodies in gold, highlighting every twitch and shudder as Lily's father sank into her with a groan that mirrored Jim's own.

Jim's breath scorched Claire's nape, his grip tightening when Mark's gaze flicked up to meet his. "Still watching, cowboy?" Mark taunted, his voice roughened by the way Lily clenched around him. His thumb brushed the base of his daughter's spine in a gesture so familiar it made Claire's stomach flip—“just like Dad does to me”.

Claire twisted in Jim's hold, her nails scraping down his forearms. "They're us," she breathed, watching Lily's fingers clutch at the cushions as her father set a brutal pace. The blonde's blue eyes—wide and glazed with pleasure—locked onto Claire's with eerie recognition. "Just... more."

Jim's growl vibrated through Claire's ribs as Mark suddenly withdrew from his daughter with a wet pop, leaving her whimpering on all fours. The older man's wedding band glinted as he gripped Lily's waist, flipping her onto her back with effortless strength. Claire's pulse jumped when Mark hauled his daughter toward the edge of the cushions, her knees hooking over his shoulders like she'd done it a hundred times before.

The plane's wheels left the tarmac with a shudder Claire felt in her teeth. She pressed her forehead to the tiny window, watching the resort shrink into a dollhouse below—the cabanas mere white specks against the turquoise water, the beach where they'd spent that first night now indistinguishable from any other stretch of sand. The ache between her thighs was different now; deeper, more settled, like her body had rewritten its own blueprint to accommodate Jim's.

Beside her, Jim drummed his fingers on the armrest in a staccato rhythm that betrayed his tension. The flight attendants hadn't batted an eye when they'd boarded—just another father-daughter duo with matching tans and hollow-eyed exhaustion. Claire smirked at the thought of what their crisp uniforms would look like shoved up around their waists, bent over a first-class seat while Jim—

"Don't." Jim's voice was gravel against her ear, his breath warm with the whiskey he'd downed at the airport bar. His fingers closed around her wrist beneath the blanket, his grip tight enough to make her pulse jump. "I can smell it when you're thinking about it."

Claire turned her hand palm-up beneath his, tracing the calluses she knew by heart now. "About what?" she murmured, her pinky hooking around his ring finger—just enough pressure to make his wedding band dig into her skin. The metal was warm from his body heat, the engraving worn smooth after eighteen years. She'd memorized every ridge of it last night when he'd pinned her against the cabana wall, her cheek scraping the bamboo as he took her from behind while Lily watched with bitten-red lips.

Jim exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb rubbing circles on her wrist in a way that betrayed his nerves. The plane hit turbulence, sending Claire's stomach swooping as the seatbelt sign dinged overhead. When she glanced down, the gold band gleamed dully in the dim cabin light—still snug against his knuckle, still *there*, despite everything.

The flight attendant paused beside their row, her practiced smile faltering when she caught the way Jim's fingers were tangled with Claire's beneath the blanket. "Sir, you'll need to—" She gestured to his lap, where the seatbelt lay unfastened. Claire watched the woman's gaze flick between them, taking in Jim's stubble-dark jaw, the way Claire's sundress strap had slipped off one shoulder. The woman's throat worked as she swallowed. "Safety regulations."

Jim's wedding band caught the light when he reached for the buckle, the metal flashing like a distress signal. Claire pressed her bare foot against his ankle beneath the seat, her toes tracing the tendon she'd bitten raw three nights ago. The attendant's cheeks pinked when Jim's breath hitched audibly as the buckle clicked into place.

When the woman hurried away, Claire leaned into Jim's space until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "She knows," she whispered, dragging her teeth along the sensitive cartilage. She felt the shudder that wracked him, the way his fingers spasmed around hers. "They always know."

Jim's exhale was ragged against her temple. He turned his hand palm-up beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing the base of her wrist where a bruise was fading—the shape of his grip from when he'd pinned her to the cabana wall while Lily watched. Claire traced the gold band with her index finger, following the smooth metal all the way around until—

Her nail caught on empty space.

Claire froze. Jim's pulse jumped against her fingertips where they still rested on his inner wrist. She didn't need to look down to know what she'd find—or rather, what she wouldn't. The plane hit turbulence again, sending her stomach swooping as she slowly, deliberately, turned his hand over.

The indentation was still there, a pale groove in his tanned skin where eighteen years of marriage had left its mark. But the ring itself was gone.

Jim exhaled sharply through his nose when Claire's thumb traced the empty space. His fingers twitched beneath hers, but he didn't pull away. The overhead light caught the raw skin around his knuckle—freshly scrubbed pink, like he'd washed it vigorously in the airport bathroom. Claire's breath hitched as she remembered the way the gold band had glinted in the cabana torchlight when he'd pinned Lily's father with that look—Mine—before claiming Claire right in front of them.

The flight attendant reappeared with drink orders, her gaze flicking between their joined hands and Jim's bare finger. Claire watched the woman's throat work as she set down two whiskeys—neat, just how Jim liked them—before retreating with unusual haste.

"Where is it?" Claire whispered against Jim's collarbone, her lips brushing the fading bite mark she'd left on their last night at the resort. The plane shuddered around them, the engine whine drowning out her next words. "Did you—"

Jim's fingers tightened around hers. "Left it in the shower," he muttered, his free hand rubbing at the empty space like a phantom limb. "Couldn't..." His jaw worked silently for a moment before he lifted his whiskey and downed half in one swallow. The ice cubes clinked ominously when he set it back down.

Claire pressed her palm over his naked knuckle, feeling the unfamiliar smoothness where the ring had been. The absence was more intimate than anything they'd done all week—raw and exposed as an open wound. Outside the window, storm clouds swallowed the last of the tropical sunset, plunging the cabin into murky twilight.

The seatbelt sign dinged again as turbulence rocked the plane. Claire's whiskey sloshed over her fingers when Jim suddenly twisted in his seat, his free hand gripping her chin. His kiss tasted like desperation and eighteen-year-old scotch, his teeth scraping her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. When he pulled back, his breath came ragged against her wet mouth.

"Don't ask me to regret it," he ground out, his thumb smearing the bead of blood on her lip. The overhead light caught the raw skin of his ring finger—pink and vulnerable-looking, like he'd scrubbed at it with steel wool. Claire caught his hand mid-air, pressing her lips to the empty space where his wedding band should've been.

Jim made a sound low in his throat—half protest, half surrender—as she traced the pale indentation with her tongue. His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her there as the plane banked sharply. Somewhere behind them, a child cried, and Claire felt the exact moment Jim remembered they weren't alone in some dim cabana—his grip loosening, his breath hitching as he pulled her upright.

The front door groaned open with the same familiar protest it had for seventeen years—sticking at the halfway point until Jim shoved it with his shoulder. Claire stepped over the threshold first, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. The house smelled of lemon polish and stale coffee, exactly as they'd left it. Exactly as it shouldn't.

Claire watched Jim's shoulders tense when his gaze landed on the wedding portrait above the mantel—her mother's beaming face frozen behind glass, her manicured fingers splayed over Jim's sleeve like she was marking territory. The silence between them thickened until Claire kicked her sandals off with deliberate force, sending them skidding across the floor. Jim flinched at the sound.

"Hungry?" His voice was too loud in the stagnant air, the question landing somewhere between an apology and a challenge.
“Only for this” as she grabbed his cock and dropped to her knees.