The sand was still hot under my feet as I trudged toward Lisa, my pulse a chaotic drumbeat in my ears. She lounged there on her towel, smug as hell, her skin flushed from the sun—and from Jamal’s hands. That scrap of paper he’d slipped into her bikini top burned a hole in my vision. I stopped a few feet away, towering over her, my shadow cutting across her sunlit body.
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“What the hell was that nonsense with him?” My voice came out rougher than I meant, a mix of anger and something raw I couldn’t name. My fists clenched at my sides, sand grinding between my fingers.
Lisa tilted her head up, sliding her sunglasses down her nose to peer at me. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but her tone was sharp, like a whip cracking. “Oh, sweetie, do I need to remind you what you promised me before we came here?” She sat up, brushing sand off her thighs, her bikini barely holding together as she moved.
I opened my mouth to snap back, but the words died in my throat. It hit me like a wave crashing over my head—our late-night talk a week ago, sprawled on the couch with a bottle of wine. I’d been half-distracted, scrolling emails, when she’d grabbed my face and made me swear: No work on this trip. You’re mine for the week, or there’ll be consequences. I’d laughed it off, kissed her, promised I’d keep my phone off. And here I was, Day One, breaking that promise with that stupid call from my boss.
“You—” I started, but she cut me off, standing now, her body inches from mine, heat radiating off her.
“You made a big mistake, babe,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “And I’ve already punished you for it. You got to watch, didn’t you?” Her lips curled into that same wicked smirk from the beach, and my stomach twisted—half fury, half shame.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, desperation creeping in. “No more, I swear. I’ll leave the damn phone in the room.”
She laughed, a soft, cruel sound that made my chest ache. “Too late for that. I’m calling Jamal to our hotel room tonight.” She turned away, grabbing her beach bag, and started walking toward the resort, leaving me standing there like an idiot, sand sticking to my sweaty palms.
I followed her, my mind reeling. The image of Jamal’s hands on her, her moans, her eyes locked on mine—it played on a loop, tormenting me. I wanted to fix this, to claw back control, but she’d already shifted the ground beneath me. By the time we reached the open-air restaurant overlooking the ocean, I was a mess—jealousy and regret churning in my gut.
Lisa hadn’t bothered to cover up, still strutting in that red bikini, her hips swaying as she led us to a table. The waiter barely blinked, but every other head turned—hers was the kind of body that demanded attention. We’d just sat down when I saw him again. Jamal, strolling in from the beach entrance, now in a tight white tank top and shorts, his muscles flexing with every step. My jaw tightened as Lisa’s face lit up.
“Jamal!” she called, waving him over like it was nothing. “Join us for lunch.”
He flashed that easy grin, sauntering to our table. Lisa patted the seat next to her, then pointed at the chair across from them. “Babe, sit there,” she ordered, her tone casual but firm. I hesitated, my pride screaming, but I sank into the chair, the wooden slats digging into my back.
“Jamal, this is my husband,” Lisa said, resting a hand on his arm. “I didn’t mention him earlier.”
Jamal’s eyebrows shot up, his dark eyes flicking to me, then back to her. “Oh, damn, I thought you were single.” He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, sizing me up. “Guess I get it now. You two got a vibe going, huh?”
Lisa giggled, pressing herself closer to him, her bare thigh brushing his. “Something like that.” Under the table, I saw his hand move—slow, deliberate—settling on her knee. My fingers gripped the edge of my seat, nails digging into the wood. He didn’t stop there. His hand slid higher, fingers tracing lazy circles up her inner thigh, disappearing under the hem of her bikini bottom. She shifted, opening her legs just enough to give him room, her breath catching as his knuckles grazed her skin.
I stared at the menu, pretending to read, but my eyes kept darting to them. Lisa leaned into him, whispering something that made him laugh low and deep. His other hand rested on the table, casual, while the one below worked her like he owned her. I could hear it—the faint rustle of fabric, the hitch in her breathing. She was wet again, I knew it, and he was teasing her right there, inches from me.
Then came the clatter. Lisa’s spoon hit the floor, bouncing under the table. “Oops,” she said, all fake innocence. “Babe, can you grab that for me?”
My throat tightened. I knew what she was doing. “Can’t you—” I started, but her glare shut me up. I slid off my chair, ducking under the table, and froze. There it was, in full view: Jamal’s hand buried between her thighs, fingers pumping slow and deep under her bikini. Her legs were spread wide, one hooked over his knee, her hips rocking subtly against him. The spoon lay there, mocking me, but I couldn’t look away from them—his thick fingers slick with her, her toes curling in the sand. She let out a soft moan, muffled above, and I knew she was staring at him, not me.
Jealousy clawed at my chest, hot and bitter, mingling with the ache in my shorts. I was furious—wanted to flip the damn table, drag her out of there—but I was stuck, powerless, my body betraying me again. I grabbed the spoon and resurfaced, slamming it on the table harder than I meant to. Lisa smirked, unfazed, while Jamal just grinned, wiping his hand on a napkin like it was nothing.
“Good boy,” she teased, her voice dripping with condescension. Jamal chuckled, his arm draping over her shoulders now, pulling her closer. I sat there, silent, the taste of salt and rage on my tongue, knowing tonight in our room would be worse—and I couldn’t stop it.
The spoon sat there on the table, smeared with sand and my humiliation, glinting in the sunlight like a trophy of my defeat. Lisa’s smirk didn’t waver—she leaned into Jamal, her shoulder pressed against his chest, her fingers brushing his arm as if I wasn’t even there. His arm stayed draped over her, possessive, his thumb stroking the bare skin of her neck. Above the table, they looked like a couple flirting over lunch. Below it, they were something else entirely.
I tried to focus on the menu again, the words blurring into nonsense—jerk chicken, plantains, rum punch—but my eyes kept sliding back to them. Her thigh was still pressed against his, and I knew his hand hadn’t left her. I could feel it, the heat of it, even from across the table. The faint rustle of her bikini bottom shifting, the way her breath hitched every few seconds—it was a soundtrack I couldn’t mute. My knuckles whitened around the menu, crinkling the edges. I wanted to hate it, to hate her, to hate him. And I did. But that wasn’t all.
When I’d crawled back up from under the table, my head buzzing with rage, I’d seen everything. His fingers buried deep, slick and glistening, moving with a rhythm that made her tremble. Her legs splayed wide, one hooked over his knee like she was begging for more. The way her hips rocked, subtle but desperate, chasing his touch. That image burned into me, and as I sat there now, it wouldn’t let go. My anger was still there, a molten core in my chest, but something else was rising around it—something hot and shameful that tightened my shorts and made my pulse throb in my temples.
Lisa giggled at something Jamal said, her head tilting back, exposing the curve of her throat. His hand—the one above the table—slid down her arm, brushing the side of her breast through that flimsy bikini top. She didn’t flinch, just arched into it, her nipple hardening against the fabric. My mouth went dry. I shifted in my seat, trying to adjust myself discreetly, but the pressure in my shorts was undeniable now. I hated how my body reacted, betraying every ounce of fury I felt, but I couldn’t stop it.
“You okay over there, babe?” Lisa’s voice snapped me out of it, dripping with fake concern. Her eyes flicked to me, sharp and knowing, catching the flush creeping up my neck. She knew. Of course she did.
“Fine,” I muttered, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the hum of the restaurant. Jamal smirked, his gaze sliding to me for a split second before returning to her. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and her lips parted in a soft gasp. Under the table, his hand moved again—I could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, the way her thighs shifted apart even more. She was soaked, I knew it, and he was working her right there, in broad daylight, with me watching.
My leg bounced under the table, restless, my fists clenching and unclenching. I wanted to lunge across, rip his arm away, drag her back to the room and remind her who she came here with. But the other part of me—the part I couldn’t silence—wanted to see more. My breath came faster, shallow, as I pictured it again: his thick fingers sliding in and out, her slick heat coating them, her hips bucking against his palm. The memory of her moan from the beach echoed in my skull, and my cock twitched hard, straining against the fabric.
She dropped her napkin this time, a flimsy white square fluttering to the floor. “Oops,” she said again, her tone so syrupy it made my teeth ache. “Babe, get that for me?”
I glared at her, jaw tight, but her eyes dared me to refuse. My heart pounded as I slid off the chair again, ducking under the table. There it was, laid out like a goddamn show just for me. His hand was fully inside her bikini now, two fingers pumping deep, curling in a way that made her toes curl in the sand. Her other leg had shifted, draped over his lap, giving him full access. Her bikini bottom was pushed aside, soaked dark with her arousal, and I could see everything—his knuckles glistening, her thighs trembling, the faint pulse of her clit as he brushed it with his thumb.
I froze, the napkin forgotten, my breath ragged in the tight space. She moaned above me, louder this time, and I knew she was doing it for me—making sure I heard every hitch, every whimper. My cock throbbed painfully, fully hard now, and I hated myself for it. Hated how much I wanted to watch her come again, right there in front of me, with his hands instead of mine. My fingers twitched, itching to touch myself, to relieve the pressure, but I clenched them into fists instead, nails biting into my palms.
When I resurfaced, napkin in hand, my face was burning. I tossed it onto the table, avoiding her eyes, but she wasn’t looking at me anyway. She was staring at Jamal, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. His hand stayed below, casual as ever, while he sipped his water with the other, like he wasn’t finger-fucking my wife under the table. “You’re a lucky man,” he said to me, his voice smooth, mocking. “She’s somethin’ else.”
“Yeah,” I croaked, barely managing the word. Lisa giggled again, pressing a kiss to his jaw, and I felt the heat flood me—anger, yes, but also that sick, twisted thrill that wouldn’t let go. My shorts were a torture chamber now, my erection trapped and pulsing, and I knew she’d see it if she looked. Part of me hoped she would.
The waiter arrived with our food, oblivious to the storm raging at our table. Lisa pulled back slightly, but Jamal’s hand didn’t move, just slowed, keeping her on edge. She picked up her fork, smiling at me across the table, her eyes glinting with triumph. “Eat up, babe,” she said. “You’ll need your energy for tonight.”
I stabbed at my plate, my mind a war zone—fury and lust battling it out, with no clear winner. Jamal’s number was still tucked in her bikini, and I knew what was coming. She’d made her point, punished me twice over, and I was hooked on it, hard and helpless, as the afternoon stretched on.
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To be continued…
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