The hotel suite was the kind of place Camila never got to see from the inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city, a bed the size of a small boat, a bathroom with a tub you could swim in, and a sitting area with an armchair positioned — she noticed this later, and her stomach flipped — with a perfect, unobstructed view of the couch.

Esteban had booked it for the night and told her to pack an overnight bag and wear the red heels, and not to ask questions.

She had asked questions anyway, in the car. He had just smiled and put his hand on her thigh and left it there, high enough to make her squirm, and said:

— You'll see.

Now she saw. Or rather, she saw the suite, and the champagne sweating in its bucket, and the second man standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, watching the sun go down over the skyline.

Marco. Thirty-eight. A colleague of Esteban's from the firm's other office, in town for two nights. Camila had met him once at a Christmas party. She remembered his voice more than his face — low, unhurried, the kind of voice that made everything sound like it had already been decided.

— Camila, Esteban said, his hand on the small of her back. - You remember Marco.

— Of course, she said. - Welcome to town.

— Thank you, Marco said, turning from the window. - Esteban tells me you're the best part of this city.

She laughed, a little too bright, and Esteban's hand pressed fractionally harder into her back. A signal. Steady.

— Champagne? Esteban said, and poured three glasses like this was any evening at all.

They drank on the little sitting area by the window. Normal talk. The city. Marco's flight. The restaurant Esteban had picked for dinner at nine. Camila sat with her legs crossed in the black wrap dress Esteban had chosen, the red heels making her legs look endless, and she was so aware of her own skin she could barely follow the conversation. Every time she shifted, she felt the dress slide against her bare breasts — no bra, Esteban's instruction — and the cool air between her thighs — no panties, also his instruction. She felt naked in front of two men while fully dressed, and it was making her dizzy.

Esteban sat beside her, close, his arm along the back of the couch behind her shoulders, his fingers idly tracing the nape of her neck. Marco sat across, and he looked at her the way men sometimes looked at her when Esteban wasn't watching.

But Esteban was watching. Esteban was always watching. That was the thing she was only now beginning to understand.

At some point Esteban stood, refilled their glasses, and came back — but he didn't sit beside her. He sat in the armchair. The one with the perfect view of the couch. He leaned back, crossed one ankle over his knee, and looked at her over the rim of his glass.

— Marco, he said, - has admired you for a long time.

Camila's glass stopped halfway to her mouth.

— Esteban —

— Let me finish. He set his glass down. - I told him he could have one night. Tonight. Here. With my rules. And I told him the best part — the part he doesn't get anywhere else — is that I watch.

The suite went very quiet. The city hummed thirty floors below. Camila could hear her own heartbeat.

— And what did I say? Esteban asked her softly.

He was looking at her, and his eyes were dark and calm, and she understood that this had been decided long before tonight, that her husband had been planning this the way he planned everything — carefully, thoroughly, for her.

— You didn't ask me, she whispered.

— I'm asking you now. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. - Camila. I want to sit in this chair and watch Marco undress you. I want to watch him learn you. I want to watch another man's hands find out what I already know — that you're the most responsive woman alive. And I want you to let him, because I told you to. Can you do that for me?

She looked at Marco. He was sitting very still, his hands flat on his thighs, waiting. Not presuming. Waiting for her answer, the way a man waits when another man has made the rules clear.

— What are the rules? she asked.

Esteban smiled. It was the smile that had undone her at twenty-four and had been undoing her ever since.

— Rule one: I'm in charge. Everything stops when I say. Everything starts when I say. Rule two: you look at me whenever you need to. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Rule three: he doesn't kiss you on the mouth. That's mine. Nobody gets that but me. Everything else — he leaned back again — everything else is his to discover. If you want this.

Did she want this? Her body had already answered — her nipples hard under the dress, a slow molten pull low in her belly, her thighs pressing together under the hem. But it was the watching that did it. The thought of Esteban in that chair, fully dressed, fully in control, watching another man's hands learn the body he owned.

— Yes, she said.

— Yes what.

— Yes, please. I want it. I want you to watch.

— Good girl.

Two words, and her whole spine melted.

— --

Marco moved like a man who had been given a gift he intended to unwrap slowly. He came to the couch and knelt in front of her — knelt, like she was something to be worshipped — and put his hands on her knees.

— May I? he asked, looking up at her.

She glanced at Esteban. Esteban nodded once.

— Yes.

Marco's hands slid up her thighs, pushing the dress higher, and Camila's breath hitched. His fingers were long and warm, and when they reached the tops of her stockings — she was wearing stockings, Esteban had insisted, the kind that needed a garter belt, black lace tops biting softly into her thighs — he paused.

— Stockings, he murmured, almost to himself. - Jesus.

— She wears them for me, Esteban said from the chair. - Take the dress off. Slowly.

Marco stood and offered her his hand, and she took it, and he drew her to her feet in the middle of the suite with the city glittering behind her. He untied the wrap dress at her waist, unwound it like a present, inch by inch, his knuckles brushing her ribs, her hip, and let it fall. Underneath: the garter belt, the stockings, the red heels, and nothing else. Esteban had told her no underwear. She had obeyed.

Marco made a sound low in his throat.

— Esteban, he said. - You're a lucky man.

— I know, Esteban said. - Don't forget whose luck it is. Go on. Touch her.

Marco's hands came up and cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples, and Camila gasped and arched into it. Her nipples were already hard, aching, and his thumbs circled them slowly, watching her face. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue circling the stiff peak, and her knees went weak. His mouth was warm and unhurried. He sucked, then nibbled lightly, then soothed it with his tongue, and moved to the other breast, giving it the same worshipful attention, while his hands slid down to grip her waist, holding her steady.

— Esteban, she whimpered, looking at her husband.

— I see you, Esteban said. His voice was low and rough. - I see all of you. Keep going, Marco. Taste her. I want to watch her come apart. Lower.

Marco dropped to his knees again. He pressed his face to her belly first, breathing her in, his hands spreading over her hips, and then he hooked her leg over his shoulder — the red heel and all — opening her, and pressed his mouth to her where she was wettest, and Camila cried out.

His tongue was broad and flat and confident. He licked up through her folds slowly, tasting her, then circled her clit with firm, deliberate pressure. He sucked it gently into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it, and her whole body jerked. He was good at this — devastatingly good — alternating between long slow licks and focused attention that made her thighs tremble. One of his hands slid up to cup her breast, thumb working her nipple in time with his tongue, and she grabbed his hair, and her other leg trembled in the heel, and she looked at Esteban, and Esteban was leaning forward in the chair now, his hands gripping the armrests, watching with an intensity that made her feel like the most beautiful thing in the world.

— Wait, Esteban said.

Marco froze, his mouth still on her, his fingers still inside her. Camila whimpered, her hips lifting helplessly.

— Esteban, please —

— Camila. He leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. - Tell him what you want. Tell me what he's doing to you. I want to hear it in your words.

Her face burned. She looked at her husband — fully dressed, completely composed, completely in command — with another man's mouth on her and another man's fingers inside her, and she said it, her voice shaking.

— His tongue — he's circling me, he's — oh god, he's sucking, and his fingers are so deep, they're curling, and I can feel it building, Esteban, it's building so fast —

— Please what.

— Please don't make him stop. Please let me come. Please, Esteban, please —

Esteban was quiet for a long moment, watching her squirm, watching Marco hold perfectly still, waiting for the word. Then:

— Marco. Deeper. Make her beg louder.

Marco obeyed, his fingers driving deeper, curling hard against that spot, his tongue flattening against her clit with firm, relentless pressure, and Camila cried out, her hips bucking, her hands fisting in his hair, her heel digging into his back.

— Esteban! Please! I'm going to — please let me — please —

— Don't look away, Esteban told her, his voice like gravel. - I want your eyes on me when you come.

She held his gaze, Marco's tongue working her, her husband's eyes locked on hers, and the orgasm built and built — his eyes holding hers, anchoring her — until it broke over her in a long shuddering wave, and she cried out, and her leg nearly buckled, and Marco held her up with one arm around her waist, his mouth still on her, drinking her through it, his tongue gentling as she came down, licking her clean with long, soothing strokes.

— Beautiful, Esteban breathed. - So fucking beautiful. Marco — bed. Take her to the bed.

Marco lifted her. Actually lifted her, one arm under her knees, one around her back, and carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, and laid her down on the cool white sheets. He stripped quickly — shirt, belt, trousers, his body lean and long in the city light — and Camila watched, propped on her elbows, her chest heaving. He was hard, thick, the head of him dark and gleaming with precome.

Esteban had moved. He was standing at the foot of the bed now, close, his hands in his pockets, watching everything.

— Condom, Esteban said.

Marco produced one — of course he had — and rolled it on with practiced hands, and Camila watched her husband watch another man prepare to fuck her, and it was the filthiest, hottest thing she had ever seen.

— Slow, Esteban said. - I want to see her face.

Marco climbed onto the bed between her spread legs. He guided himself to her entrance, and pushed in slow, and Camila's head fell back, her mouth opening. He filled her steadily, inch by inch, stretching her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, the red heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against hers, and they both groaned.

— Oh god, she breathed. - Oh god, Marco —

— Eyes on me, Esteban said sharply.

She turned her head. He was right there at the foot of the bed, his eyes on hers, and Marco began to move, long deep strokes, grinding into her on every pass, and she held her husband's gaze while another man moved inside her, and she had never felt so claimed in her life. Not despite this. Because of this. Because her husband had arranged it, permitted it, orchestrated it — because she was his to give, and he was giving her, and watching, and she was his, his, his.

— You like that? Esteban asked, his voice rough. - You like his cock inside you?

— Yes, she gasped. - Yes, Esteban, yes —

— Tell him whose you are.

— I'm yours, she cried, as Marco drove deep, hitting something that made her vision blur. - I'm yours, I'm your wife, I'm all yours —

— Louder. I want him to hear it.

— I'M HIS! she screamed, as the second orgasm tore through her, bigger than the first, ripping a wail out of her throat. - I'M HIS, I'M ALL HIS —

Marco groaned and lost his rhythm, his hips stuttering, his face buried in her neck —

— Not yet, Esteban said, very calmly.

Marco froze. He was shaking, his face buried in her neck, his whole body rigid with the effort of holding back.

— Please, he gasped.

— Pull out, Esteban said. - Camila. On your knees. Finish him with your mouth. I want to watch that too.

They obeyed. Both of them. Marco knelt on the bed and Camila knelt in front of him, and she took him into her mouth, deep, her tongue swirling around him, her hand working what she couldn't take. She could taste herself on him — taste her own wetness, her own spend — and it was filthy and she loved it. She sucked him hard, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue flicking the underside, and she looked up at Esteban while she did it, drool on her chin, her eyes watering, and Esteban watched with his hands in his pockets and his jaw tight, and Marco came with a shout, his hands fisting in the sheets — careful, always careful, never touching her head without permission — and she swallowed every drop, because Esteban was watching and she wanted him to be proud.

Silence. Breathing. The city beyond the glass, glittering and indifferent.

— Shower, Esteban said to Marco. - Then dinner's at nine. Thank you.

Marco looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded, slow, and bent and pressed a kiss to Camila's forehead — chaste, grateful — and murmured, - Thank you, - and went to the bathroom.

The door closed. And then Esteban was on the bed, and his mouth was on hers, hard and claiming, his hands everywhere, and Camila clung to him, trembling.

— Did I do good? she whispered against his mouth.

— You were perfect. He pulled back and looked at her, and his eyes were blazing. - You have no idea what you looked like. My wife, spread out for another man, screaming that she's mine. That's the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. And now — his hand slid between her legs, finding her swollen and dripping — now I'm going to remind you who this belongs to.

— Esteban, she breathed. - I need you. Please. I need you inside me.

— You're going to get me, he growled, pushing her back onto the bed. - You're going to get all of me. He borrowed you. I'm taking you back.

He was inside her before she could blink, bare, nothing between them, filling her the way only he could — not just her body, but the space behind her ribs, the place where she lived. He fucked her hard and deep, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes locked on hers, and she wrapped herself around him, legs and arms, holding on for dear life.

— Mine, he growled with every stroke. - Mine, mine, mine —

— Yours, she sobbed. - Forever yours —

She came with his name in her mouth, and he came with her name in his, deep inside her, and they lay tangled in the wrecked white sheets while the shower ran in the bathroom, and Esteban held her, and stroked her hair, and she had never felt so safe, so owned, so loved.

— Best anniversary ever? he murmured.

She laughed, breathless and wrecked and happy.

— It's not our anniversary.

— It is now, he said. - This is the night I watched my wife become mine all over again. I'm marking the calendar.

Outside, the city glittered. Inside, in the armchair by the window, nobody sat — but Camila looked at it, and smiled, because she knew.

It was his favorite view.