Clarice let out a languid sigh, "It's so good, baby."
Her lips brushed against Edward's ear as she rode him with grace, in the Amazon position that granted her absolute control. Her athletic frame, deliberate rhythm, each descent of her generous hips sending waves of deep heat through them. Her smooth, matte skin, contrasted with her fiancé's paler tone, and her long, kinky dreadlocks, cascading in supple coils tipped with fiery red, swept across his chest.
Edward, his head buried in the voluptuous hollow of her ample breasts, planted feverish kisses there, his mouth exploring the satiny curve of her skin with near-sacred devotion. He surrendered to her, to those firm, rounded swells rising and falling with her ragged breaths.
However, deep down, a fleeting frustration teased him: the urge to flip the script, to unleash the primal beast within, to pin her against the rumpled sheets and claim her. But Clarice was a full feminist in life as in bed.
She set the pace, and this dominance was only a small counterpart in exchange for the infinite luck he had in being chosen by a living goddess. Especially since, in rare moments, she granted him ecstasies: he still recalled the fiery blowjob from the night of his proposal, her enveloping lips gliding over him with an expertise that had made him quiver to his soul.
His hands, strong yet tender, traced the plump contours of her buttocks, caressing them in sync with the hypnotic sway of her hips.
"Come for me, baby," she whispered in a honeyed voice, subtly quickening the tempo.
Her lips grazed his neck, tracing wet kisses laced with playful flicks of her tongue, lapping at the salty sweat, where his pulse thrummed.
She knew these vulnerabilities by heart, these breaking points that made him yield. Every time, it was the same exquisite surrender, a voluptuous collapse.
A guttural groan, half-muffled by the soft flesh of her breast, erupted from Edward's lips as he emptied himself inside her, a hot, pulsing flood that filled her. Clarice savored this offering, this silent worship he rendered: the viscous warmth of his essence spilling into her, mingled with his avid kisses on her swollen breasts. She adored this power, this adulation that made her feel invincible.
And, with pure sensual mischief, she often held back her own climax, lingering in that delicious limbo of suspended arousal, before finally granting herself release later, under the scalding spray of a hot shower.
Fulfilled, utterly. A fiancé who honored her whims, attentive and skilled in the art of making her hum without ever rushing her.
What more could one ask for when such a paradise is within reach?
Edward lingered a moment longer, scrolling casually on his phone. Lying on his back, he exchanged text messages with Doug, his best friend, while the gentle lapping of water from the bathroom let out a soothing melody.
When the bathroom door finally cracked open at last, releasing a cloud of vanilla-scented vapor, Edward set his device aside and laced his hands behind his neck, his sparkling green eyes fixed on her with admiration. Clarice emerged, wrapped in a plush towel that accentuated the athletic curves of her body. She let the towel drop in a graceful motion, unveiling her blooming nudity.
With deliberate slowness, she approached the dresser, her damp dreadlocks cascading in dark, red-tipped coils over her bare shoulders. She selected her favorite lingerie: a black lace ensemble, seemingly crafted to cling to her form with obscene precision.
Noticing Edward motionless, utterly captivated by this private spectacle, Clarice turned to face him in a pose both assertive and lascivious: one hip cocked forward, chin lifted, her smoky-lined eyes locking onto his with a playful glint. She pursed her lips into a sexy pout and declared with playful authority, "You planning on showering anytime soon? I remind you we've got that wedding rehearsal lunch at noon. We can't postpone it again, the big day's in six weeks, in case you'd forgotten."
Edward let out a sigh, his crooked smile widening, before hauling himself up with exaggerated slowness, feigning effort.
"OK, OK, I surrender. Wouldn't dream of crossing the future bride," he answered, amusement warming his voice.
"Yeah, smart move, mister," she fired back with a soft laugh, as she finished dressing in a flowing dress that hugged her form without constraining it.
Clarice had just cinched her dress's belt when the sound of water resumed in the bathroom. It was at that same moment that Edward's phone vibrated in the rumpled bedsheets.
She turned to the bedroom's full-length mirror, "Just because it's a rehearsal doesn't mean I have to let myself go," she murmured to her reflection, before uncapping her favorite lipstick, that fierce crimson echoing the fiery tips of her hair. She applied it with precision, the stick gliding over the plump curve of her mouth.
Edward's phone buzzed a second time.
"Probably Doug harassing him again...," she thought half-amused with affectionate exasperation.
Curious, she walked over to the bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush mattress, and grabbed the device. The screen lit up with a notification that caught his eye. Clarice froze, her heart slamming in her chest.
The contact wasn't saved, just a simple number displayed. The first message remained hidden by the second, but this one, in raw and painful letters, pierced her heart:
I miss you...
Her hands nearly trembling, she unlocked Edward's phone with a mechanical swipe. "It has to be a mistake," she whispered to herself. She opened the messages app, and her heart stopped. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as the words killed her from within:
Edward, no one has ever fucked me like you. I'm addicted to your body. I'm addicted to your cock. I want to see you again. I'll do absolutely anything you want, even things your frigid fiancée refuses to do.
The phone slipped from her numb fingers, crashing heavily to the floor, its impact cushioned by the carpet. Speechless and breathless, she grabbed her own phone and keys in a whirlwind of suppressed fury, her heels clicking sharply on the parquet floor as she rushed to the door. She slammed it shut behind her, just as the shower water stopped running.
~oOo~
Eight weeks later
Under an azure sky, Clarice stepped off the plane, nostrils flaring under the onslaught of salty and exotic scents in the air. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the burning sensation of the sun's rays kiss her smooth, matte skin.
"Hey, could you move it along?" Emma exclaimed in a voice laced with a strong French accent and with a hint of impatience.
"Already made me lug this bigger bag because you didn't have room in yours for all your stuff. Least you could do is not leave me hanging."
Clarice reopened her eyes, a radiant smile lighting up her face. Without turning, she began descending the metal stairs to the scorching tarmac.
"We both know you won't be able to resist borrowing some of my things," she tossed over her shoulder. Emma rolled her eyes. Her green eyes betrayed a deep affection for her friend, even as she knew, deep down, that those "borrows" were an excuse to dip into Clarice's shoes. A subtle shiver ran through her, half-laugh, half-sigh, as she adjusted her bag's strap on her shoulder.
That day, eight weeks earlier, everything had unraveled in a whirlwind of betrayal and tears. Clarice had fled the apartment like a storm, heart in tatters, blocking Edward's number on the spot. Emma, her best friend, had crossed the Atlantic from France for the rehearsal dinner, Clarice had insisted. Emma, still jet-lagged, in a light dress with her red hair tousled, had opened the door to find Clarice, a fury with reddened eyes, who collapsed into her arms the moment the door clicked shut.
The shock had been phenomenal: Emma had always seen Clarice as a rock. Witnessing her shatter like this, sobs hitching against her shoulder, had cracked her own heart like shattered glass. They'd sunk onto the bed, bodies entwined in an instinctive embrace, and talked. And talked. All day, then all night, ignoring the insistent buzzes of their phones.
The next day, resolve had dawned cold and clear. Clarice fired off a message to all the guests:
Wedding canceled. Edward's infidelity.
No details, just the raw truth. She'd dispatched Emma on a mission: pack a hasty suitcase, retrieve essentials while Edward was at work, dodging a confrontation that might have made her waver. Then, the very same day, they'd boarded for Paris, where Emma housed her in their cozy apartment, with the generous blessing of Nathan, her fiancé, a man with a gentle smile, whose understanding was a balm on still-raw wounds.
"You two should go," he'd declared that evening in the kitchen, his blue eyes settling on Clarice with sincere empathy.
"Huh?" Emma had stammered,
"The trip's already paid for. Might as well use it. And I think it'd do you good, Clarice," Nathan continued.
"As for you, Emma, I can see that work stress is getting to you. Ten days off would be heaven."
"The perfect boyfriend...," Clarice sighed with a glimmer of humor.
"Shut up, Clari," Emma had whispered back, smiling despite herself, the affectionate nickname slipping from her lips.
"You're sure it doesn't bother you?" Emma had asked Nathan, capturing his hands in hers.
"Would I rather go with you? Absolutely. But right now, your friend needs you, so..." He didn't finish. Emma launched into his arms, her lips seeking his in a feverish, urgent kiss tasting of red wine and gratitude.
"Thanks... You sure you won't get jealous of all the surfers I'll meet there?" she'd murmured in his ear. Nathan extricated himself with a mock groan of exasperation, gathering the dirty plates to cart to the kitchen.
"I regret it already," he tossed over his shoulder, a crooked smile betraying his amusement, as Clarice burst into giggles at the scene.
~oOo~
And so it was, one week later, that the two friends finally found themselves on the island of Lana’i. They arrived in a private transfer from the Four Seasons. The air, laden with iodine and wildflowers, seeped through the vents, brushing Clarice and Emma's skin with a warm breeze that sparked subtle shivers. Their destination: the Sensei Lanai, a coveted hotel renowned for its blissful seclusion. A haven where tourists could be counted on one hand, where children were forbidden to preserve adult tranquility, and where staff, mostly recruited from mainland Americans, turned every stay into an intimate retreat far from noisy crowds.
"It's incredible...," Emma breathed, eyes wide at the wild splendor that lay before them. Not being used to such journeys, she pressed her nose against the window like a child.
"I'm going to take a million photos, Nathan is going to be green with envy," she giggled.
Clarice said nothing, a discreet smile curving her lips. Savoring this timeless moment, soothed by the hum of the limousine and Emma's presence at her side, she felt a fragile peace settle in.
Upon arrival at the Sensei Lanai, Clarice thanked the driver with an elegant nod. She advanced toward the hotel with that innate class defining her. Emma followed.
"Good morning, I have a reservation under...," Clarice began confidently, halting mid-sentence. Her gaze shifted from the concierge to fix, icy, on a group of employees about ten meters away, near a side counter.
"Clarice?" murmured Emma.
Without saying anything, Clarice walked away quickly, her heels clicking on the polished stone floor. Emma followed her, not understanding her sudden change of attitude.
"You!" she spat first, voice low and cutting, without pausing. Then, louder, a howl slicing the hotel's hushed air: "You!" She halted at last before a man towering over the group with imposing stature. 1m85 of swimmer's lean athleticism, broad shoulders straining his khaki uniform shirt. His tanned skin, uneven from party bronzing, bore discreet tattoos peeking at open collars, his angular, charismatic face featured a square jaw shadowed by three-day blond stubble. Short, blond hair, tousled with a rebellious lock falling over his forehead, framed glacier-blue eyes.
"What are you doing here? Edward sent you, didn't he?" The man raised his hands in surrender, palms open in appeasement, his relaxed posture. His lips parted to respond, but her furious logorrhea smothered it.
"Clari, what's gotten into you?" interjected Emma, voice quivering with a mix of panic and tenderness, laying a soothing hand on her friend's arm, feeling the electric tension in her athletic muscles beneath her fingers, a shiver coursing through her like a jolt.
"It's that asshole Doug, the so-called 'best friend'," Clarice spat, air-quoting with her slender, "of that fucking jerk, Edward!" she howled at her friend, tears welling at the corners of her eyes, rendering her gaze more vulnerable, more human.
Emma enveloped her instantly, arms wrapping the trembling body in a firm, warm embrace, their curves pressing together.
"Calm down, Clari, I'm here for you. Go get our room keys, and I'll handle these gentlemen to see what they're doing here, OK?"
Emma's soft, soothing voice worked immediate magic. Clarice nodded between muffled sobs before retracing her steps toward the concierge, her pace slower, weighed by emotion. Emma watched her for a moment, a veil of worry creasing her pale brow, before turning to Doug and his three companions.
"Listen... you're probably here at Edward's behest, but Clarice needs space... Could you give us some room?" Emma asked with empathetic gentleness, contrasting the prior screams, her lilting French voice, sending an involuntary shiver through Doug.
"Uh... thing is... we work here," Doug replied in a genuinely abashed tone.
"What?" Emma echoed simply, brows arching in surprise, her gaze sweeping their crisp khaki uniforms that made the answer obvious.
"We...," Doug began.
"Mmm, yes, I get it," Emma cut in, momentarily off-balance.
His eyes never left her while she spoke, dropping openly to the soft bounce of her tits under the thin tank top, then lower, tracing the narrow waist that flared into those athletic hips. He was already half-hard just from the way she stood there, innocent and unaware.
"Doug, I've heard about you, but we haven't met. Still, I'd like to ask a favor. Could you do your utmost to avoid Clarice? At least for a few days?" She scanned the three other men. "I don't know if you know her too, but if so, I ask the same of you."
"No, she only knows me," Doug interjected, "And I understand. I'll do my best, I promise..."
"Emma," she supplied with a shy smile, extending her slender hand.
When he took it, his grip was warm, firm, lingering two full seconds longer than polite. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, just once, slow and deliberate. That movement made Emma’s stomach flip and a sudden warmth bloom.
"Emma. Yeah. I've heard about you," he replied, clasping her hand, his glacier-blue gaze lingering on her pink lips.
"I promise to do my utmost to give you space."
"Thank you," Emma breathed, a shy smile on her lips, with genuine relief.
She turned around, her Converse sneakers sliding on the floor. Doug didn’t take his eyes off her.
His gaze slid slowly, deliberately, along the curve of her back, lingered on the delightful curve of her hips, then shamelessly descended to that perfect ass plump, molded like an offering beneath the skirt.
"A body like that…," he thought, a predatory grin stretching his full lips, "…is an unexpected extra gift and will make me agree to all sorts of little requests."
He smiled, already tasting the idea of bending her, of watching those pretty, green eyes go wide the first time he slid inside her.
