She wore this outfit like a whispered dare, black strappy top barely more than a few threads of silk crossing her tits, the fabric so thin her nipples pressed against it like dark cherries begging to be bitten.

Those sheer lace pants clung to her hips like a second skin, the intricate floral pattern doing nothing to hide the smooth shave of her pussy or the way the lace dipped between her lips when she moved, outlining every slick fold. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, a few strands already loose and curling against her neck, damp with the heat of wanting him.

It wasn't "loungewear."

It was a fucking invitation written in lace and skin, the kind of thing you put on when you've spent the afternoon edging yourself on the couch, fingers slipping under that waistband every time you thought about his cock walking through the door.

Confident. Calculated. Knowing her worth. Zero apology.

She'd been waiting, thighs pressed together, cunt already swollen and wet, imagining him dropping his keys, seeing her like this, and pinning her to the floor before the door even clicked shut.

Now he was sprawled across the couch, dead drunk, mouth open, one shoe still on. And every throb between her legs felt like a scream.

"He's passed out," I said, yanking open the passenger door. Tommy sagged against the window like a broken doll, drool stringing from his lip to the leather.

"Of course he is." Mia's arms folded under her tits, pushing them higher in that black strappy top—thin silk straps barely holding on, nipples dark and stiff against the fabric, begging to be pinched. She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched with that fond-exasperated smile wives give husbands who never learn. "Boys' night. Always ends with me playing nurse to a grown man who can't find the toilet."

"In my defense, I'm stone-cold sober."

"Because you're the responsible one. Tommy, on the other hand…" She flicked a hand toward the limp body. "Help me drag his ass inside?"

We hauled him out together. His dead weight slumped between us, arm slung over my shoulder, head lolling against my neck, reeking of tequila and bad decisions. He mumbled something about being "fucking legendary" and "showing them who's boss," then snored loud enough to rattle the Phantom's chassis.

The mansion doors parted like they knew royalty was coming—warm golden light spilling out, high ceilings swallowing the sound of his drunken grunts. Polished marble chilled my soles; the air smelled of cedar, money, and her—something sweet and filthy underneath, like vanilla laced with wet pussy.

We wrestled him up the stairs, Mia in front, ass flexing under those sheer lace pants with every step. The fabric was a cruel joke: black floral patterns that pretended to hide skin but only framed it—round cheeks clenching, the shadowed cleft between them, the faint outline of her lips when she bent forward to steady Tommy's legs. Each stair was a private show I hadn't paid for but couldn't look away from.

The master bedroom door swung open on silent hinges. California king bed, sheets already turned down like she'd been waiting to be fucked into them. City lights glittered through floor-to-ceiling glass—LA sprawling beneath us like an offering.

We dumped Tommy. He face-planted into goose-down pillows and curled fetal, one shoe still dangling off his foot. Mia tugged a cashmere throw over him with the same tenderness she probably used to ride his face when he wasn't blackout drunk.

"Thank you," she whispered, voice low so it wouldn't wake him. "For not letting him drown in his own vomit or start a bar fight he couldn't finish."

"He actually held his own tonight," I said. "Stood up to some old bullies. Made them look like bitches before fists flew."

Her smile softened, eyes flicking to the bed. "That's my Tommy. All bark until someone threatens his people—then he's a goddamn pit bull." She brushed a curl off his forehead, fingers lingering. "Even when he comes home too wrecked to fuck."

The words slipped out casual, but they landed between my legs like a hand. My cock stirred, thick against my thigh. Taboo Aura pulsed once—hungry, tasting the air, smelling the faint musk of her arousal still clinging to those lace pants.

"I should go," I said, already turning.

"You're driving to your mom's?" She followed me down the stairs, hips rolling, lace whispering against skin. "That's sweet. Missing home?"

"Something like that."

The kitchen island glowed under pendant lights—black marble veined with gold. She leaned against it, arms bracing behind her, back arched just enough to thrust her tits forward. The strappy top shifted; one strap slid off her shoulder, exposing the swell of her breast, the edge of a dark areola peeking like a secret.

"Water before you go?" She reached for a glass, bending slightly—ass flaring, lace stretching, the fabric so sheer I could see the dimples where her thighs met cheek, the shadowed seam riding up between her lips. "I was up anyway. Had this whole welcome-home scene planned—candles, lingerie, me on my knees the second he walked in." She laughed, soft and self-mocking. "Guess his dick's on vacation tonight."

My pulse thumped in my throat, in my cock. I could smell her now—warm skin, vanilla, and the faint salty-sweet of a cunt that had been wet for hours waiting for a man who never showed.

"I'm good," I managed, voice rough.

"You sure?" She straightened, closing the distance slow, barefoot steps silent on marble. Her hand brushed my forearm—innocent, grateful, electric. Heat shot straight to my balls.

"Tommy talks about you nonstop, you know. His best friend Peter—smart, loyal, suddenly richer than God but you still shows up to carry his drunk ass home."

Her fingers lingered, tracing the vein on my forearm like she was reading braille. The Taboo Aura flared again, hotter, tasting the thin line between gratitude and want.

"He's the best friend I've got," I said.

"The absolute best." Her eyes flicked down—quick, involuntary—then back up, pupils blown wide. She bit her lower lip, just a flash of teeth on plush flesh.

She leaned back against the island, palms braced on cool marble, hips rolling forward just enough to make the lace stretch tight across her pussy. The sheer fabric went translucent where it pressed, outlining swollen lips, the tiny hood of her clit peeking like a pearl caught in black webbing.

"And here I was up waiting," she murmured, voice velvet and smoke. One strap of that flimsy top had already surrendered, sliding down her shoulder, baring the upper swell of her tit until the edge of her areola kissed the air. "Had this whole filthy welcome-home planned. Candles. Me on my knees the second he walked in. Mouth open. Throat ready."

She tilted her head toward the ceiling, where Tommy snored like a broken engine. "Instead I've got a drunk boyfriend upstairs and a want that's been throbbing for hours."

Her laugh was low, self-mocking, but her eyes, fuck, those dark eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide, lips wet where she'd just licked them. "Ruins everything," she sighed, the words dripping like honey, "except maybe this conversation."

She shifted her weight; the lace rasped against marble, riding higher between her thighs. A single drop of wetness clung to the inside seam, darkening the thread, threatening to fall.

The way she said it wasn't bitter at all; it was pure, velvet sin, playful and dripping with heat, the kind of tone that made you imagine her whispering it while her tongue traced the vein along your cock.

That natural warmth rolled off her like steam, the kind that made every man in a room feel like he was the only one she saw, made dicks leak just from a smile. And right now I was drowning in it, my cock swelling so fast it hurt, the head shoving against my zipper like it wanted to punch through denim and bury itself in her throat.

"Maybe next time don't let him pre-game," I forced out, rooted to the marble because one more step and I'd be able to smell how soaked those lace panties were.

"Maybe next time I'll zip-tie his wallet to my thong before he leaves," she laughed, low and filthy, the sound stroking straight down my spine and wrapping around my balls. "Though I heard he bought out the whole club. Classic Tommy—gets a taste of cash and suddenly every stranger's his new brother."

"That's what makes him good people."

"It is." She pushed off the island and stalked toward me, slow, barefoot, hips rolling like she was already riding something thick. The lace stretched tighter with every step, riding up until the fabric vanished between her lips, a dark, wet stripe bisecting that perfect pussy. "You're good people too, Peter. Dragging his drunk ass home instead of leaving him in some alley with his dick out."

Her hand landed on my shoulder again, but this time her thumb dragged across my collarbone, nails scraping skin, heat searing through cotton straight to my bloodstream. She squeezed—slow, deliberate—and her tits brushed my chest, nipples twin bullets scraping me through silk.

"That's what friends do," I rasped, voice shredded raw.

She didn't miss it this time. Her eyes flicked down, shameless, to the obscene bulge straining my jeans, the wet spot blooming where precome had already soaked through. Her tongue wet her lower lip, just a flash of pink, and the Taboo Aura surged, tasting her, tasting the slick heat pulsing between her thighs.

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