Lunch Time

Max follows her gaze, his grip tightening around her waist as he watches the redhead arch her back in ecstasy. "Neither can I," he admits, voice thick. He turns Mea toward him, pressing her against a palm tree, the rough bark contrasting with the softness of her robe slipping open. "Seeing you like that, hungry, unleashed...it did something to me." His thumb brushes her lower lip where Derrick's cum had been, and she catches it between her teeth with a devilish grin.

The restaurant's entrance hums with murmured conversations and clinking glasses, but the air between them crackles with unspent energy. Mea's stomach growls; whether from hunger or the aftershocks of pleasure, she can't tell. "We should eat," Max murmurs, nipping her earlobe. "Build up stamina for round two." His hand slips under her robe, tracing the fresh bite marks Derrick left on her inner thigh, making her gasp against his shoulder.

Across the courtyard, a server gestures to a shaded table draped in sheer fabrics. As they settle in, a couple at the next table, a silver-haired man and his much younger companion, lock eyes with Mea, their fingers entwined over a half-finished bottle of wine. The man's gaze dips to her robe's gaping neckline, lingering on the fading blush of teeth marks. "First-timers?" he purrs, swirling his glass. Mea's pulse jumps, but Max's thigh presses firmly against hers under the table, grounding her.

Their food arrives, plates of chilled mango slices, seared scallops glazed in something spicy-sweet, but Mea barely registers the flavors. Every bite feels secondary to the electric awareness of eyes on them, of whispers weaving through the resort like an undercurrent. When Max's hand slides higher up her thigh, tracing the edge of her still-damp thong, she nearly knocks over her champagne flute. "Careful," he teases, sucking a drop of spilled wine from her collarbone. "We wouldn't want you... distracted before dessert."

Then she sees it—the muted TV mounted above the bar flickers to a new announcement. Against a backdrop of rumpled silk sheets and tangled limbs, bold text scrolls: *Gangbang: Training for New Hotwives*. Mea's breath catches. The footage cuts to a dimly lit playroom where a woman, wrists bound with velvet rope, kneels on all fours as three men circle her like sharks. Her mouth forms a soundless moan as one grips her hair, tilting her head back for the camera. Mea's pulse thrums in her throat, her fork clattering onto her plate.

Does she ignore it or propose their next activity to Max?