Realizing a mistake

Tasha was riding hard now—eyes closed, sweat glistening down her chest, thighs flexing with every bounce, every wet slap of her body on his. Her breath came fast, each exhale catching on a low moan. She was right on the edge.

And then—a thought.

Wait.

That photo.

Her eyes snapped open, pulse hammering.

He was cuffed. Fully cuffed. Both wrists to the headboard. Blindfolded. Gagged. No hands free. So how the fuck did he take that selfie?

She didn’t have time to react.

Two strong hands clamped around her waist from behind.

“What the f—!”

She barely got the word out before she was yanked backward and flipped—legs kicking, body twisted—until she landed face-down on the bed, knees spread wide, chest pressed into the mattress. The cock still buried in her slipped out during the flip, her cunt clenching at the sudden emptiness.

Then—click. One wrist was grabbed, yanked outward, cold metal closed around it.

Click. The other.

Her arms were spread to the corners of the bed’s footboard, locked tight, just as the realization hit her in full.

Jonathan.

Jonathan said he was out of town.

Jonathan was supposed to be out of town.

That thought rang louder than her pulse, louder than the ragged breathing in the room—and it froze her for just long enough.

Because Jonathan—or the man she thought was him—was still lying there, exactly where she’d found him, wrists cuffed tight to the headboard, gag in his mouth, blindfold secure. He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t have. But now, from behind her, there was a second presence—a body that hadn’t been there when she came in. Hands she hadn’t touched.

That meant—there was someone else.

Someone who had just flipped her over like she weighed nothing. Someone who had grabbed her wrists, stretched her out, cuffed her wrists to the bottom corners of the bed.

Her head whipped to the side as far as it could go, chest heaving against the mattress.

She looked again at the first man—the one she’d just been riding, soaking, using.

His body was still. Silent. Still gagged. Still blindfolded.

And now she saw it. It wasn’t Jonathan.

Similar build. Same broad shoulders. Same trimmed chest hair. But his jaw was a little sharper. His skin just a shade lighter. He had a mole Jonathan didn’t have, right under his left pec. She hadn’t noticed in the rush. Hadn’t thought to check. Not with his face half-covered and his cock doing all the talking.

Fuck.

“Who the—” she gasped, twisting in the cuffs.

But a hand slid into her hair. Gentle, sure. Tugging just enough to lift her head.

“Easy,” came a voice—low, smooth, unbothered. She felt fabric brush her cheek.

Then darkness.

A thick band of cloth was pulled around her eyes, knotted tight at the back of her head, plunging her into blind silence. The scent of laundry soap and skin filled her senses.

Her pulse thundered.

“You’ve had your turn,” the voice said near her ear. “Now it’s ours.”