With a bit of luck

Emma slumped against the worn fabric seat of the booth, her chest heaving as she tried to drag breathinto her lungs. Her legs were like jelly, trembling uncontrollably beneath the table. Slowly, deliberately, Ben withdrew his hand from her soaked leggings. The wet *schlick* of his fingers sliding out of her, made her hips twitch, a fresh wave of sensitivity crashing over her navel.

He casually wiped his slick fingers on a paper napkin, his breathing steady, completely unaffected by the mind-blowing orgasm he’d just **** out of her.

"Right. I'm going to the toilet," Ben muttered, his voice returning to its normal, rough cadence. He slid out of the booth, giving her one last, like an artist appraising his latest work.

Left alone, Emma squeezed her eyes shut, her mind spinning as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind of depravity she had just plunged into. *What the fuck did I just do?* she thought, panic warring with the heavy, throbbing ache between her thighs. She was a cheater. She had just taken her boyfriend's roommate's fingers deep inside her pussy and climaxed silently while he bought them drinks. It was supposed to be a one-time madness, a stupid lapse in judgment, but the way her body had completely surrendered to his dirty, degrading touch terrified her. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his thumb on her clit, still smell the pungent mix of his sweat and stale beer on her skin. Her mind screamed at her to feel nothing but guilt, but her sodden cotton knickers and the intense, pulsing heat in her core told a completely different story.

A few minutes later, Tom returned, carefully balancing the tray of drinks. Instead of taking the seat across from her, he slid into the booth right next to Emma, his thigh pressing warmly against hers.

"Here we go," Tom said cheerfully, handing her the glass of white wine. He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at her flushed face and the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. "You sure you're okay, dear? You're shaking a bit, and you look like you've seen a ghost."

Emma **** a bright, albeit shaky, smile, taking the glass with a hand that still trembled slightly. "I'm fine, bubz, really," she lied smoothly, the deception slipping out easier than she expected. "Just... it's a bit stuffy in here, and the music is giving me a slight headache. That's all."

"Alright, well, we can leave soon if it's too much," Tom said sympathetically. He wrapped a warm, comforting arm around her shoulders.

Seeking something familiar, **** to wash away the dirty, illicit thrill of Ben's touch, Emma leaned into him. She cuddled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his waist. Tom smelled like clean laundry, his department store cologne. He was safe, calm, and entirely oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend's pussy was still dripping. She closed her eyes, trying to let his steady, innocent presence ground her.

A few minutes later, Ben walked back from the toilets.

He stopped a few feet away from the booth. Emma looked up through her eyelashes as he approached, expecting the usual lazy, arrogant smirk. Instead, as his eyes landed on her cuddled up against Tom's chest, his jaw tightened.

For a split second, the cool, relaxed composure vanished. A dark, ugly spark of pure annoyance flashed in his eyes. His gaze dropped to Tom's arm wrapped around her shoulders, then back to her face.

Emma's breath caught in her throat. She saw the jealousy, the irritation seaping off him, and a sudden, unexplainable jolt of arousal shot straight down to her groin. She quickly averted her eyes, her heart hammering against her ribs as Ben sat on the chair at the head of the booth table.