The Night We Couldn’t Stop Touching Her

We met her on a night out — you know the kind where the music is loud, the drinks are strong, and the glances are even stronger. She wasn’t just looking at me… she was looking at us. That curious, hungry look like she wanted to know exactly what it would feel like to be in between us.

We didn’t rush it. We bought her drinks, made her laugh, let our hands brush hers just long enough for her to notice. She told me I had dangerous eyes, I told her she had kissable lips. And just like that, she was in the lift with us, headed back to our hotel, cheeks flushed and breathing quicker.

The door closed… and I had her against the wall before she could even ask what was happening. My mouth was on hers, my hands sliding up her thighs, while he pressed into her from behind, one hand in her hair, the other stroking down over her hip. She melted — you could feel her giving in.

We moved to the bed in a tangle of skin and laughter. I stripped her down slow, kissing every inch, tasting her until she was gripping the sheets. He took me from behind, his hands exploring us both, and she kept moaning like she couldn’t decide who to touch first.

We swapped, teased, pushed her right to the edge over and over until she was begging us not to stop. By the time we finally collapsed, she was sprawled between us, smiling that dazed, satisfied smile we’ve seen before — the smile that says you’ve just ruined me for anyone else.

We told her there’s a dangerous kind of fun in being with us — and once you’ve had it, you’ll want it again. She agreed… and now she’s not the only one