There's something intoxicating about knowing another man desires my wife. Not in a distant, abstract way, but in a real, primal way--one that makes him lose sleep, one that makes him wonder what she feels like beneath his hands. I've seen those looks before. The fleeting stares when she walks into a room, the way men's voices shift when they speak to her. I know what they're thinking.
And the truth is, I want it too.
I want to see her caught in the moment, slipping past that last line of restraint, letting someone else take her--fully, unapologetically. Not because I'm not enough, but because I know what she could be if she let go. If the right man knew how to take her there.
Maybe you're reading this, wondering if I really mean it. If this is just a fantasy or if, under the right circumstances, it could happen. The answer is simple. For the right man, in the right moment, I wouldn't stop it.
Would you?
The Night She Let Go
The evening air was thick with warmth, the kind that clung to the skin and made every touch linger a little longer than it should. The lounge was dimly lit, humming with low conversations and the clink of expensive glasses. A place where indulgence wasn't questioned--only acted upon.
And there she sat, across the room, a vision of understated elegance wrapped in something far more dangerous.
Swarnima had chosen a deep wine-red dress, silk and lace hugging her curves in a way that made it impossible to look away. The fabric clung to her body like a whispered promise, the plunging neckline revealing just enough to make men wonder, to make them lean in closer when they spoke. A high slit rode up her thigh, teasing glimpses of her toned legs, smooth and crossed with practiced ease. Underneath, she wore only the finest--delicate lace lingerie, the kind that wasn't meant to be seen but was meant to be felt.
Her hair cascaded over one shoulder, straight yet effortlessly tousled, as if she had just risen from a lover's embrace. Brown eyes, sharp behind her spectacles, held a quiet mischief, a spark that flickered every time a man dared to hold her gaze too long. And then there were her lips--painted deep crimson, full, soft, the kind that made men want to lean in just to see if they tasted as rich as they looked.
She wasn't trying to be the center of attention. She didn't need to.
And yet, across the room, he noticed.
He arrived late. Not a planned guest, not someone I had expected, but the moment his gaze settled on her, I knew. He was older, well-dressed, exuding the quiet confidence of a man who had nothing to prove and everything to take. His suit was dark, tailored perfectly, the kind of fit that whispered wealth without saying a word. His fingers, adorned with a single expensive watch, tapped absently against his glass as he watched her. Not in the way others did--hungry and obvious--but with patience. Calculation.
He was the kind of man who didn't ask. He took.
The first drink was polite. The second, a little bolder. By the third, her lips curved into a smile that I hadn't seen in a long time--the kind reserved for moments when she forgot the world was watching. He leaned in, speaking low against the shell of her ear. She laughed, tilting her head slightly, exposing her throat in a way that made his fingers tighten around his glass.
She was slipping into it, into that space where curiosity and desire blurred into something dangerous. And I didn't stop it.
