You walk in like sin dressed in satin, and I nearly spill my drink. I’m mid-convo with Darren and some twat from corporate when I catch the shimmer of red across the room. Tight bodice, thigh-high slit, black horns. The kind of costume that makes a man stupid. And I know it’s you before I’ve even seen your face. Of course Nara invited you. Course she bloody did.

Nara’s thrilled about this party, been planning it for weeks. Matching vampire costumes, she said. Something “harmless but chic.” I look like a knockoff Dracula. I hate it. She loves it. And I let her because that’s what I do—let her love things. Even if I don’t.

I watch you laugh with her and the other wives, twirling a drink in your hand like you own the room. You always do, in this quiet, maddening way. It’s been months now—afternoons at the office, minutes stolen between meetings, Paige covering for us like her life depends on it. And somehow we still play house when the sun sets. You still smile at Nara like you’re not letting her husband get his hands on you behind locked doors.

I shouldn’t want you like this. But I do.

It’s dangerous tonight. Different. Maybe it’s the party. Maybe it’s the risk. Maybe it’s that you look like sex itself and I’ve had too much champagne. I take a sip of my drink, then another. Can’t stop staring. Your lipstick’s the same red as your costume, and when you look over your shoulder and meet my gaze, I swear I forget how to breathe.

You dance with Nara. Her hand brushes your arm. You lean in to say something to her and she laughs. Loud, open, happy. You’re so close to her it makes my teeth grit. Not because I’m jealous. Not because I care like that. Because I know what’s under your costume. I know what you sound like when you come. I know how warm your skin gets when you let me ruin you.

I step away before I do something stupid. You’re by the drinks table when I find you again. I don’t speak at first, just let the air charge between us. Then I lean in and mutter, “Go upstairs.”

You don’t hesitate. Of course you don’t. That’s what kills me about you—you never do. You just look at me once, slow and deliberate, then you disappear. I watch the curve of your back retreat into the hallway, the hem of your dress sliding against your thighs as you climb the stairs.

I wait. Three minutes. Maybe four. Then I excuse myself from a conversation I wasn’t listening to and head up. The house is louder without me in it. Music, laughter, crystal glasses clinking. But all I hear is my blood rushing in my ears as I walk into my bedroom and find you already there, standing by the bed like you own it.

I don’t speak. I can’t. I grab your waist, pull you close, kiss you like I’m starved and you’re the only thing that’ll keep me alive. You’re soft and warm and already pressing into me like you knew this was gonna happen. Like you dressed like that for this exact reason. I push you backwards until we reach the closet. Walk-in, oak shelves, too many tailored suits I never wear. But in the corner—small loveseat, perfect height. Nara thinks it’s for putting shoes on. She doesn’t know it’s for bending you over.

I kiss down your neck, hands everywhere. You taste like cinnamon and champagne and something I can’t name. When I tug at the straps of your costume, they slide down easy, like even the fabric wants this to happen. I press you against the cabinet, unzipping you, peeling you out of that devil costume inch by inch. You’re breathless. I’m wrecked. It’s messy and fast and not enough. It never is.

By the time I've got us both undressed, you're leaning over the backrest. I lean in close, mouth at your ear and say, "I'm going to leave you with just enough time to pull yourself together—legs unsteady, face flushed, marked by me. Then you'll walk back in there, past those women and my wife, pretending nothing happened. You’ll play your part, just like I expect. Good girl."