Vegeta couldn't believe he was at another party like this.
Even though he didn't use his free pass for sex, the act he performed with the woman felt more insolent and lewd than anything he and his wife had done before.
His wife encouraged him to use his free pass, not for his benefit, but for her clear disadvantage in case he decided to surprise her with divorce.
The truth was, he came with hope—the hope to encounter her again.
He was a man of reason and action; he didn't had time to fantasize or think about what-ifs.
However, more than once, he caught himself staring at empty space, daydreaming of himself with her in that room—bending her over the rail to shove into her forcefully from behind, or sitting on that table while she rode his dick savagely, his hands pushing down her obliging hips. Even the cold floor was comfortable in his vision, chest to chest as he thrust her cunt violently while her legs encircled his waist.
He regretted not pinning her against the table or spreading her thighs the way she had narrated. He regretted not doing anything of it, and now, after he hadn't seen her in the reception area, he was regretting coming here again.
Many weeks had passed, and these events were secret and scheduled. Besides, she told him she didn't attend regularly. The chances of meeting her again were slim.
Fortunately for him, it was his lucky day.
Pacing back and forth in his private room, he heard the click of the opening door, but always expecting the worst, he tried to dissuade the intruder.
"This room is taken."
A lady-like snort sounded from the doorway.
"I know. I was expecting as much."
He turned, a little to fast for his liking, his eyes roaming all of her. She was wearing that lavender wig again, only this time, her attire didn't say, "I'm here to fuck." But he could hear that little blue skirt of hers whispering to him, "This is only for you."
"Well, which of us is lying about being a regular 'client' here?"
She was mocking him. Her playful face gave her away, but somehow, he didn't take offense. If anything, he was thinking how strike back at her.
"Not me. Do I need to remind you that you easily found my room both times? You must know the place very well."
His arms crossed over his chest, and he turned away from her just enough to keep her in his peripheral vision. Just that thought left a sour taste in his mouth. She murmured something under her breath, which he only grasped "looking" and "you."
Had she been looking for him?
He turned back in her direction as she faced away from him, but not quickly enough to hide her blush. Her heated face was enough to make the whole room feel like the hottest summer day.
"Were you pursuing me?" This is going to be rich, he thought, half grinning.
Her face turned crimson from embarrassment, and her lips parted in fascinating anguish while her mind seemed to be busy thinking of a rebuttal. She looked idiotically gorgeous.
"The first time, I was just curious to find you here, and I thought that a familiar face could help with this… fetish." Her eyes searched his like some strange form of apology. "I thought my husband had this weird thing for seeing his wife fucked by other men." Air blew from her lips when she laughed sarcastically. "Turns out, he just wants to fuck other women."
Her eyes looked everywhere but at him, her fingers playing with the last button of her pink shirt, trying to distract from the hurt sound of her voice. The room felt tight with her distress, and he hated it immediately. That wasn't what he was waiting for.
"And now?"
After a pause, her eyes glinted with an untamed filthiness, and her mouth was adorned with a mellow smile that evaporated the previous tension.
"Well I had fun last time. At first I didn't want to come again, but just thinking of our 'game' made me so wet that I hoped to run into you again."
He didn't let her confession get into his head. His dick, however, stirred to life.
"Honestly, I regretted that you hadn't fucked me, but I understand. It's nice to know that some men are still faithful."
He was.
Vegeta was faithful, but it was a matter of honor and pride, not love. Why would he pursue different women when he had a cunt in home waiting for him? If all women did what his wife did, why complicate things just to reach the same orgasm?
"You mind if we repeat our last session? You know, for our sacred vows."
But he didn't want to be faithful tonight, not with her—not after he spent day after day imagining things he hadn't done with her. The mere thought of their last time left him hard enough to seek out his wife and relieve his need. But it wasn't the same; he didn't feel the same explosion of his insides, the burning satisfaction that the wig-haired woman had left with the sole use of words. If by just watching her come, had he reached the best of his orgasms, what could he feel deep inside of her? Was this why people were treacherous?
Although her tone seemed coy, he knew better. Her lips turned up at the corners, and one slim brow arched as her eyes glowed mischievously.
A perfect cocky grin, he knew those too well.
He remained silent, hiding any emotion from his face; his hands rested in his pockets to appear unruffled. Even though, he circled her predatorily, like a lion cornering an antelope. She was meat he hadn't tasted before, and now he was hungry for it.
He sneered until he stood in front of her to see her reaction.
"What makes you think I want a repeat? I had my fill."
If indignation had a name, it would be Bulma.
He kept walking around her, but she refused to look at him, her nose as high as her heels
"Fine, stay here al-"
Suddenly, his chest was inches from her back, and that preposterous pose she had melted into heated tension. His breath caressed her ear, and he inhaled the scent coming from her pores. His body felt the heat radiating from hers, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her body and press it against his. But it was too risky.
"We have much more we can do."
Breaking their rule, his teeth nibbled the soft flesh of her earlobe, and an electrical wave coursed through her body.
At a leisurely pace, almost worriedly, she tilted her back until her body was pressed to his, she had a steady breath while he felt lightheaded for the lack of oxygen. He fisted his hands to prevent them from trembling until she dragged them to her waist, since then he held her tightly, unaware it was possessively.
Cheek to cheek, she let him set the rules this time.
"What do you want us to do?"
The pads of his digits were seared by the touch of her skin. His fingers pressed at her lower back while his thumbs brushed the bone of her hips. His hands traveled up her naked back, fingertips massaging along her spine, circling over her shoulder blades, and his palms pushed her down against her shoulders. He wanted to touch every part of her, her back, arms, legs. Everything, everywhere.
Even though her tits were bouncing up and down in his face, he couldn't draw his gaze from her lips. The fleshy parts that were open, the plump salmon of her mouth, and he was fantasizing tasting them. It occurred to him, that he could; he set the rules for the night.
How far could she go? How far did he want to go?
As if reading his thoughts, she slammed her mouth against his. She tasted delicious, like summer and happiness; the kiss was firm and sharp. Her hands firmly held his face in place, but her tongue redefined the meaning of passion. It traced over his lips, like searching for a key trying to unlock his entrance, and dove in when she found the master one.
She sucked at his lower lip, and he pulled away when a sudden pain cursed his mouth.
A merciless look regarded him, pouty lips stained with scarlet droplets that he realized was his blood.
She had to pay.
With a firm grip on her waist, he pulled her deeper into his cock. Her round ass hit his thighs with every thrust she made. She was riding him at an unruly pace, holding him, clutching his neck to prevent herself from falling from the highest cliff.
He wouln't let her fall.
Sharp canines sunk into her throat, and his tongue lapped at the sweat, as if tasting lust in her perspiration. Her hands no longer held his neck. Instead, they pulled at his hair with a desperate, encouraging plea.
In a swift motion, he managed to lower her back onto the couch. His tongue traveled from her stomach to her ample breast, and when she arched her back, he gently bit one nipple. Her hips not so gently bucked against his. He pressed her to the couch, but he still wanted to drink from those succulent lips. His face searched for hers, but her mouth hid in his throat, those lips releasing their muffle screams into his shoulder.
Then, Vegeta felt the stimulating sensation of pain when her bite released his shoulder. Not that his wife never bite him; she'd done it before, but it never had a big effect on him—always too early or too hard. This woman, this Bulma, in the perfect moment, sent a thunderous electric wave that traveled from her bite to his groin.
He was thrusting deeper, faster, harder, and she was biting stronger, firmer, sharper. And as they came together with a blissful pain, he wondered how many more secrets about him she could uncover? How many times could they meet again, and what other nasty things would she do to him?