Chapter 5

Dropping my briefcase by the door, I changed into shorts and a t-shirt, then headed to my home gym. An hour with the free weights and thirty minutes on the rowing machine should have been enough to clear my head. It wasn’t.

Even as I stood in the shower, the hot water streaming over me, I could still hear Monique’s voice, still feel the ghost of her lips on my cheek.

By the time I sat down for dinner—an omelet, simple and satisfying—I had convinced myself to stop thinking about her. But the moment I settled into my chair with a glass of wine, my eyes were drawn to the window, to Monique’s darkened room.

Waiting.

Wanting.

When her light flickered on, my breath caught.

She stepped into view, wearing a copper-colored skirt that hugged her hips and flared at the thigh with a teasing slit. A fitted white tank top bared her shoulders, and on her feet were delicate dancer’s shoes.

She raised her phone, and a moment later, mine buzzed.

I hesitated before answering.

“Good evening, Monique,” I said, my voice betraying my anticipation. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you, John,” she purred. “I was about to practice, but then I realized—you couldn’t hear the music.”

I heard the smile in her voice.

“I’ll put my phone down,” she continued, “but stay on the call. That way, you can watch ... and listen.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

She set her phone down, and the soft strains of music filled my ear.

Then she moved.

At first, it was only a warm-up—slow, fluid motions, her body stretching, hips swaying, arms unfurling like silk ribbons. Even these simple motions were hypnotic. Ten minutes passed before the music changed.

“I’ll be dancing bachata next, John,” she murmured.

Then, the beat shifted.

She turned away from the window, her hips rolling in deliberate, sultry undulations, each movement teasingly slow. When she faced me again, her eyes were closed, lost in the rhythm, lost in herself.

Then, she disappeared from view.

The music continued, but my pulse spiked when she returned—this time with her top gone.

Her bare back glowed in the dim light, her body a masterpiece of motion. Every twist, every roll of her hips, sent heat pooling low in my stomach.

Monique turned her head, glancing over her shoulder at me. Her lips curved into a wicked smile.

Then, her hands came up, covering her breasts.

She faced the window, her fingers grazing over her own skin, teasing, caressing, her body still swaying to the rhythm. A giggle slipped from her lips, a knowing, sultry sound.

I gripped the arm of my chair, my restraint hanging by a thread.

Then she vanished again.

The music slowed, a new beat pulsing through my ear.

She stepped back into view, her full figure exposed now save for a whisper of white fabric at her hips.

A thong.

My breath hitched as she twirled, the thin scrap of cloth only accentuating the smooth curves of her ass. Every roll of her hips, every turn, was deliberate, sensual, meant for me.

Until once again, she was gone.

Then, her voice, breathless in my ear.

“Stay on the call, John.”

A pause. A rustle of sheets.

Then—soft, intimate buzzing.

I froze.

“Can you hear that?” she whispered. “That’s my vibrator. Imagine what I’m doing right now, John ... Touch yourself for me.”

“Monique,” I groaned, already aching.

“Tease yourself,” she gasped. “Let’s enjoy this together.”

Her moans, my name on her lips—it was all too much.

When she came apart with a cry, I followed.

Spent and breathless, I could only listen as she murmured, “Good night, my dear John. Sleep well.”

Then the call ended.

And I was left with nothing but the ache of wanting her all over again.