Chapter 1

The late-afternoon heat of Playa del Inglés shimmered against the pavement, heavy with the scent of sunscreen, sea salt, and something animal underneath it all. The kind of heat that makes people move slower, breathe deeper, and feel the blood rush to all the wrong places. Or the right ones, depending on how you looked at it.

Max and Anke sat in the shade of a palm-thatched awning outside a swinger-friendly café tucked just off the main promenade. It wasn’t flashy, but those who knew—knew. A discreet pineapple decal on the menu. Anklets glinting on tanned ankles. Tattoos in low, deliberate places. The air was thick with heat, sunscreen, and unspoken possibilities.

Max sipped an espresso macchiato, his other hand resting calmly on Anke’s thigh beneath the table. He wore dark sunglasses, but his gaze was always moving. Anke looked effortlessly undone—her gauzy sundress the color of ripe peaches clung to her curves and left little to the imagination. No bra. Her nipples pressed against the fabric like punctuation marks. Her golden hair was tied up messily, her skin bronze and glowing, her eyes gleaming with that familiar heat. Her left ankle bore a simple silver anklet, a hotwife symbol they never discussed out loud but both understood perfectly.

She was wet already. Max could tell by the way she crossed and uncrossed her legs, restless. Something had changed in her these last few months. Or maybe something had finally awakened. They’d moved here just after Christmas—left the gray skies and grandparent duty in Lübeck for something slower, sweatier, and gloriously selfish. Playa del Inglés was their playground now. Sunshine. German speakers. And no shortage of open-minded flesh. Their modest villa sat on a quiet street not far from the beach, shaded by red bougainvillea and echoing with laughter, moans, and the scent of new beginnings.

Anke leaned in, eyes locked on something—or someone. “Do you see him?”

Max had already seen him. So had every woman—and half the men—within a hundred meters. The young Black man strolled by shirtless, radiating confidence and raw magnetism. His skin was a deep, flawless brown, smooth and gleaming. Every muscle was sculpted, but nothing about him was tense. He moved like someone who’d always been admired. Tight shorts. Sandals. Sunglasses. Effortlessly stunning.

And completely unbothered by the attention.

Couples at other tables followed him with their eyes—women adjusting sunglasses, men whispering too loud. But he didn’t glance at any of them. Not until he slowed.

Anke bit her lip. Her inner thighs pressed together again, reflexively.

“He’s perfect,” she whispered, almost angrily.

Max smiled and nodded, calm and hard under the table. “Let’s see if he smokes.”

As if summoned, the man paused, turned back toward their table, and approached with deliberate ease. He lifted two fingers.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice smooth as honey, “do you have a lighter?”

His voice was deep. Warm. Amused.

Anke reached for the lighter, but Max beat her to it, plucking it from the table and flashing the young man a grin.