Paradise Found: a Bnwo Romance
Copyright© 2025 by Serena Steele Monroe
Chapter 4: Smile at Her?
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 4: Smile at Her? - In the sultry embrace of a tropical island paradise, where the sun-kissed coconuts whisper of untold possibilities, Rebecca and Whitaker Whitney's perception of each other is forever altered when they encounter the magnetic presence of Xavier. As the scorching heat of desire collides with the tantalizing allure of forbidden passion, boundaries dissolve like mirages in the hot sand. The couple embarks on a journey that defies convention and challenges their notions of love, lust, and surrender.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Cuckold Slut Wife Wife Watching Wimp Husband Interracial Black Male White Female Masturbation
Whitaker spent the afternoon psyching himself up at the edge of the beach bar. Sweating through his T-shirt as if it were a medical condition. The place was a hallucination of noise and color. Blended drinks sluicing into plastic cups, tourists cackling about nothing, reggae covers rolling off the speakers like syrup. Rebecca lounged ten feet away in a chaise, magazine propped open, sunglasses turned toward the sea. She hadn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.
Every few seconds, she stared up and caught his eye over the top of the glossy spread. She gave him a thumbs-up. Whitaker’s balls tried to climb into his stomach.
Xavier manned the other end of the bar. Shirtless today, sweat pooling in the ditches of his abs. He flipped a bottle, caught it behind his back, poured two shots with one hand, and laughed at a joke he hadn’t even heard. The staff shirt draped off his waistband like an afterthought. Every time he moved, tourists tracked him like sunflowers.
Whitaker checked his pulse. It thumped in his ears. His palms left wet prints on the bamboo bar top.
He rehearsed the line. Hey, Xavier. You got a minute? Rebecca and I were wondering if... But every time, he pictured Xavier frowning, or worse, laughing. Whitaker’s mouth went dry.
The bartender, this one older, tattooed, with a shark bite of a smile, slapped a rum punch in front of Whitaker.
“You look like a man about to ask a favor,” he said.
Whitaker blinked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Brother, this is a vacation island. No one wears that face unless they need help, or they just got dumped. You need help with your lady, friend?”
Not answering, Whitaker slugged back half the punch. It burnt like lighter fluid and blended with tropical regret.
Out on the sand, Xavier finished a round of table service and drifted back toward the bar, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat making his skin shine like lacquered wood. His eyes were sharp, but his smile was soft, easy.
“Hey, Boss. You need a refill?” Xavier said.
Whitaker’s hands jerked, and the rum punch sloshed onto his wrist. He wiped it on his shorts and tried to sound casual.
“Uh, yeah. But also, um, you got a minute?”
Xavier nodded. “For you or Miss Lady, Boss, always.” He gestured with his chin to the end of the bar, a little oasis screened by a palm and a fake bamboo divider. “We talk there.”
Whitaker’s knees almost buckled from relief and terror. Turning, he glanced at Rebecca, who dropped the magazine and grinned at him. She raised both eyebrows like a dare. So, Whitaker followed Xavier to the quiet end, feet dragging like he was being marched to execution.
Xavier perched on a barstool, legs spread, hands folded. He stared at Whitaker with that same laser-eyed focus he used to hawk snorkeling tours.
“You seem nervous, Boss. Don’t be.”
Whitaker tried to sit, missed the stool the first time, and, recovering, managed to lower himself with dignity. He wiped his hands on his shirt.
“Sorry. I—”
Xavier waited. He didn’t seem impatient.
“Me and Rebecca,” Whitaker said, regretting the phrasing before the words left his mouth. “We, um, we were wondering, like, this is going to sound weird, and you can totally say no, if maybe you’d want to hang out after your shift?”
“Hang out?” Xavier tilted his head.
Whitaker’s throat closed. He powered through.
“Yeah, like ... for drinks. Or, um, whatever.” He heard himself, hated himself, wished for a lightning strike.
Xavier’s eyes narrowed, but his smile widened.
“Whatever?”
Whitaker nodded.
“I mean, if you have time.”
For a long second, Xavier said nothing. He laughed—a real laugh, deep and delighted.
“You want to party with the staff, huh?”
Whitaker tried to match his grin.
“If you’re allowed?”
Xavier shrugged.
“Depends ... Boss, how much fun you want?”
He made it sound like a dare. Whitaker realized the heat crept up his neck.
Xavier leaned in, voice lower.
“What do you really want, boss? Don’t make me guess.”
Whitaker swallowed. He pictured Rebecca, recalling what she’d said last night, and pictured Xavier’s hand wrapped around her wrist, as if he owned her. He tried to say it out loud.
“My wife ... well ... she thinks you have the best smile on the island. She keeps talking about it. It’s, uh, kind of a joke between us, but I thought maybe...” He gaped at the wall, desperate for escape. “Maybe you’d share it with us. After hours.”
Xavier blinked once, blinked again. He leaned back and laughed again, this time even bigger.
“You want a private smile session?”
Whitaker wanted to melt into the bar.
“That’s ... yeah. Is that weird?”
Xavier shook his head, still grinning.
“Not weird. Just new. Most people want to buy a t-shirt or a boat ride. Not a smile.”
He let it hang for a second.
“Boss, you want to meet up tonight? After sunset? I can take you to a spot where the staff go. Not far. Good music, better drinks. And no rules.”
Whitaker could only nod.
Xavier clapped his hands together. “It’s a date.”
He stood, stretched, and patted Whitaker on the shoulder.
“Bring your wife. I bring the smile.”
He left, whistling, back to the real bar and the real work.
Whitaker sat there, heartbeat out of control, hands numb. He realized he’d never even glanced at Xavier’s smile. Not really.
He gathered himself and stood up, nearly tipping the stool. He shuffled back to the central patio, where Rebecca sat, sunglasses off now, magazine folded in her lap.
“Well?” she said.
Whitaker couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face. “He said yes.”
Rebecca squealed, caught herself, and tried to look demure. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it so hard his knuckles cracked.
“Sunset?” she said.
“After sunset. Some staff hang out. And he said no rules.”
Rebecca’s pupils widened. She kissed him on the cheek, licked the taste of rum from his lips. He liked how her mouth moved on his. Together, they reconnoitered as Xavier worked the bar, scrutinizing him as he laughed with guests, and often he flashed them a smile.
Whitaker’s burden lightened.
“Good job, baby,” Rebecca said.
Whitaker let the words sink in, let the bar noise fade away, let the horizon do its thing.
He couldn’t wait for tonight.
“God, I love you,” she said.
They sat together for a while, and other tourists grew progressively drunker. Xavier worked his section as the sun drifted down the sky. Every so often, Rebecca would lean over and whisper what she wanted to do tonight, or tomorrow, or on the flight home. Each whisper was filthier than the last. Whitaker’s head spun with it.
In due time, Rebecca got restless. She gathered her things, grabbed his hand, and pulled him away from the bar. They wandered the main path, feet crunching on gravel, palm shadows flickering over their arms. The bungalows stood in a line, each one painted a different shade of fruit. The walk back to their room seemed longer.
Rebecca talked the whole way.