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Not angry. A slow, sultry smile curved her lips as she rolled her hips deeper, taking him to the hilt. She knew. She'd seen me before, maybe nights ago, and instead of confrontation, it lit something in her. She rode him harder, louder, breasts bouncing, accent thick with command: "Look at me, Daniel, fuck me like you can't stop." Her gaze held the shadows, held *me*, while she ground down, clit rubbing against him. When she came the first time, it was theatrical, with back arching and a throaty cry that echoed. She came again almost immediately, insatiable, demanding more positions: against the wall, on the floor, then anal, slow and deep while she moaned filth in that accent. Each orgasm made her wilder, as my watching fed her. Daniel matched her frenzy, pounding relentlessly. I fingered myself furiously, three digits now, thumb on my clit, coming twice in quick succession: once when she screamed through her anal climax, again when he filled her, both of them collapsing in sweat-soaked sheets. Elena's eyes found the doorway one last time, that smile lingering as she curled against him. My legs gave out; I crawled back to my room, trembling, soaked, marked in ways I couldn't explain.

Friday night:

She left the bedroom door wide open. No pretense. I stood bolder now, half in the hall light, hand already between my thighs as Elena blindfolded Daniel and teased him with feathers, ice, her mouth, before mounting him. Her movements were deliberate, performative; every roll of her hips, every sultry whisper ("You're mine tonight, love") aimed partly at him, partly at me. She came four times before switching positions: lotus, spooning, standing at the window where moonlight silvered her skin. I matched her pace, clit swollen and sensitive, coming with each of her peaks until my thighs shook. When she finally let him take her hard against the headboard, her cries were shameless; I shuddered silently, vision blurring.

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