No panties? No mercy.

Last night, Vince truly surprised me.

He didn’t just ask me to come over. He took me to dinner—like, actually took me out. Not takeout on his couch or a taco truck on the way to his place. This was a reservation at an upscale Mexican restaurant that somehow managed to feel both elevated and intimate. We even had a car service arranged—he said it was because we both knew we’d be drinking, and he didn’t want either of us to worry about driving.

From the outside, the place looked like nothing—just a narrow entrance with a low-hung sign and a flickering lantern. But inside? It was magic.

The place opened into soft terracotta walls, moody candlelight, and high-backed leather booths stitched in deep mahogany. Each table had hand-painted tiles set in the center—little mosaic vignettes of saints, lovers, and wild horses. A wall of succulents framed the bar like a living painting, and above us, strands of papel picado hung in soft, purposeful arcs—colorful, but not kitschy. Even the music, soft guitar layered over low drumbeats, felt sensual without trying.

Vince looked good. Unfairly good. Black button-down rolled at the sleeves, the top two buttons undone just enough to make me forget how to blink. His jeans were ironed—ironed. He smelled like cedar and heat. When the hostess greeted us, her smile lasted a beat too long while she faced him, but then his hand slipped to the small of my back—low enough to send a message—and I melted. When she noticed this, she lost her smile.

I wore a short, black wrap dress—and nothing underneath. No panties. No bra. My breasts are perky and full enough that I can get away with it, even at 40DD. The dress plunged so low that if I leaned the wrong way, my breasts might’ve spilled out entirely, and it was so short that picking something off the floor would’ve shown everything. It barely covered my nipples, ass, and pussy. The breeze against my skin, the way his eyes traveled my body when I got in the car—it all added to the anticipation. Vince’s eyes widened when he saw me. “That dress is… wow. You look incredible,” he said, his voice was more gravely and lustier than usual. “It’s flattering as hell.”

We ordered birria tacos, black beans and rice, and a bottle of red wine. I asked for a margarita with no tajín on the rim. I know some people swear by it, but in my opinion, tajín belongs only on watermelon. I had a little of the wine too—smooth, heavy, perfect.

The food was perfect—tender and rich, with a kind of bold messiness that made you stop caring about appearances. The conversation flowed like it always did with Vince—easy, teasing, threaded with that low, familiar tension. His knee brushed mine under the table more than once, and every time I smiled, he watched my lips like he was trying to remember exactly how they tasted.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice low, eyes locked on mine.

“Mmm,” I said, licking a bit of salsa from my thumb. “Trying to decide if the tacos or you are hotter.”

He leaned in, his smirk crooked and full of promise. “Careful. You keep looking at me like that, and we’re not making it to dessert.”

I tilted my head, voice a murmur. “Who said I came here for dessert?”

That did it.

He kissed me right there—slow and hot, like a secret. My hand caught his shirt, and his fingers brushed the inside of my thigh under the tablecloth. It lasted just long enough to steal my breath.

He didn’t reply but we didn’t linger much longer.

The car picked us up outside the restaurant, and we didn’t speak much on the ride back—just traded glances that grew darker with every mile.

By the time we got back to his place, the air between us was tight with tension. He didn’t turn on the lights though a hallway light was on. As soon as the door shut behind us, he was on me—his mouth urgent, his hands already tugging at my dress. I was against the wall, then lifted off the ground like I weighed nothing, carried straight into the kitchen.

He set me on the counter, the cold stone shocking against the back of my thighs. My skirt was already bunched around my hips. His eyes were dark, jaw tight.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled.

“You,” I whispered, pulling him close. “No condom. I want to feel you.”

His breath hitched. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, voice thick with need. “Every inch.”

He kissed me again—deeper—and then with one forceful thrust, he was inside me. Bare. Thick. Deep.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips grinding into mine. “You feel unreal.”

He fucked me like he meant to leave his name on my soul. Hard, relentless, like we’d waited too long and couldn’t afford to hold back anymore. My fingers clutched his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his waist. Moans spilled from my lips, ragged and sharp, only broken by the deep, breathless groans he let out as he thrust deeper.

He didn’t stop until I was a trembling mess, wrung out and soaked in sweat. I screamed his name as I came, my whole body quaking beneath him. He came inside me with a growl, deep and unfiltered—and didn’t soften.

He carried me to the kitchen table next, still hard and hungry, and bent me over it. His fingers gripped my hips as he drove into me again, filling me completely. My moans turned to cries, then screams, as the pressure built and burst again. He didn’t stop—not when I came again, not when he did.

When he finally brought me to his bedroom, I was already wrecked—and he still wasn’t done. We lost count of how many times we had sex. It had to be more than six times. Maybe nine. Maybe more?

The room echoed with moans, breathless whimpers, gasps, and screams of release. His body never let mine go. He kissed every inch of me between thrusts, bit my breast hard enough to bruise, sucked until I cried out. I came so many times I lost track, and he matched me nearly every time—grunting, swearing, praising, until we were both soaked and shaking.

Finally—finally—he collapsed beside me, his face buried in my neck, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist. He didn’t let go.

He pulled the covers over our bodies and tugged me into his chest, still breathing hard, one hand tangled in my hair. I rested my cheek against his shoulder and let the weight of the night fall over us like fog.

“I love you,” he whispered thinking that I was asleep. “I always have and I always will, baby.”

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. But wrapped in the heat of him, raw and wrecked and held… I gave in.

I drifted off in his arms, body aching, lips swollen, still full of everything he’d poured into me.

When I woke, it was just after 4 a.m.

The room was dark except for the faint blue glow of his microwave clock down the hall. I shifted, stiff and sore and dazed. Vince was asleep beside me, sprawled out and boneless, one arm still resting where I’d been.

I watched him for a moment, my chest full of something I didn’t know how to name. Maybe lust??

Then I moved—quietly, collecting my scattered clothes from the floor like pieces of evidence. My purse was in the dining room.  My dress was by the door. My stilettos were tipped over by the wall by the kitchen table.

I dressed without a sound, smoothed my dress, ran fingers through my tangled hair, and slipped out before he could wake up.

Not exactly a walk of shame…more like a drive.

My thighs stuck to the seat. My mouth tasted like wine and him. My mascara was half-gone. And I could still feel him—on my skin, between my legs, inside me.

No whispered goodbye. No text. Just me, alone in the dark, the ghost of his hands still all over me.

When I got home, I undressed in the quiet half-dark of my bedroom. That’s when I saw them—bruises on my thighs, exactly where his fingers had spread my legs open again and again. Darker ones mottled my breasts where his mouth had bitten and sucked. My body looked as wrecked as I felt.

I swallowed two Advil with water, then took a morning-after pill. I’d been on antibiotics for a recent infection, and I wasn’t about to risk anything—especially not with how much he came inside me. I hate how antibiotics decrease the effectiveness of birth control

Vince didn’t just take me out to dinner. He consumed me.

And I left with nothing but a body full of proof. And guilt.