I noticed Mira was sneaking glances at me all evening—watching how I handled Angela earlier, the casual dominance in my voice, the way my hand lingered possessively on my wife's hip.
Each time our eyes met, she'd blush violently and look away, thighs pressing together under the thin blanket like she could trap the ache building there.
The sunset had bled the sky into deep purples and bruised oranges, the last rays dying behind the jagged cave mouth. Inside, the air was thick—humid from three warm bodies, scented with salt, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the sea outside.
I'd set the battery lamp between the sleeping bags, dimmed to its lowest amber glow, just bright enough to paint soft golden edges on skin but dark enough to hide most sins.
Now the three women lay side by side on the wide bed: Angela on the left, Lisa on the right, Mira trapped sweetly in the middle like the prize she was. I stood, stretched deliberately, and announced in a low, casual tone:
