Kamara took her time dressing.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her stateroom, fastening the final hook of the black lace bra. The sheer cups barely covered her swollen n*****s, already hard from anticipation. Her panties matched—cut high on the hips, lace framing the soft curve of her ass, her p***y barely hidden by the see-through fabric. She wore nothing else.
This was supposed to be their night.
A rekindling. A reset. This cruise across the Aegean was her last desperate attempt to remind her fiancé she still existed—as a woman, not a trophy.
She had set the mood: dim lights, slow jazz, champagne chilling in a silver bucket. The silk sheets on the bed had the faint scent of her perfume, warmed by her skin. She imagined him walking in, stopping in the doorway, c**k har
