It had been a whirlwind few months. My partnership with Andreas was finally bearing fruit, with remixes, album sessions, a tour — all stacking up. The momentum was undeniable. I was still commuting to London from up north, though Andreas had offered more than once to let me move into one of his spare rooms. He insisted my absence from the capital was slowing me down. He might have been right.
We were in Barcelona for a music conference, the kind of trip that blurred the lines between business and pleasure. On our penultimate day, we decided to head to Playa de la Barceloneta. Andreas, Sophia, Malika and I strolled single file along the sun-warmed promenade, weaving through tourists and locals with the scent of salt, grilled seafood, and sunscreen thick in the air.
Malika was in a long, figure-hugging maxi dress that moved like silk over her body. As always, she had my attention without trying. Her presence alone was enough. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
We found a spot on the sand and dropped our bags. Without a word, Malika reached for the hem of her dress and slowly lifted it over her head. As the fabric cleared her shoulders, she locked eyes with me. No bikini top. Just flawless, sun-kissed skin and a pair of full, perfect breasts that matched what my imagination had conjured more times than I cared to admit. Her nipples were dark, her areola wide and bold, and for a second the world tilted.
She stood like that, completely at ease, Andreas mere feet away, seemingly unfazed. Meanwhile, my thoughts were spinning. What was happening? Was this a test? A tease? Or something more?
The afternoon unfolded lazily, the four of us alternating between dips in the Balearic and stretches of sunbathing. Eventually, Andreas and Sophia decided to walk down the beach to the showers. Malika remained behind with me, her tone casual, relaxed. She reached for a towel and began to dry herself off, using it as cover while slipping out of her bikini bottoms. Then, with one smooth motion, she pulled her dress back on, now completely bare underneath.
"Your turn," she said.
I looked at her, unsure. My shorts were damp and clinging to me, but this was still a public beach. Not quite nudist, though not exactly modest either. I wrapped a towel around my waist and peeled off the shorts beneath it. As I adjusted, I caught her staring. Not coyly, not playfully, but directly. Her gaze dropped below the towel, lingered, then returned to meet mine.
"I want to see it," she said, just loud enough for me to hear.
I froze. Not from shame, but from shock. This wasn’t just flirtation. This was provocation, bold and unapologetic. Her husband, my business partner, was still just across the sand, out of sight but close enough to return at any moment. And here she was, asking to cross a line without blinking.
I didn’t respond. Not with words, anyway. I just looked at her, trying to read between the lines. Trying to figure out what kind of game this was, and whether I was already in too deep.
Because whatever this was, it wasn’t innocent. And it wasn’t over.
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