I was 18 when I met him. He was 22, confident, cocky, the kind of man who knew exactly what he wanted. I was the innocent, petite girl people thought they could figure out. Truth was, I had my wild streak—I just hadn’t met someone who could bring it out. And he did. Fast.

A few years into marriage, love and lust tangled together, our desires only getting bolder. Public sex? It became our thing. Sneaking into each other’s houses wasn’t an option—so we made the world our playground. Steamy windows, secret parking spots, quickies in the woods, teasing touches when we were out sightseeing, knowing we’d end up tangled in the backseat minutes later.

At first, I was shy. Two weeks in, that was gone. He had a way of making me crave him, of making me do things I never imagined. One night, he wanted more than the car. The cool night air, the thrill of getting caught. So we stepped out, slipping under a canal bridge. He bent me over, but I was too nervous, too dry. That changed fast when he dropped to his knees, lips and tongue working me until I was soaking, until I was pressing my hips back, begging for more. When he slid inside me, it was electric—my moans swallowed by the night.

I wanted to taste him next. I dropped to my knees, taking him deep, my hands gripping his thighs as he groaned. The rush of it, the heat, the urgency—it was perfect. Until we saw a light in the distance. We scrambled up just as a cyclist whizzed past.

Close call. But that’s what made it even hotter.