Until this point, the spectacle has largely been a lesson in the many ways one can evoke pleasure simply through touch. But now the men are looking at each other, communicating their intentions, it seems, and despite the absence of a verbal exchange, they lie on the bed in a coordinated dance, each snaking an arm around one of the woman’s legs. It’s a tight fit, but the men manage to share the space between her thighs. She opens for them, and a wave of heat washes over me when one man slides two fingers inside her and the other kisses her clitoris.

In that moment, I want to be her. And I want one of the men to be Dean. Desperately.

The woman cries out, her voice piercing the bubble of silence among the onlookers. Startled, I stumble back, but there’s nowhere to go except farther into the cocoon of Dean’s body. He keeps me upright by placing his arm across my middle.

“I got you,” he says, low and slow, each word sticking to the next one like honey.

My nipples tighten, the arousal in the air and the deepness of his voice working in tandem to heighten my reaction to the spectacle in front of me.

I grasp Dean’s hand as if doing so will keep me steady, but I’m more unbalanced than ever, teetering on a seesaw in my head, unable to make sense of what’s happening to me or around me. Somehow, I cut through the mental haze and register Dean’s heavy breathing, an awareness that sizzles across my skin and settles between my legs.

Before me, the men switch places, one set of fingers sliding out, another set of fingers gliding in. A different tongue. More pleasure. Keening cries. They continue this pattern, taking turns as they drive her wild with their mouths and hands, until she arches her back high off the bed and screams through her orgasm.

I’m no longer grasping Dean’s hand—I’m gripping it—and then our fingers are entwined, squeezing together almost painfully as we come down from whatever has us in its clutches. It occurs to me that we could make our way to a dark corner and fuck each other senseless, and no one would raise a brow; for a millisecond, I consider asking him if he’d like to. Without meeting his gaze, I turn into him, my forehead grazing his chin and my free hand fisting his shirt. Propelled by pure need, I rise on my toes.

“I can’t help myself,” he whispers above me. “Can you?”

My chest expands, and I melt against him, ignited by his consent. “I can’t either.”

But before our lips can touch, reality returns as the room suddenly brightens, the stark white walls and flustered faces of the people around us revealed for all to see.