Part 3 – Their Night TogetherArrival | Erinvale | 2:10 AM Saturday Morning

The Land Cruiser purred along the empty streets, leaving Stellenbosch behind as the lights of the Winelands faded into quiet. The cabin was dim, the soft glow from the dashboard casting shadows across Melany’s bare thighs, the dark sweep of her dress teasing across her skin.

She leaned into him in the back seat, curled under his arm. Their fingers interlaced, knuckles brushing, electricity sparking with every touch.

They hadn’t spoken much. They hadn’t needed to. The energy between them didn’t simmer anymore. It pulsed. Thick. Heavy. Laced with something primal and inevitable.

Every bump in the road shifted her a little closer. Every stretch of silence made his breath hitch just slightly deeper.
She rested her head on his chest, her lips brushing the open collar of his shirt, breathing in his scent — leather, clean skin, and the faint bite of his cologne.

He kissed the crown of her hair. Once. Then again, slower. Her hand slid slowly across his stomach, fingertips tracing lazy patterns just above his belt, the warmth of her touch making his muscles tighten involuntarily.

He exhaled, long and shaky.

The driver said nothing—professional, discreet—but his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror only once, tilting it up for their privacy.

The gates of Erinvale Estate opened with a soft buzz, and the Cruiser turned down a quiet lane lined with hedges and garden shadows. At the end of a long cobbled driveway stood the house — warm-lit, stone and glass glowing beneath the soft golden wash of security lights.

The Cruiser stopped. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door.
Christopher stepped out first, straightening. He turned, offered his hand to Melany. She took it, fingers sliding into his like a promise.

In the softest voice, Christopher nodded to the driver. “Thanks, Dave. You’re good for the night.” “Of course, sir,” came the reply, barely more than a murmur. The Cruiser eased back down the drive. And then it was just the two of them.

As soon as the front door clicked shut behind them...

It snapped.

The tension. The restraint. The careful dance of the last 24 hours.

Christopher’s keys hit the table with a muted clink, and before the sound even faded, his hands were on her again—pulling, gripping, guiding her back against the entry wall with desperate intent.

Their mouths collided with the desperation of a dam breaking. Melany pressed into him, hands slipping under his shirt, palms dragging across the heat of his skin. She moaned as she felt the muscles tighten beneath her touch, hard lines that had haunted her imagination since the airport. His hands moved like he already knew her, gripping her waist, dragging her hips to crash against his.

She gasped—because she felt him. All of him. Hard. Demanding. Straining against the fabric between them.

She ground her body against him, slow and deliberate, her soft curves teasing the hard planes of his body with delicious friction. The heat of her bare thighs brushed his jeans as she rocked forward, her chest rising with every hungry breath.

His hands cupped her ass—pulling her closer, harder, until there was nothing left but friction and the maddening barrier of clothes.

She kissed him like she needed air. Like kissing him was the only thing keeping her from completely unraveling.

“Couch,” he muttered against her lips, voice hoarse.

She nodded, lips brushing his jaw. “Now.”

They barely made it five steps.

He turned, still kissing her, and half-guided, half-carried her to the living room. The couch loomed into view, long and modern, its deep cushions practically begging for them.

She ripped his shirt off as they stumbled back onto it together.

He landed above her, weight braced on one arm, his body pinning her down into the cushions.
She arched into him, hips grinding, and he groaned — a low, guttural sound vibrating deep in his chest — feeling her heat through the thin fabric of her dress.

“No panties,” he breathed, voice thick with need.

“No patience,” she whispered back, tugging at his belt.

Their mouths crashed again, more forcefully now. Her fingers dug into his back, nails leaving trails, her thighs spreading instinctively as his hand slid up one of them, caressing along the slick, trembling inside.

She was soaked.

And he was burning.

The couch welcomed them greedily.

Christopher hovered above her, eyes raking down her body, his fingers exploring — slow, reverent, but heavy with promise. He found her center, spreading her open with his fingers, sliding inside — and the heat, the wetness made him groan brokenly into her mouth.

Her dress had bunched around her waist, soft fabric twisted like a half-forgotten secret, baring her to him.

His mouth left hers, trailing kisses down the curve of her neck, tasting her salt, feeling the furious pounding of her pulse under his tongue.

She writhed beneath him, whimpering, hips desperate for more.

“Off,” she hissed, pulling at his pants.

He didn’t hesitate. His pants fell away in frantic motions.

When he came back to her, naked and ready, his hands slid up her thighs, gripping, parting her again with a possessive force.

“Your dress,” he growled against her ear, “I want it gone.”

Melany wriggled upward, and he helped peel it off — inch by agonizing inch — until she lay before him: wild hair, flushed skin, bare curves gleaming in the low light.

He sat back for a moment, devouring her with his eyes.

“You’re... unreal,” he breathed, voice rough with awe.

She smiled wickedly, tugging him back down. “So do something real.”

He did.

His mouth moved lower: kisses scattering across her collarbone, down her breasts, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, sucking a peaked nipple into his mouth until she arched and cried out.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively, but he caught them. Spread them.

He growled, “No hiding now.”

His hand slid back between her legs — and God, she was dripping, heat pulsing against his fingers.

“You’re shaking,” he rasped.

“Because I need you,” she gasped.

He moved lower, teasing kisses over her stomach, skimming dangerously close to the throbbing center of her, but not lingering, letting her drown in anticipation.

She grabbed him, pulling him up, mouth devouring his in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger.

And finally—

Finally—

He shifted between her legs, one hand cradling her face.

“I’ve wanted this since the airport,” he growled.

She wrapped her legs around his waist. “Then stop waiting.”

He pushed into her with one slow, devastating thrust — and she cried out, nails clawing down his back, her body stretching to take him in. A gasp tore from her lips, then another, as he filled her inch by aching inch, until they locked together — molten, breathless, overwhelmed.

Her walls clenched around him, tight and welcoming, wet heat gripping every inch.

“God,” she gasped. “You feel... too good.”

Christopher lowered his forehead to hers, breath ragged, the effort to stay in control trembling through his arms.

“You’re... perfect,” he groaned. “Tight. So warm. So—”

She clung tighter to him with her legs. “Don’t hold back.”

And that was it. The last tether snapping.

He moved with savage precision — slow at first, grinding deep, dragging pleasure out until she trembled violently.

Then faster.

Harder.

Each thrust was a brutal surrender, each movement sending shockwaves through both of them.

Her nails raked down his back. Her teeth found his shoulder. She sobbed into his mouth, gasps turning into cries as he drove into her again and again, hips pistoning, skin slapping wetly against skin.

The couch groaned beneath them.

Sweat slicked their bodies, the air thick with salt, heat, the primal scent of sex and need.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered, legs locking around him.

He didn't.

He drove into her ruthlessly, relentlessly, holding her gaze, feeling her climb, feeling her body seize around him—

And she shattered. Arching. Crying out. Her orgasm ripped through her — raw, consuming, tightening around him like a velvet fist.

He lost it. He plunged deep, grinding against her as he came, powerful, overwhelming, pulsing inside her in heavy, shuddering waves.

He collapsed into her, shaking, skin on fire, hearts thundering in sync.

Their bodies stuck together with sweat and slickness, breathing ragged, no space between them.

He kissed her jaw, her neck, her shoulder — small, broken kisses, grounding himself in the feel of her.

Neither of them moved.

Because, for the first time in a long time, nothing else existed.

They lay tangled on the couch, both of them sweaty and breathless, skin flushed, hearts still pounding from the storm they had just unleashed.

Melany sprawled across Christopher’s chest, her fingertips lazily tracing circles through the sheen of sweat on his skin.

She laughed softly, her voice husky from moaning. "You broke me."

Christopher tilted his head and kissed the top of her damp hair. "You came back from it very well."

"I still can't feel my legs."

"Good," he said, a slow, wicked grin curving his mouth.

She lifted her head, eyebrows raised. "Cocky."

He leaned in, kissed her gently this time—sweet and slow, a balm against the rawness of what they'd just done.

She groaned, flopping back onto him. "Water. If I don't hydrate, I'll die."

He stood, bare and utterly unashamed, muscles flexing as he moved toward the kitchen. His body was a roadmap of exhaustion and satisfaction: scratches across his back, bite marks blooming like badges of war.

She followed a moment later, draping his long button-down shirt over her nakedness, not to hide, but for the soft comfort against sensitized skin.

They drank from crystal glasses, gulping greedily, laughing between sips.
She spilled a little down her chin, and he leaned in, catching the droplet with his mouth, making her shiver all over again.

The clock next to his bed said 2:50 AM. The night still had breath left in it.

The ensuite bathroom off Christopher’s master was all stone and glass, warm light glowing against cool, slick surfaces.

He turned on the shower — hot, the steam rising instantly, curling toward the skylight overhead. The scent of eucalyptus from the body wash filled the room, clean and sharp.

Melany stepped in first, and he followed, pulling her wet, heated body back against his chest.

They stood like that for a while, the water pounding down around them, the noise drowning out the world. Her back pressed to him. His lips moving along her slick shoulder, tasting water and her, salt and steam.

His hands slid down her sides — slow, reverent — before sliding around to cup her breasts, fingers teasing the hardened tips under the spray.

She leaned her head back against him, letting herself melt into his touch.

"You're insatiable," she whispered, voice vibrating against him.

"You started this," he murmured, teeth grazing her wet skin.

She turned in his arms, their bodies slick against each other, hair plastered to skin, eyes burning.

"No, I didn’t," she challenged, water beading along the curves of her body. "You did. And you're going to finish it."

This time, it wasn’t frantic.

It was slow. Deep. Almost reverent.

He lifted her easily, pressing her back gently to the cool tiles, her legs wrapping around his waist, anchoring him.

He kissed her as he slid inside her again — a smooth, powerful thrust that stole both their breaths.
She moaned against his mouth, the sound low and aching.

The water pounded around them, over them, between them — their bodies moving in a slow, endless rhythm.
Each thrust was long and deliberate, gliding and grinding, igniting every nerve.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting in just enough to ground herself, heels digging into his back as he drove into her over and over.

They kissed through all of it — mouths slick, desperate, soft at times, hard at others — tasting water, sweat, toothpaste, and desire.

No frantic climb this time. Just a slow burn, rising, cresting, consuming.

Her forehead pressed to his. Her breath tangled with his.

When they came, it was together, shuddering, gasping, moaning into each other’s mouths, the release leaving them trembling, melted against the cold stone and the scalding spray.

Afterward, he held her there, her body draped over his, hearts hammering against each other.

"I can't move," she murmured, dazed.

He kissed her temple, lips lingering against her soaked skin. "Then stay."

They lingered under the water until the steam grew thin, the sharpness of the night washing away.

Christopher toweled her dry with slow, careful hands — not rushing, like touching her was a sacred thing. Melany wrapped herself in one of his oversized towels, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, a secret smile playing on her lips.

Neither of them said much. The silence between them was rich, full, complete.

In the bedroom, they slipped between cool sheets, still naked, still buzzing from everything they had given and taken.

The air smelled of lavender linen and warm skin.

The sheer curtains stirred in the night breeze, ghostly and light.

Melany curled into him beneath the duvet, one leg thrown over his, her head tucked beneath his jaw. His arm draped heavily around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her hip.

She traced circles on his chest with a single fingertip — lazy, aimless, intimate.

He kissed her hair once. Then again, softer.

"I feel like I've known you for years," she murmured into the hush.

"Maybe you have," he whispered back, voice rasping.

And just like that, they drifted to sleep. Naked. Tangled. Safe.

Morning | 7:00 AM

The sun hadn’t quite cleared the peaks of the mountains when Christopher stirred, careful not to wake her.

The house was still — the heavy, velvet kind of silence that only follows nights that change things.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen, still naked, the wood floors cool under his feet.

He set out a tray: Two steaming cappuccinos. A small bowl of rusks. Two glasses of fresh orange juice.

He carried it carefully back upstairs, the early sunlight just beginning to stretch across the floorboards of the bedroom.

Melany was still a vision — curled up in the white sheets, hair fanned out, one bare shoulder exposed like some dream made flesh.

He set the tray down and leaned over, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered open, lazy and warm.

"You made coffee?" she whispered, voice rough with sleep.

"And orange juice. And rusks. And possibly a mistake, because if I keep this up, you'll expect it every morning."

She laughed, sitting up slowly, letting the sheet slip low across her hips. She wore nothing underneath, and the sight punched the breath out of him.

"If it starts like this..." she teased, reaching for the coffee. "I might."

He watched her sip, a slow grin curling his mouth.

The light filtering through the windows turned the room golden, ethereal.

Melany leaned back against the pillows, coffee still in hand, sheets low enough to be dangerous.

Christopher sat beside her, dressed now—navy swim shorts, crisp white linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, aviators waiting on the nightstand.

"You always this put-together before 8 a.m.?" she teased.

He set down his coffee, moving closer.
"Only when I'm trying not to climb back into bed with someone who makes me want to cancel the rest of the day."

She set her cup aside too, smiling that slow, secret smile.

Then she crawled into his lap.

Her hands slid under his open shirt, palms flattening against his chest.
She kissed him — soft, slow, dragging him under again.

He kissed her back, pulling her closer, sliding her effortlessly back onto the mattress.

This wasn’t frantic either.

It was slow. Worshipful. The kind of intimacy that hums low and deep in the blood.

She guided him with her hands, and he answered with his mouth, trailing kisses over her lips, her neck, down to her breasts, tasting her like she was already part of him.

When he entered her, it was with a breath, not a growl.

Their bodies moved lazily, as if the night had never truly ended, as if they had all the time in the world.

His hand pinned hers above her head.
Her other hand clutched his hair, pulling him back into kiss after lingering kiss.

They whispered against each other's skin, words neither fully remembered nor needed to.

When they came — first her, then him seconds later — it was a soft, clinging, soul-deep unraveling.

They held each other afterward, spent and smiling, the morning creeping in around them.

Finally, she sighed against his chest.
"Okay. We really have to go."

He nodded, groaning softly. "Get ready. I’ll drive."

Thirty minutes later, they stepped out into the golden morning sun.

The Rosso Red Ferrari 488 Italia waited, gleaming.

Melany wore one of his crisp white shirts knotted at the waist, her legs bare except for rolled-up joggers, her hair wild but radiant, heels tucked into a tote bag at her side.

Christopher carried a duffel packed for the day — sunscreen, change of clothes, sunglasses, and that unmistakable, satisfied smirk.

She slid into the passenger seat, running her fingers lovingly over the dashboard.
"I could get used to this," she murmured.

He turned the key. The engine roared to life, low and throaty.

"You should," he said, shooting her a sideways grin.

And together, they pulled out into the sun-drenched morning.

Destination: the hotel.

After that?

The sea.

And an entire day still waiting to be written.