Her focus is wholly on the paper in front of her. I put down my pen, link my fingers and watch her over my hands. She’s at her most beautiful when she’s lost in something she enjoys. She glows with satisfaction and happiness from within, and that makes me want to put an impenetrable wall around her so nothing can shatter her joyful cocoon.
Of course, there’s also an urge to kiss her and distract her from the task at hand, like a jealous husband competing for his wife’s attention. I’m also starved for her. Every so often during the day at work, she pops into my head. And every single time, she’s either laughing and wrapping her arms around me from behind, or pulling me toward her beautiful body clad in nothing but lacy lingerie and fishnet stockings, her lips shockingly plump and red. Today was particularly bad, especially after her texts. In my mind she was sprawled on my desk at Huxley & Webber, her darkly glittering eyes daring me as she spread her legs.
Although this isn’t the office, it’d be hot as hell to put her on the desk and seduce her. Spread her wide and devour her. Then plunder her sweet pussy until she begs for mercy. But the desk would be wet with her juices and—
Her sudden exhale jerks me out of my thoughts. “Done!”
I jump from my seat. “Lemme see.” But I’m only partly interested in the portrait. A larger part is ready to carry her to the desk and make my fantasy come true.
“What do you think? Pretty good, right?” she says, showing me the sketch.
Who is this?The question pops into my mind, but I silence it before I blurt it out and hurt Lareina’s feelings. The man on the paper looks nothing like me. If I didn’t know any better, it looks like—
“It wasn’t easy to do without the model in front of me, but the picture helped.”
What?“Your model was sitting right here the whole time.” I gesture at the desk.
“No, I just wanted to capture your intensity.”
What the fuck?I glare at the man in the miniature portrait. My brain is finally processing the features, from the smug look in his eyes and the annoying smirk on his lips—both of which I loathe and want to erase. “EthanBeckman?”
She doesn’t seem to notice my tone. “Pretty good, huh?”
“You drew that son of a bitch rather than me? For your first portrait?”
“Oh, it’s not my first. I did one a few years ago for an online art class.”
I glare at the picture. I hate it that he got to know her before I did. I despise that he got to be close enough to her that she drew his portrait all those years ago. The unfamiliar rage burning in my heart is startling in its intensity and animosity. I want to punch Beckman’s face until it resembles something very different from the picture my wife just drew.
She continues, “He asked me if he could keep it, and I said yes, but apparently he never got it. When we met again, he asked me about it, but I don’t have it anymore. So this is a make-upportrait.” Her words are like gasoline. “He was really nice to me back then.”
Their shared past is infuriating—especially since she and I don’t have anything between us except an apparently ridiculous Vegas wedding that I don’t remember. She claimed she hired him because he came recommended, but is that really all there is to it?
The fury burns until my vision turns red. “Did he see your back?”
She gives me a look. “What does that have to do with my sketch?”
Oh, wife, “no” would’ve been more than sufficient.Somehow her question seems like an admission that Beckmanhasseen it—or perhaps she’s considered showing it to him.
I loop my fingers around her long hair as I lean over and take her mouth. Her soft gasp is crushed between our lips.
The sketchbook and phone fall to the thick rug under her feet. I put my arms around her and pick her up. She loops hers around my neck, her mouth still on mine as though she can’t get enough.
Her hunger for me settles the jagged edges of my temper, even though I know it’s just my body she wants. She loves the pleasure I can give her with my cock, welcoming me into her dripping depth every night.
I prop her on the edge of the desk, just the way I fantasized. Her swollen, rosy lips look like a juicy cherry on her pink face. The golden hair cascades over her shoulders, and the orchid petals—not part of my original fantasy, but I’ll work with it—quiver over her ear, making her look like a wild goddess.
With easy snaps, I break the thin straps on the bodice, letting the dress slide down her torso, pooling at her waist. She pants, her gorgeous, bare tits rising and falling with each breath. The pointed nipples make my mouth water, my blood hot.
Her lips curve into a tempting smile of a siren. I claim her mouth, cupping her breasts in my palms. Her skin is cool against mine, but quickly heats as I knead the soft mounds. Teasing flicks of my thumbs across her nipples and her head falls back, exposing the sweet expanse of her throat.
I close my mouth over her pulse point, gratified at the rapid beating of her heart. I want to fuck her until she’s too sated to do anything except cling to me. I want to keep her hidden from the world so nobody—especially not that asshole Beckman—can make any demands on her attention and care. The intense urges are so foreign and dark, they should be scary. Instead, they seem irresistible. What does that say about me? Am I as fucked up as my mother?
The thought pierces me like an icy shiv. I lift my head, my hands slightly shaking over her breasts. My eyes meet hers—and there’s desire and something tender in her gaze. The sudden chill dissipates, replaced by a warm prickling that sends goosebumps over me.
She cradles my cheek and runs her thumb under my left eye. Only then do I realize that the skin there has been twitching.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”
