“You broke my heart when you abandoned me and married someone else,” she whispered, her manicured hands caressing my face.
“Anya….” I pulled away, avoiding her kiss.
“I’m not even mad that you’re married now; it just makes you even hotter.” She straddled me in one swift motion. “God, I miss your dick inside me,” she moaned, grinding against my groin with a deliberate slowness.
“Anya, stop,” I said calmly, pulling my face away from hers.
“What’s the matter?” She placed her palms on my cheeks. “Don’t you find me attractive anymore?” She tried to kiss me.
Again, I avoided her lips, uncomfortable with how she was seated on my lap. Our position didn’t paint a good picture at all, and deep down, I was worried my wife would walk in on us. I didn’t want her to stumble upon this scene—I wasn’t sure why, but somehow I knew it just didn’t feel right.
“Come on, Roman,” she whispered, her voice laced with desire, her hand crawling all over my face. “Are you gonna leave me hanging? I’m wet for you already.” She ground her waist against mine. “Just take me—fuck me like you used to…. Destroy my pussy.”
Suddenly, I sensed another presence in the room, and the unmistakable scent of my wife’s perfume drifted into my nostrils. I turned toward the door, and there she was, standing still, as if frozen in place. Shocked.
Fuck.
She didn’t utter a word, but the look in her eyes revealed the pain behind her blank expression.
My heart skipped a beat, and I felt my pulse quickening by the second. A sudden heat spread across my body, accompanied by an unexplainable dryness in my throat.
It wasn’t what it looked like, but I couldn’t even find the words to explain myself. My lips parted, but no sound came out.
Anya followed my gaze to the door, and a wicked grin curled at the corner of her lips. “Aww, is this her?” Shestraightened atop me, her voice tinged with mockery. “Poor thing, you wanna join? I don’t mind sharing.”
Scarlett’s expression remained blank, and quietly, she walked away, her receding footsteps silent against the floor.
“Oh, man—and a threesome would’ve been great,” Anya mumbled to herself like she hadn’t seen the pain in Scarlett’s eyes. “Too bad she refused to join. Now, where were we?” She faced me.
“Get up and get out,” I said to her, my voice cold and menacing.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But I thought—”
“Get out!” I snapped, eyes blazing with fury.
“Okay, okay, jeez!” She hopped off my lap, hand on her chest as if to keep her heart from jumping out. She straightened her spine, adjusted her dress, and looked at me. “I’ll leave…. You’re no fun anyway.”
I watched her grab her handbag and walk out of my study with her chin held up high, unaffected by my rejection. I didn’t give a flying fuck about her—my focus was on my wife and on how to explain the situation to her.
I’d never had a reason to explain myself to anyone, let alone a young girl half my age. But with Scarlett, things were different, and for the first time, this growing attachment to her scared the shit out of me.
Unsure of what to do or how to handle this problem, I waited until later in the evening to make a move. I thought that by then, it would be a lot easier to have a conversation with her, even though I had no idea what to say.
By sundown, I searched the house for her, and one of the maids told me where to find her. The room where my latemother used to paint. At first, it came as a shock to me, and I was almost mad at her for daring to visit that place.
What business did she have being there? I wondered. But before my anger would kick in, I recalled the first time I saw her in that city restaurant. She’d corrected me about a painting on the wall, a testament to her knowledge of art.
It suddenly made sense that she’d find my late mother’s art gallery fascinating. It also explained where she was and why she’d disappear for hours.
Curious to find out what she was up to, I headed straight to the private area on the upper floor. The distant sound of poignant music drifted through the air as I walked to the room at the end of the hallway. The closer I got to my destination, the louder the music became.
I dipped my hand into my pocket, slowing as I approached the room. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of the world beyond. I spotted her sitting on a stool, her back against the entrance as she worked on a canvas mounted on a tripod easel.
She was so engrossed in her artwork that she didn’t hear me come in. Plus, the background music drowned out every sound. For a moment there, I felt like I was looking at my late mother—same posture, same hand movements.
