I walked to his canvas area half-naked—one breast still hanging from my bra, no panties, my skin gleaming in the Parisian sunlight streaming through the windows.
What I saw left me breathless.
I’d never seen myself on canvas before.
The woman in the painting was... she was magnificent. Full red lips, smeared with chocolate and lipstick. Curves portrayed in the most beautiful way—celebrated, not hidden. She was licking ice cream from the cone, hands bound by the red ribbon. Her expression was pure ecstasy—the same expression I’d worn while satisfying myself.
This was a woman who was confident. Who knew what she wanted and got it on her own terms. Sensuous. Powerful. Free.
“Thank you, Florin,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.
Florin looked at my exposed breast, at the mess of chocolate and lipstick still on my skin. He came closer, reaching around to unhook my bra.
As it fell away, he whispered in my ear, “Thank you, Amelia. For being a good girl. And for that, you shall be rewarded.”
He swept the art supplies off his work table in one motion. Then he lifted me onto it, my back against the cool wood.
He knelt between my legs and buried his face in my pussy, his tongue finding places my fingers couldn’t reach. He sucked my warm, swollen clit, and made me come again and again until my eyes rolled back and I screamed with pure bliss.
CHAPTER 13
Mark
The bar was dimly lit, filled with the low murmur of conversations in French that I couldn’t quite follow and didn’t care to try.
I sat on a stool nursing my third whiskey, feeling pathetic and desperate.
The whole point of this open marriage was supposed to be me opening up possibilities. Seeing other people. Having fun. Experiencing variety.
Instead, all I’d gotten was disappointment after disappointment while my sweet, innocent wife was having the time of her life with a billionaire artist who showered her with diamonds and limousines.
I felt guilty. I felt jealous. I felt like the biggest idiot who’d ever lived.
Simone had been a massive letdown—the bad sex was something I could have lived with, but the backstabbing? That had gone too far.
How could I have been so naive? So dumb?
I’d thrown away everything for nothing.
“Is this seat taken?”
I looked up. A well-dressed woman stood next to the empty stool beside me. She was pretty—sophisticated in that effortless French way, with dark hair in a sleek bob and expensive-looking jewelry.
This could be my chance. Maybe my only chance to salvage something from this disaster.
“No, please,” I said, gesturing to the seat.
She sat down, ordered a glass of wine, and we started talking. Her name was Céline. She worked in finance. She found my American accent charming.
I bought her a drink. Then another.
“So,” she said, leaning closer, “where would you like to go? Your place or mine?”
My heart jumped. “Yours,” I said quickly. Our apartment still smelled like Amelia’s vanilla perfume.
“Perfect. My husband is away on business.” She smiled. “I’m in an open marriage, you see.”
The words hit me like cold water.
