It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was exactly what she needed. Talia had never felt so alive, so entirely in control and out of it all at once. The more wrong it became, the more it ignited her. And Cameron, God help her, Cameron never hesitated. He never asked questions. He never flinched. Every time she called, he came. Every time she teased, he followed. Every time she gave him a part of her body, he took it like he deserved it. Like he had been waiting for her to finally notice he had always been watching.Tonight, she didn’t want the kitchen counter. She didn’t want hurried minutes in the garage or the backseat of the car while her husband stood three feet away on a call. No. She wanted him in the one place no other man had ever touched her. The one space Richard thought belonged to him and him alone. Their bed. The bed where he made love to her like it was a checklist. The bed where she had faked orgasms and counted ceiling tiles. The bed where she had once cried herself to
Talia waited until she heard the front door close. Her husband’s voice had just called out a distracted goodbye from the hallway, followed by the familiar jingle of his keys. He never kissed her before leaving anymore, just a soft pat on the hip if she was close, sometimes not even that. The silence that followed was deafening. It was the kind of quiet that demanded a choice. She stood in the kitchen barefoot, wearing a silk robe over a camisole and panties, her hair still damp from the shower. The lights were dim, and she poured herself another glass of white wine, staring at the front door that had just closed. He wouldn’t be back for hours. His dinner meeting always ran long. She had time.Cameron entered through the back like he always did, using the side gate to avoid the front. She didn’t have to text him anymore. He understood the silence. He knew when to come. The moment his shadow appeared in the doorway, she didn’t move. She just lifted the glass to her lips and took a slow
Talia had been married long enough to know when to stop expecting surprises. Dinners were predictable. Sex had settled into a rhythm of obligation and soft sighs. Conversations were mostly calendar updates and reminders to refill prescriptions or confirm travel plans. Her husband, Richard, was a good man, loyal and hard-working, but boring in the worst way. He was the kind of man who said “I love you” without looking up from his phone and kissed her forehead more often than her lips. She had convinced herself that contentment was enough. That she didn’t need fire anymore. Until Cameron walked through the front door.He was introduced casually, as if he wasn’t about to burn the foundation of her marriage to ash. “This is Cameron, my new assistant,” Richard said, pulling him into the house after work one evening. Talia glanced up from her book, already halfway into a glass of wine. She expected another intern-type—awkward, forgettable. Instead, she saw a man who couldn’t have been older
The first time was a secret. The second time was a decision. By the third, it was a habit.Naomi came back the following week under the pretense of needing guidance on her thesis revisions. She scheduled the meeting late—past office hours, long after the building emptied. She told herself it was for focus. Quiet. Clarity. But the second he opened the door and looked at her like she was the itch beneath his skin he couldn’t stop scratching, she knew they both wanted the same thing. She didn’t sit in the chair across the desk. She stood beside it, waited until he closed the door, and then kissed him before he could speak.He didn’t resist. Not anymore. He kissed her back, rougher this time, like the last thread of morality had snapped and now it was just hunger. He pulled her into his lap, undid his pants with one hand while the other dragged her panties down. She rode him in his office chair, moaning into his neck, his fingers bruising her hips, her skirt bunched around her waist as hi
She hadn’t planned to come. That was the lie she kept telling herself. The moment the invitation reached her inbox, Naomi hesitated only long enough to reread the name at the bottom—Marcus Vale—before replying with a quiet yes. A literary retreat. Two nights at his personal townhouse just outside the city. Three students. Private discussion. Focused writing time. She could’ve pretended it was about the work. Could’ve told herself it was academic. But deep down, buried beneath her pride and perfectly formatted response, she knew why she was going. She wanted him to touch her again. This time without pulling away.The townhouse was quiet when she arrived. Beautiful but minimal. Dark wood floors, soft gray walls, shelves lined with books that had seen hands and time. She was led to a guest room upstairs and told to settle in. The other two students were already there, polite enough but distracted, eager to impress. Professor Vale was in the kitchen when she first saw him, sleeves rolled,
It started with a sentence. Something he said casually, in that low, unreadable tone he always used when discussing writing as if it were something separate from emotion, as if stories weren’t born from heat and instinct but structure and form. Naomi had been sitting across from him in his office, notebook in her lap, pen tapping against her knee, pretending to stay focused on her thesis while her eyes kept sliding to his mouth every time he spoke. She told herself it was admiration. Intellectual. Professional. But she knew better.Professor Marcus Vale wasn’t just brilliant. He was dangerous. The kind of man who could take a room and make it quieter without saying a word. He didn’t speak unless he meant it. He didn’t praise unless you earned it. And when he looked at you, it felt like he was peeling you open to read the parts of you you didn’t know how to hide.His office was dim, lit only by the desk lamp and the soft glow of his reading light near the window. Books lined the walls