One Night Stand With My Ex’s Uncle

Anna’s POV

I tilted my head back, surrendering to the intoxicating rhythm of being lifted and dropped, over and over, in a frenzy that bordered on violent. The sensation was dizzying, decadent like falling without fear.

In the haze of pleasure, a sharp truth sliced through me: I, Anna Shaw, who once swore Jack Simpson would be my first and only, was now tangled in sheets with a stranger I hadn’t even asked the name of.

And the most shocking part? I loved every second of it.

He moved with skill confident and unrelenting. Each thrust was deliberate, hard and thick, like he was trying to break me apart just to reconstruct someone new. My thoughts blurred, except one: next time, maybe I’ll pick someone gentler to fuck me.

My nails sank into his shoulders, tracing the taut shift of muscle beneath his skin. The room spun as I let go, drowning in a tidal wave of pleasure I’d denied myself for far too long. He drove into me harder, deeper, and my body clenched around him like he was the only thing anchoring me to earth. My release came sharp and sudden, so intense I nearly blacked out.

The shrill ring of my phone dragged me back to the present.

I blinked at the ceiling unfamiliar, sterile, expensive.

“Ms. Shaw, don’t forget about the wine tasting this afternoon at three. The social committee will be expecting you,” came Rachel’s voice crisp, efficient, and far too awake.

Of course, they’d schedule something right after my divorce was finalized. Like vultures circling, eager for proof that Anna Shaw couldn’t stand on her own. Predictable.

“I’ll be there,” I said, ending the call with a sigh. One o’clock. I’d overslept.

As I shifted to sit up, an arm looped tightly around my waist, drawing me against a bare chest. I froze.

It was oddly intimate too intimate for daylight.

“Let go,” I said, my voice sharper than intended. I pushed his arm away, fingers brushing muscle that triggered a vivid flash of last night. Those arms had hoisted me effortlessly, holding me midair as if gravity no longer mattered.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks.

I slipped out of bed.

He remained asleep, half his face buried in the pillow. All I could see was the sharp line of his jaw and the shadow of lashes against his cheek.

I escaped to the bathroom, showered quickly, and dressed. When I returned, he was awake leaning by the window, wrapped in nothing but a towel, a cigarette dangling between his fingers as he stared out at the skyline.

Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Sculpted back. The Olympus Club hadn’t exaggerated their “premium” offerings.

I scribbled a check, placed it on the table.

“Last night was satisfying. Five stars,” I said coolly, then added, “And next time, don’t smoke in front of me.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I walked out.

Rachel was already waiting by the car. Her eyes widened as she took in the bruises blooming across my neck and collarbone.

“Ms. Shaw… your neck—”

I knew. My body was a canvas of red marks and love bites. Note to self: add a no-marking clause next time. My skin always betrayed me.

“Did you bring the clothes?” I asked, brushing past the concern in her voice.

She handed me a paper bag. I changed in the backseat without shame and reapplied my makeup like armor. The diamond tassel earrings glinted as I fastened them, the final touch to my transformation.

Rachel caught my eye in the mirror. I saw the hesitation, the gentle worry.

“Ms. Shaw… maybe you should skip this,” she offered. “Those women this isn’t support. It’s a spectacle.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

“No,” I said. “They think I can’t survive without a man. I’m going to educate them.”

A smile played on my lips. Let them see the new Anna Shaw not broken, but reborn.

One hour later, I stepped out at the private club. My black dress hugged every curve, a tailored blazer draped over my shoulders. Heads turned. Conversations dulled to a hum.

“Anna Shaw? I can’t believe she showed up. Didn’t her husband leave her?” whispered one woman with oversized pearl earrings.

“She’s still the same beauty queen,” another scoffed. “Just without the crown or the man.”

“She got dumped for that project manager. Lucy-someone, wasn’t it?”

“She was too focused on her career. Men don’t want ambition they want softness.”

“Rumor is… she couldn’t satisfy him in bed.”

Their laughter was brittle and bright, like glass shattering.

I smiled.

I picked up a champagne flute, walked through the crowd like I owned it.

“This round’s on me, ladies,” I said. “Enjoy yourselves.”

“What's the occasion, Ms. Shaw?” one woman asked, voice edged in condescension.

I raised my glass. “Freedom. Some of you might want to try it.”

Their marriages were crumbling quietly. Mine had exploded. At least I had the courage to walk away from the ashes.

Then Rachel appeared, discreetly holding my phone.

“Ms. Shaw… Mr. Simpson is calling.”