Angela laid the black dress across her bed, then immediately second-guessed herself. Too obvious? She returned it to the closet and pulled out a navy sheath instead. No, too conservative. A silk blouse and tailored pants? She held them up, frowning.
This was ridiculous. She was forty years old, not a teenager preparing for prom.
She settled finally on the black dress, the one that somehow managed to be both elegant and suggestive. The kind of dress that required confidence to wear. The kind of dress that made promises. She slipped it on, zipped it up, then sat at her vanity to apply another coat of mascara, though her hands weren’t quite steady. Anticipation or guilt? Perhaps both, twisted together in her stomach like snakes.
Twenty-four hours had passed since she'd made the call. Twenty-four hours of alternately justifying her decision and berating herself for it. Twenty-four hours of imagining Harry's hands on her body again.
Richard had left for New York that morning, kissing her goodbye with distracted affection.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he'd said, already mentally in his meeting. "Don't forget we have reservations at the Sutton Club next weekend."
She'd nodded, managing a smile that felt like a grimace. "Safe travels."
Now, three hours later, she glanced at her watch. Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until Harry would arrive. Fifteen minutes to change her mind, to call and cancel, to step back from this precipice.
She didn't reach for her phone.
Instead, she sprayed perfume at her wrists and throat, a scent different from her usual choice. Something darker, with notes of amber and sandalwood. Richard had given her the bottle last Christmas, but she'd rarely worn it, finding it too intense for charity luncheons and gallery openings.
Tonight, it felt exactly right.
The doorbell rang at precisely eight o'clock. Angela took a deep breath, steadying herself before descending the grand staircase. The housekeeper had left at six, and the groundskeeper never entered the main house in the evenings. They were completely alone.
She opened the door to find Harry standing on her threshold, as devastatingly handsome in person as he had been in her memory. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, casual yet impeccable. His eyes moved over her with undisguised appreciation.
"Hello again," he said, his voice bringing a flush to her skin immediately.
"Hello." She stepped back, inviting him in. "Would you like a drink?"
"Whatever you're having."
She led him through the foyer into the main living room, aware of his gaze taking in the soaring ceilings, the original artwork, the tasteful luxury that surrounded them. If he was impressed by the obvious wealth, he didn't comment on it.
Angela poured two glasses of bourbon at the bar cart, her back to him momentarily. When she turned, he had moved closer, his presence filling the space between them with electricity.
"I wasn't sure you'd call again," he said, accepting the glass she offered.
"I wasn't sure I would either." The honesty slipped out before she could stop it.
Harry's mouth curved slightly. "But here we are."
"Here we are," she echoed, taking a sip of her drink, welcoming the burn.
He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture sent a shiver down her spine.
"You've been thinking about me," he said. Not a question.
"Yes." No point in denying it.
His fingers trailed down her neck, coming to rest in the hollow of her throat where her pulse betrayed her. "Tell me what you've been thinking."
Angela took another sip of bourbon, buying time. "That I shouldn't want this as much as I do."
"But you do want it."
She met his eyes directly. "Yes."
Harry took the glass from her hand, setting both drinks aside on a nearby table. When he turned back to her, the controlled desire in his expression made her breath catch.
"Do you remember what I told you last time?" he asked, his voice lowered. "About being honest about what you need?"
Angela nodded, unable to look away from him.
"Then tell me, Angela. What do you need tonight?"
The directness of the question, the intensity of his focus, it was like being seen in a way she hadn't been in years. Not as an accessory, not as a status symbol, but as a woman with desires of her own.
"I need..." She hesitated, then pushed past her ingrained reticence. "I need to not be in control. I need to forget everything except how you make me feel."
Something flickered in his eyes; satisfaction, perhaps, or understanding. “I can give you that.” He moved closer still, until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything you particularly want? Anything you don’t?”
“No limits,” she said, her voice low and breathless. “I want all of it.”
The boldness of her own words sent heat flooding through her.
Harry studied her for a moment, something dark and intent crossing his features. Then he reached for her, one hand sliding into her hair, gripping firmly at the nape of her neck.
“Good,” he said, his mouth hovering near her ear. “Because tonight, I’m going to take you apart.“
His lips brushed against her neck, just below her ear, sending electricity cascading down her spine. Angela tilted her head instinctively, offering more access as his mouth traveled down the column of her throat. His teeth grazed her collarbone, making her gasp.
When he pulled back, his eyes had darkened, but his control remained absolute.
"Upstairs," he said, releasing her.
Angela led the way, hyperaware of his presence behind her as they climbed the stairs. Not to the master suite she shared with Richard (she couldn't bring herself to cross that particular line) but to the guest wing, to a bedroom she had prepared earlier. Clean sheets, dimmed lights, everything ready.
Inside the room, Harry closed the door behind them, the soft click of the latch like a final decision. When he turned to face her, he was already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the lean muscle beneath.
"Take off your dress," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
The zipper gave way under her hand. A second later, the dress was gone, leaving her exposed to the quiet intensity of his gaze.
Harry exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath.
“There you are,” he said softly. "Now the rest."
She complied, unclasping her bra, sliding her panties down her legs until she stood before him completely naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.
He crossed to her then, still in his jeans, the fabric rough against her bare skin as he pulled her against him. One hand tangled in her hair again, tugging her head back to expose her throat to his mouth. The other explored her body possessively, as if relearning terrain he already knew.
"I've thought about you too," he admitted against her skin, his breath hot on her neck. "About the sounds you make when you come. About how responsive you are to my touch."
His words, combined with the sensation of his hands on her body, made her whimper. She reached for him instinctively but he caught her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one strong hand.
"Not yet," he said. "Tonight, you don't touch until I say you can."
The restriction sent a thrill through her that was equal parts frustration and arousal. This was what she had craved: to be commanded, to surrender control.
Harry guided her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed. "Lie down," he instructed, releasing her wrists. "On your back. Arms above your head."
Angela obeyed, positioning herself as directed. The cool sheets against her heated skin made her shiver, or perhaps it was the way Harry looked at her as he removed the rest of his clothing.
He reached into his discarded pants, retrieving a condom which he set on the nightstand before joining her on the bed. Kneeling beside her, he traced a finger from her collarbone down between her breasts, across her stomach, stopping just short of where she wanted him most.
"Keep your arms where they are," he said. "Don't move them unless I tell you to."
She nodded, already breathing faster in anticipation.
"Say it," he prompted.
"I won't move my arms," she promised.
"Good girl."
The praise sent a flush of pleasure through her, ridiculous in its potency. She was a grown woman, successful and sophisticated, yet those two simple words from his lips made her feel valued in a way that expensive gifts and social status never had.
Harry's exploration of her body was methodical, thorough, as if he intended to memorize every inch of her. He alternated between gentle touches that made her sigh and firmer contact that drew gasps from her lips. All the while, he watched her reactions, learning what made her breath hitch, what made her arch into his touch.
When his mouth replaced his hands, trailing kisses down her stomach, Angela's fingers clutched at the sheets above her head. The anticipation was almost unbearable, her body tense with need.
He settled between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wider. But instead of continuing, he paused, looking up the length of her body to meet her eyes.
"Ask me," he said, his breath warm against her inner thigh.
Angela bit her lip, momentarily disarmed by the request.
"Ask me," he repeated, more firmly.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?" His thumbs drew maddening circles on sensitive skin, so close yet not close enough.
"Please... use your mouth on me." The words were difficult to say, not because she didn't want it, but because articulating her desires aloud still felt forbidden somehow.
Harry's smile was approving. "Since you asked so nicely."
What followed was exquisite torture, his mouth and tongue skilled and relentless, bringing her to the edge repeatedly only to back away just before she could fall. Each time, her frustration mounted, her pleas becoming less coherent, until finally she was gasping his name, begging without shame.
Only then did he show mercy, maintaining the perfect pressure and rhythm until she shattered, crying out as waves of pleasure crashed through her. He didn't stop, drawing out her climax until she was trembling, oversensitive, her hands moving instinctively to push him away.
"Arms," he reminded her sharply.
With effort, she returned her hands to their position, whimpering as he finally pulled away. He moved up her body, his expression satisfied but his eyes still hungry.
"Turn over," he commanded. "On your hands and knees."
The position was vulnerable, exposing, but Angela complied without hesitation. She felt the bed shift as Harry positioned himself behind her. His hands gripped her hips firmly, possessively.
"You're perfect like this," he said, his voice rougher now, control fraying at the edges. "So ready for me."
The praise, combined with the anticipation of what was to come, made her press back against him impatiently. His response was immediate, one hand landing a sharp smack on her ass that made her gasp more in surprise than pain.
"Patience," he admonished, though she could hear the smile in his voice.
Then he was entering her in one smooth thrust, filling her completely. Angela moaned at the sensation, at the perfect fullness of it. He set a pace that was deliberate at first, measured, but gradually increased in intensity as his own restraint began to slip.
One hand remained on her hip, guiding her movements to match his rhythm. The other slid up her spine to her shoulder, then into her hair, gripping firmly and pulling her head back.
“Tell me,” he said quietly. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself?”
She doesn’t respond but her moans are already giving away the answer.
"Answer me!" He growls, his pace increasing, getting rougher with each thrusts. "Tell me you've been thinking about this all week," he demanded, his voice filled with desire. "Tell me you've been wet just remembering what I did to you."
"I have," she admitted, beyond embarrassment now. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Her honesty seemed to break something loose in him. His movements became more urgent, more primal. The hand in her hair tightened, the slight pain only enhancing her pleasure.
"Do it, touch yourself for me," he ordered. "I want to feel you come around me."
Angela balanced on one forearm, her other hand moving between her legs. The dual sensation, her fingers circling her clit as he filled her again and again, quickly brought her back to the edge.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with exertion. "Let go for me, Angela."
Her second orgasm hit with unexpected force, more intense than the first. She cried out, her inner muscles clenching around him as pleasure radiated outward from her core. Harry groaned in response, his rhythm faltering as his own release overtook him. His fingers dug into her hip hard enough to bruise as he thrust deeply one final time, shuddering against her.
For several moments, neither of them moved, their ragged breathing the only sound in the room. Then Harry withdrew carefully, disposing of the condom in the bathroom before returning to stretch out beside her on the bed.
Angela rolled onto her side to face him, suddenly shy again in the aftermath. His features had softened, the commanding presence giving way to something more contemplative as he studied her face. She found herself unconsciously leaning toward him, drawn by an instinct to connect, to kiss, only to catch herself at the last moment, remembering their unspoken parameters.
If Harry noticed her aborted movement, he didn't comment. Instead, his fingers traced the curve of her shoulder with gentle precision.
"Thank you," she said softly, feeling awkward in the silence.
His eyebrows rose slightly. "That's usually my line."
A flush warmed her cheeks. "I just meant... you understood what I needed."
Harry's expression softened further, a rare glimpse behind his professional facade. "It's my job to understand," he said, though something in his tone suggested it wasn't quite that simple. "But you make it easy. You're remarkably honest in the moment."
The observation made her look away briefly. If only he knew how dishonest the entire situation was. How she returned home to another man each time. How she wore another man's ring.
"What are you thinking?" Harry asked, his perceptiveness unsettling.
Angela forced a small smile. "Just that this isn't what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Something more... transactional, I suppose."
He considered this, his fingers still moving lightly across her skin. "It is a transaction," he said finally, a hint of distance returning to his voice. "But that doesn't mean it can't also be genuine."
The distinction seemed important to him, she realized. Perhaps it was how he reconciled what he did for a living with who he was as a person. She noticed how careful he was, maintaining certain boundaries even as others blurred. The way he touched her was intimate yet contained, passionate yet controlled. He never let himself completely surrender to the moment.
“Have you been doing this long?” she asked, curious despite herself.
“A few years.” His answer was straightforward, unapologetic.
Angela waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.
“What drew you to this profession?“
He shrugs. “The money’s good. The hours are flexible. And occasionally…” His eyes held hers for a beat too long. “I meet someone interesting.”
The implication hung between them, neither acknowledging it directly. Angela sensed there was more to his story, something he wasn’t ready to share. She didn’t push any further.
“What about you?“ Harry asked. “What’s your story?“
Angela hesitated, conscious of the need to edit her narrative. “I have a pretty modest background. Worked as a model for several years.” This much was true. “Then… circumstances changed. Now I manage charitable foundations.” Also true, if incomplete.
"A model." Harry's eyes traveled over her again, appreciative rather than objectifying. "I can see that. You have the bone structure for it."
She laughed softly. "That's a very polite way of saying I was too angular to be conventionally pretty."
"No," he corrected, his hand coming up to trace the line of her jaw. "It's a way of saying you're striking. Memorable. The kind of beauty that makes people look twice."
The sincerity in his voice touched something in her, a vulnerability she hadn't expected to expose. To cover it, she asked, "Do you always get this personal with clients?"
Harry was quiet for a moment, his expression becoming more guarded. "No," he said finally. "I don't."
The admission settled between them, weighted with implications neither was ready to address. Instead, Angela glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
"We still have time," she said, her hand moving to rest on his chest. "If you wanted to..."
His smile returned, warming his eyes. "What did you have in mind?"
In answer, she slid her hand down his torso, her intent clear. He caught her wrist, but instead of stopping her, he guided her hand lower, his eyes locked with hers in a gaze so intense it felt more intimate than the physical contact itself.
This time was different. Still passionate, still consuming, but with a new layer of connection that hadn't been present before. There was more eye contact, more unspoken communication. When he finally entered her again, her legs wrapped around his waist, his forehead pressed against hers as they moved together, the intimacy of the position was almost overwhelming.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, neither speaking for a long time. Angela's head rested on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear. His fingers drew lazy patterns on her back.
It was Harry who finally broke the silence.
“I should probably get going,” he said, though she could hear the reluctance in his voice.
Reality intruded back into the peaceful bubble they had created. Angela nodded, sitting up reluctantly. "Of course."
They dressed without speaking, the room still holding the warmth of what had passed between them. It wasn’t exactly awkward. It was more like neither of them wanted to be the first to break whatever spell lingered.
Harry buttoned his shirt, then paused, watching her as she smoothed her dress back into place.
“You’re different tonight,” he said.
Her hands stilled. “Different how?”
He shrugged lightly. “More open. Less… careful.”
She considered that, then smiled. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t know what I want.”
His expression softened at that, something unmistakably genuine passing through his eyes.
"I had a good time tonight," he said, his hands coming to rest lightly on her waist. "And not just the physical part."
Angela smiled, relief mingling with genuine pleasure at his words. "So did I."
For a moment, it seemed like he might say more. Instead, he stepped closer, then leaned down to press his lips briefly against her forehead, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made her breath catch. "Good night, Angela."
"Good night, Harry."
She watched from the doorway as he walked to his car, a sleek black Audi that suited him perfectly. Only when his taillights had disappeared down the long driveway did she close the door, leaning back against it as reality crashed over her.
The guilt she had expected to feel was there, a steady ache in her chest. But alongside it was something else, something she was afraid to examine too closely. A sense of possibility. Of awakening. Of parts of herself long dormant coming back to life.
Angela moved through the quiet house, turning off lights as she went. In the main living room, she paused, noticing their bourbon glasses still sitting on the table, barely touched. She picked them up, carrying them to the kitchen.
Her wedding ring caught the light as she rinsed the glasses, the diamond sending prisms across the dark window. For a moment, she stared at it, this symbol of vows made and now broken. She should feel worse than she did. She should be consumed with remorse.
Instead, as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she found herself already thinking of when she would see Harry again. Already missing the way he looked at her, touched her, made her feel.
This was dangerous territory. She knew it, recognized the signs of something that had begun as purely physical evolving into something with emotional stakes.
The rational thing would be to end it now, before it went any further. To delete the agency’s number, to recommit to her marriage, to find some other way to address the emptiness that had driven her to seek comfort in a stranger's arms.
But as Angela settled into bed, she knew with absolute certainty that she would see Harry again. And soon. Whatever consequences might come, whatever pain might follow, she wasn't strong enough to walk away.
Not yet.
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.