I remember exactly the smell of turpentine and fresh paint that hung in the gallery — that sharp, creative scent mixed with the heavy aroma of red wine. The glass in my hand, its stem clutched as if it were my only anchor. And that hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, that certainty that something decisive was about to happen. It was the last opening of the season, a mild autumn evening, and I had no idea that this night would change my life forever — that it would tear me apart and put me back together.
Reunion
My husband, Thomas, was somewhere lost in the crowd, discussing investments with a gallery owner, numbers and returns, while I stood alone before a large-format painting — abstract forms in deep blue and rust red that reminded me of a setting sun, of something irrevocably burning out. The colors seemed to flow, to ripple in the flickering light, when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Do you like it?” The words came softly, almost hesitantly, but they hit me like a blow.
I turned around, and there stood Lukas. Thomas’s best friend, his best man. We had barely seen each other since the wedding three years ago — a few fleeting encounters at family gatherings, polite smiles, trivial conversations that never went below the surface. But now, in this light, he was different. He wore a dark suit, tailor-made, that perfectly wrapped his broad shoulders. The white shirt open at the collar, a hint of chest hair that made me stare involuntarily. And his eyes — gray like the sky before a storm, full of unspoken things — rested on me as if he saw through the dress, through the skin, into my most secret thoughts.
“Lukas. What are you doing here?” My voice sounded more surprised than intended, almost a croak.
“I’m friends with the artist. And you? Thomas didn’t tell me you were coming.” He took a sip of wine, and I watched his Adam’s apple move, how his lips pressed against the rim of the glass.
“He doesn’t like surprises like that. We just got back from vacation yesterday.” I sipped my wine, felt the alcohol warming my cheeks, spreading through my blood and loosening my inhibitions.
Lukas stepped closer. His cologne — a woody, spicy scent with a trace of musk — mixed with the gallery’s aromas and hit me with an intensity that made me dizzy. “You look beautiful, Vera.”
It was a simple sentence, but the way he said it — with a rough, almost reverent voice — awakened something in me. A tingling that didn’t come from the cold of the wine glass. A tug deep in my belly that made me flinch. I lowered my gaze, played with the stem, felt the smooth coolness under my fingertips. “Thank you. You too.”
He laughed softly. “Me? I’m just the guy in the suit who works too much.”
“I don’t believe that.” I lifted my head and looked him straight in the eyes. In that moment, I knew I would cross a line — or had already crossed it. The air between us crackled with tension, and I could barely breathe.
The Forbidden Allure
The next hour was a dance of glances and accidental touches, a game of fire and danger. When he refilled my glass, his hand brushed mine; the contact burned on my skin like an open flame, leaving an invisible trail that made me tingle for minutes afterward. We talked about art, about travel, about trivial things, but beneath the surface, I felt a tension that left me breathless, that drove sweat to my brow.
I watched him speak with other guests, how he laughed, how his fingers wrapped around a glass — the way he held the stem between thumb and forefinger, almost tenderly. I imagined those fingers stroking my neck, wandering over my back, peeling me out of my dress. How they would penetrate me, fill me. The thought sent a wave of heat through my body, pooling between my thighs, making me wet.
Thomas came by briefly, put an arm around my waist — that familiar but now foreign touch. “Did you see Lukas? Good that he’s here too. We should have dinner together tomorrow.”
I nodded, forcing a smile. “Sure.” The words felt hollow, a lie that burned on my tongue.
When Thomas moved away again, Lukas suddenly stood beside me, so close I felt his body heat. “He’s a good man.” His voice was quiet, but the words were heavier than lead.
“Yes.”
“But he doesn’t see you.” Lukas’s voice was barely a whisper, rough, almost painful. “Not the way I see you. He doesn’t see how your eyes light up when you see something beautiful. He doesn’t see how your breath catches when something touches you.”
I swallowed. The wine seemed to cloud my head, but I knew exactly what I was doing when I took his hand — that strong, warm hand — and pulled him through the back door onto the terrace. The cool air enveloped us, made my bare arms shiver. The noise of the gallery became a dull hum, far away, unimportant.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, though I knew the answer, though my whole body already knew and demanded it.
Lukas stepped in front of me so I felt the warmth of his body, that magnetic pull that drew me to him. “What we should have done a long time ago.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, slowly, almost reverently. His tongue traced over my skin, and I felt my nipples harden under the thin fabric of my dress, how stiff they became.
“Lukas…” My voice was hoarse, full of desire.
“I want you, Vera. I want you here and now, on this terrace, while your husband talks about stocks in there.” His words were direct, dirty, and they hit me right in the heart. “I want to feel your cunt clench around my cock.”
I gasped. The thought alone made me shudder. “Then take me.”
He pressed me against the cold stone wall of the terrace, his body pushing against mine, and I felt his hardness through the fabric of his pants. His hand slid under my dress, brushed my thighs, higher, higher, until he touched the wet fabric of my panties. “You’re already so wet,” he whispered, his voice full of satisfaction. “So ready for me.”
With a swift motion, he…
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