Julian walked into the house, the tension from his meeting with Uncle Richard still simmering beneath the surface. Before he could even take a breath, Lily confronted him, her eyes blazing with anger.
"So, you're finally home," Lily said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I suppose you're going to tell me who that woman was who came here today?"
Julian's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched in frustration. "Lily, let's not do this now," he warned, trying to sidestep the argument.
But Lily was having none of it. "Don't try to brush me off, Julian," she snapped, her voice rising. "I want to know who she is and what she wants with you."
Julian sighed, feeling the weight of his day bearing down on him. "Lily, she's just someone from work," he said, trying to downplay the situation.
But Lily's eyes flashed with skepticism. "Don't lie to me, Julian," she spat. "I know what I saw. She's more than just someone from work."
Julian's voice rose, his words cutting through the air like a knife. "You know the terms of our contract, Lily. You agreed to them. No feelings, no attachments. And as for my personal life, you have no right to question me."
Lily's face paled, her eyes welling up with tears. "You're reminding me of the contract?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "After everything we've been through?"
Julian's expression was unyielding. "The contract is clear. I have the right to pursue relationships with whoever I choose. And once you produce an heir, our arrangement will be over. That's the deal we made."
The words hung in the air, a harsh reminder of the transactional nature of their marriage. Lily's eyes flashed with hurt and anger, but Julian's gaze remained cold, unyielding.
Julian stormed out of the house, the cool night air a welcome respite from the tension that had built up inside him. He walked to a nearby bar, the neon lights casting a gaudy glow on the sidewalk.
As he pushed open the door, the sounds of laughter and music enveloped him, a stark contrast to the silence and anger that had filled his home. He made his way to the bar, ordering a whiskey on the rocks.
The bartender raised an eyebrow as he poured the drink. "Rough night?" he asked, nodding at Julian's tense expression.
Julian downed the whiskey in one gulp, feeling the burn all the way down. "You have no idea," he muttered, signaling for another round.
As he sat there, nursing his drink, Sophia walked in, a vision in red. She spotted Julian and made her way over, a sly smile spreading across her face.
"Looks like someone's having a bad night," she purred, sliding onto the stool next to him.
Sophia's eyes locked onto Julian's, a spark of mischief dancing in their depths. "What's wrong, Julian? Did the little wife at home not meet your expectations?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Julian's gaze turned cold, his jaw clenched in annoyance. "What do you want, Sophia?" he growled, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Sophia laughed, a throaty sound that sent a shiver down the bartender's spine. "Oh, I think you know exactly what I want, Julian," she purred, her eyes never leaving his face.
As she spoke, Sophia reached out and ran her fingers over Julian's arm, her touch sending a spark of tension through his body. Julian's eyes narrowed, his grip on his glass tightening.
The air between them was charged with unspoken desire, the tension palpable. It was clear that Sophia was playing with fire, and Julian was more than happy to get burned.
The bar was dimly lit, humming with soft jazz and the low murmur of late-night conversations. A few patrons sat scattered at small tables, lost in their own secrets and drinks. In the back corner, in a shadowed booth, he sat close beside her — far too close for polite company.
His mistress wore a dark, silky dress tonight, one that clung to her like a whispered promise. Her lips were stained with deep red wine, her eyes glittering when she looked at him — half challenge, half invitation.
"You shouldn't be here with me," she teased, swirling her glass between her fingers. Her voice was low enough that no one else could hear. "What would your sweet little wife say?"
He didn't answer. He only leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "She isn't here," he murmured, the words sending a delicious shiver down her spine. "But you are."
His hand slipped under the table, resting on her bare knee. She froze for a heartbeat — just long enough for her pulse to stutter — before she parted her thighs ever so slightly, wordlessly giving him permission.
His fingers trailed upward, slow, unhurried, as if he were savoring every inch of skin he found. Her breath caught when he reached the delicate edge of her stockings, then higher, brushing over the silk of her panties. He felt the heat radiating from her, and it made his blood surge.
She shot him a warning look, but her hips betrayed her — shifting closer, pressing herself into his palm. He smirked, his thumb brushing her through the fabric, feeling the dampness he'd already coaxed out of her.
"You like this," he murmured, his lips grazing her jaw as he pressed a little firmer. She stifled a moan, her fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough to leave dents. Around them, the bar buzzed on obliviously — no one noticing the filthy secret they shared in the shadows.
"You'll be the death of me," she whispered, her words trembling as his fingers slipped beneath the thin barrier, finding her slick and ready. He circled her slowly, expertly, watching her eyes flutter half-closed, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
"And you," he breathed against her ear, his voice like a dark promise, "will ruin me completely."
She bucked against his hand, her thighs trembling as he teased her mercilessly. Anyone looking would see only two people sitting too close — no idea that, beneath the table, he was driving her closer and closer to the edge.
When she came, it was silent — a sharp intake of breath, her nails biting into his wrist, her body tightening around his fingers as she fell apart right there in the dark corner of the bar. He didn't stop touching her until she sagged against him, her breath hot and ragged in his ear.
He pulled his hand free, wiping his fingers on her inner thigh — a wicked mark she'd feel long after they left. Then he leaned back, watching her with that same dangerous hunger.
"Finish your drink," he said, his tone deceptively casual. "Then we're leaving. I'm not done with you yet."
She only smiled — flushed, ruined, and already hungry for more.