**Isabella Winchester**
Isabella Winchester was the kind of woman who looked like she had her entire life under control. At thirty-eight, she was the well-respected English Literature teacher at St. Augustine High School - sharp, composed, always put together in high-necked blouses and pencil skirts that hugged her curves just enough to stay professional without being provocative. Her slightly dyed black-and-red hair stayed twisted in a neat bun that somehow made her more attractive.
From the outside, her life was perfect - successful husband, beautiful home, a bank balance that never flickered with worry. The kind of life people called "settled," the kind they whispered about with envy at dinner parties. "You two are so lucky," they'd sigh, and she'd smile, sip her wine, and agree. Because it was true, wasn't it?
But beneath that polished surface, she was starving. Not for money or stability, but for the joy, the reckless, pulse-pounding thrill of being wanted. Not just loved or tended to, but desired - like she was something wild and irreplaceable. Her body had become a museum of untouched places. Her skin remembered hunger better than her hands did.
Her marriage to Richard had been a family alliance. The high-powered lawyer was always busy with work, which had turned him into something cold and distant. Every conversation felt like an interrogation. They lived under the same roof more like roommates than a couple - sharing a bed, eating at the same table, but the spark? Gone. Vanished. And the worst part was she'd learned to live with it.
She'd forgotten - completely forgotten - what it felt like to be touched. Not the casual handshake or accidental brush of bodies in passing, but proper touching that could spark fire in her belly. The way a breath against her neck could make her pulse stutter. How fingers tracing her wrist could unravel her, slow and deliberate, until her body remembered what her mind had buried. She'd locked away that hunger, convinced herself she didn't need it, didn't miss it.
Her body had become a relic. A museum of places no one touched.
Until Evan touched her from behind.
---
**Evan Hartley**
Evan nineteen years old. Captain of the swim team. All sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, and a body that looked carved from marble - the kind of boy who made girls whisper in hallways and teachers soften when he flashed that cocky grin. His smile made girls fall for him. He looked like the happiest person in school, his wallet never empty, excelling at everything except studies.
Everyone thought he was rich and living the dream. But the truth was different.
He was lonely. Despite girls falling for him, despite pockets full of money, despite all the kissing and hugging - none of it filled the emptiness inside.
His parents' marriage was just for show. Dad fucked his assistant on "business trips." Mom drank and fucked her tennis instructor. They stayed together for appearances, for him, moving through their marble house like ghosts. The only thing louder than their fights was their silence.
He'd never felt truly attracted to anything or anyone.
So Evan learned early: Love was theater.
He'd kissed girls, fucked a few, said "I love you" when expected. But he'd never felt it. Not until Isabella Winchester stood in the class, sunlight catching the red in her hair, and he realized—
She was just as starving as he was.