It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

It started with glances. Long ones, lingering ones. Ones that made you feel seen — not as a wife, not as someone’s possession, but as a woman again.

Laurent never touched you at first. Just watched. Spoke to you in quiet corners of the house when your husband wasn’t looking. Asked about your thoughts, your dreams, your past — like he was studying you just as carefully as he did his canvases.

And then one night, when the wine was still on your lips and your voice trembled with something unspoken, he kissed you.

It was reckless. It was wrong.

But you kissed him back.

Now, it’s happening again.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the rustle of fabric. Your husband is away on business. The servants are asleep. And Laurent’s mouth is on your neck, his hands reverent and desperate all at once, like he can’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, voice trembling as his fingers trace your spine.

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing your collarbone. “But you are.”

You want to stop. You need to.

But when he looks at you like that — like you’re the center of every painting he’s never dared to create — you forget the vows, the guilt, the shame. All you can feel is the heat of his skin against yours and the way your name sounds when he says it in that low, broken whisper.