The bathroom was a cavern of indulgence, vast enough to host the orgies it was built for. Marble veins pulsed under the soft, recessed lighting, and gold fixtures winked like lecherous eyes. She turned the handle on the shower, and steam erupted instantly, a hot, percussive barrage jets pounding against the glass.

A full-body fuck from water alone, the kind of pounding that would knead knots from a woman's thighs while crowning her the queen of her own brutal desire.

Her wine glass trembled in her grip, the crimson within mirroring the tremor in her core.

'What the fuck am I doing?'

But she knew. Had known since Thursday, when he'd dropped to his knees at the wellness center, eyes locking on her—not the trophy wife, not Mrs. Morrison, but the starving woman beneath—and his fingers had ignited sparks that shot straight to her clit, waking a part of her she'd thought had withered to dust years ago.

She was here because exhaustion had finally cracked her open. She was tired of vanishing in her own life. Tired of the fury that simmered eternally with no release. Tired of polishing a perfect shell while the woman inside starved. Tired of playing devoted to a man who would rather hump his own faded memories than touch the living, breathing wife beside him.

Patricia Morrison drained the glass in three burning gulps, the Bordeaux a warpath down her throat. She rose and ascended the spiral staircase, her heels clanging against the metal like a countdown to her own surrender.

Up top, the excess was amplified. A home theater with a dozen black leather seats, the screen looming like a portal to filmed filth. A gym, pristine and unused, the treadmill begging for post-fuck miles, the weights heavy as the ache between her legs. Another terrace, the hot tub bubbling through glass, steam licking at the night like a thousand eager tongues.

Her phone buzzed. Richard's name glowed, a cold emerald in the dim light. When will you be home?

Not How are you holding up? Not Are you safe? Just the scheduling bullshit of a man reducing his wife to an appointment in his mausoleum of a marriage.

Patricia glared at the text, her jaw tight, then killed the phone. She slammed it face-down on the console, a spiderweb of cracks fanning out from the impact.

Tonight—just this one fevered, fragile night—she was shedding Mrs. Morrison. Shedding her committee throne. Shedding Jack's flawless, insufferable mother. Shedding the smiling martyr who had swallowed her own screams for twenty-three years.

Tonight, she was Patricia. Raw. Ravenous. And she was done fading into nothing.

She strode to the bedroom, the wine sloshing with each predatory step, certainty flooding her veins like the first hot rush of arousal. The en-suite was a shrine to flesh. Marble warm under her bare feet, lights that caressed without judgment. On the back of the door hung a robe, white as surrender, plush as a mouth on a nipple, the tags still new.

It was an offering.

The promise of comfort after the storm.

'Not yet,' she thought.

She set her glass on the counter, the clink echoing her frantic pulse, and faced the mirror. The black dress clung like a second skin, dangerous and alive. Her makeup was a war paint of seduction, her hair sculpted by hours of painful denial. The body underneath was sharper, forged by trainers who bled her wallet and diets that starved her of all joy, because if her husband wouldn't crave her, she'd forge her control in muscle and bone.

But here, now, the reflection hummed with a different kind of power. Her nipples peaked against the fabric, traitors to years of neglect. Heat pooled low, slick and insistent, her thighs brushing with every shift of her weight.

She reached back, fingers finding the zipper's cool metal teeth. One slow, deliberate tug and the sound purred down her spine. The dress surrendered, sliding off her shoulders like liquid midnight, pooling at her feet in a hush of expensive silk.

Underneath: the lingerie. The set she had hunted like prey. Three boutiques, a dozen rejections. This one was perfect. A black silk camisole, lace trim kissing the swell of her breasts, tiny pearls winking like secrets. And the shorts… Christ, the shorts were a dare. High-cut, barely there, framing the curve where thigh met ass like a masterpiece in a gallery.

She turned, slow, in the mirror's merciless light. Her breasts were heavy, her nipples dark against the lace's tease. Her legs were long, and the silk shorts rode up just enough to flash the soft undercurve of her ass.

She looked like sex that had waited far, far too long to be fucked properly.

She left the bedroom barefoot, the lingerie a constant, maddening tease against her skin. The lace rasped her nipples to stiff peaks; the silk shorts slid higher with every step, the seam kissing her clit.

The penthouse air was cool, raising gooseflesh, making her hyper-aware of every square inch of exposed skin. Vulnerable. Electric.

She stopped at the window, the city glittering fifty floors below. Down there, she was Mrs. Richard Morrison, her smile Botoxed into place, utterly invisible. Up here, she was just Patricia.

Forty-five and soaking wet, wearing next to nothing, waiting for a boy seventeen years her junior to either ruin her or finally, finally set her on fire.

The thought should have horrified her.

Instead, her cunt clenched, a hot, savage pulse of yes.

She prowled the main living space, bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. Fingertips trailed over leather so buttery it felt like skin, brushed marble counters veined like a lover's throat. She paused in the center of the vast room, head back, eyes half-lidded, letting the sheer, obscene luxury sink into her bones.

Her free hand drifted down of its own accord. Over the silk front of the camisole. Her thumb circled one nipple through the lace until it throbbed. Lower, across the flat of her stomach, to the shorts' high waistband. She hooked a thumb beneath, tugging just enough for a cool waft of air to kiss the top of her slit.

A soft sound escaped her—half sigh, half moan. The city watched.

She was soaked. Had been since the elevator. Since his text. Since the first moment he'd looked at her like she was the only woman in the world and he was a starving man.

Patricia set the wine glass down. Both hands free now, she cupped her breasts through the silk, squeezed, rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger until her knees threatened to buckle. She pinched harder, her hips rolling forward, seeking friction that wasn't there.

Not yet.

She wanted the ache to build until it felt like pain. Wanted to be completely, desperately unraveled when he walked through that door.

She turned back to the window, pressed her forehead to the cool glass. The city blurred into a watercolor of light.

She imagined his hands replacing hers—rougher, younger, impossibly hungry. Imagined his mouth on her neck, his teeth scraping the tendon. Imagined him bending her over this very ledge, the silk shorts yanked down, his cock thick and hot and finally, finally giving her what she'd been starving for.

Her thighs trembled.

She slipped one hand inside the shorts, just the tips of two fingers, sliding through her slick folds. She circled her clit once, twice, a jolt of pure electricity, then ripped her hand away. Not yet. She brought the glistening fingers to her mouth, tasted herself—salt, wine, and sheer, unadulterated want.

Moaned low in her throat.

The penthouse hummed around her, quiet and expectant. The hot tub bubbled, the shower still steamed in the distance, the bed upstairs waited like a sacrificial altar.

Patricia smiled, slow and filthy and power-drunk.

'Let him come.'

She was ready to be devoured.

She returned to the main living space, her body thrumming. Poured another glass, the bottle now half-empty. The wine was warming her blood, quieting the last whispers of the good wife who still dwelled in the back of her mind.

She walked back to the windows, silhouetted against the city lights, letting herself feel it all. The cool air on her skin. The bite of the lace. The heat between her legs, a slow, insistent throb that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with him.

'This is what wanting feels like,' she thought, a revelation. 'This is what I've been missing.'

She finished her wine and set the glass down. Then she walked to the bathroom, the steam still clinging to the air, and took the white robe from its hook. She pulled it on, the silk a cool shock against her fevered skin. She didn't tie it, just let it hang open, a frame for the black lace and the body beneath.

She sank into the sectional couch facing the windows, let her legs stretch out. The robe fell away, revealing her. She leaned her head back, blonde hair spilling across the cushions, and waited.

She felt like a teenager again. That first-date nervousness, that terrifying, exhilarating anticipation. Feeling like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, not knowing if she'd soar or shatter when she jumped.

Her eyes fluttered closed, the wine and the sheer emotional weight of the day catching up with her. The city pulsed below, a distant, indifferent heartbeat.

Waiting.

For liberation or damnation... whatever the hell came through that door next.

The elevator chimed softly.

Patricia's entire body went electric.

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