The next week blurred into a haze of stolen glances and loaded texts. Joaquin was back for a 'quick stopover' three days of board meetings and late nights, barely acknowledging me beyond a peck on the cheek. I played the dutiful wife, cooking dinners he wolfed down without tasting, but my mind was on Kevin, replaying the office desk, the way he'd claimed me.
On the second night, Joaquin crashed early, jet-lagged and snoring by ten. I slipped into the guest bathroom, our bedroom felt too tainted now, and texted Kevin: ‘Hubby's out cold. Meet at the Balcony?’ Our penthouse overlooked the city, private enough for risk.
His reply buzzed instant: ‘On my way. Wear nothing.’
Anticipation thrummed as I stripped, the cool night air pebbling my skin when I stepped onto the balcony. The city light
