Chapter 18: Artistic Temptation
The polished concrete floor felt unnervingly cold beneath Chloe’s thin-soled boots as she stood beside her sculpture, a twisted helix of burnished bronze and shattered safety glass titled Unbound. The gallery lights, harsh and unforgiving, glinted off the jagged edges. Sweat prickled her hairline despite the air-conditioned chill. Across the room, Mark nursed a whiskey, his gaze fixed not on the art, but on Jules, who was leaning far too close to Olivia near the minimalist bar. Olivia’s usually impeccable posture was rigid, her knuckles white around her champagne flute, yet she hadn’t moved away. Jules’s murmur, low and intimate, cut through the ambient gallery murmur: "Imagine, Liv... what Chloe could conjure if she truly cut loose. Like that piece. Raw. Unfiltered." His knuckle brushed the back of Olivia’s hand. She flinched, a tremor running through her, her breath catching audibly enough for Chloe to hear it from several feet away. The air thickened, tasting of expensive perfume, dry champagne, and something dangerous.
Chloe watched, fascinated and unnerved. Olivia, the pillar of control, looked… flayed open. Jules shifted his predatory attention. He drifted towards Chloe, a lazy smile playing on his lips, his eyes sweeping over Unbound and then lingering on the deep V of her silk jumpsuit. "Compelling work, Chloe," he purred, stopping just inside her personal space. "It screams of release, doesn’t it? Of shattering the pretty cages." He gestured vaguely towards Mark and Olivia. "Does David appreciate the… darker edges?" The question hung, loaded. Before Chloe could formulate a retort, Jules’s hand, warm and shockingly firm, landed on the exposed small of her back, sliding lower, fingertips dipping below the waistband of her jumpsuit, grazing the swell of her ass. "He doesn’t understand this fire in you," Jules whispered, his breath hot against her temple. "I do." Chloe gasped, a jolt of pure, unwelcome heat shooting through her core. Her eyes flew to Mark, whose face had darkened with fury, his whiskey glass clenched tight. Jules’s other hand slid around Olivia’s waist, pulling her stiff body against his side. "Look at her, Liv," he commanded, nodding towards Chloe, whose lips were parted, breath shallow. "See the hunger? Why shouldn't we taste it?" Olivia made a choked sound, trapped between Jules and her own unraveling composure. Jules’s gaze locked onto Chloe, intense, commanding. "Show her, Chloe. Show her what it means to be unbound." His hand on her back pressed insistently downwards, guiding her, pushing her gently but inexorably to her knees on the cold concrete before him. Her mind screamed protest, but the thick, forbidden thrill flooding her veins was louder. Mark surged forward, a strangled "Olivia!" ripping from his throat just as Chloe’s trembling hands reached for the buckle of Jules’s designer trousers. Jules grinned down at her, a conqueror’s smile, while Olivia, trembling violently beside him, watched Chloe’s descent with wide, horrified, yet unmistakably aroused eyes. The gallery lights seemed to pulse, the clink of glasses fading into a distant buzz as Chloe fumbled with the button, her pulse hammering in her ears, the cool air hitting her flushed face just as the zipper hissed down. Above her, Jules groaned softly, his hips pushing forward slightly. "That's it, darling," he murmured, his voice thick. "Show my good friend Olivia how a real woman worships a cock." Chloe’s fingers brushed the hot, hard length straining against his boxers, and she whimpered, a sound swallowed by the sudden, deafening silence of the gallery focused entirely on this unfolding obscenity. She pulled his boxers down just enough, freeing him – thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip. The musky scent of him filled her nostrils. Her tongue darted out instinctively, tasting the salty bead of pre-come, a shock of pure, electric sensation. Jules hissed, tangling his fingers in her dark hair. "Open wide, baby," he commanded, his voice rough. "Show Olivia what you crave." He pushed her head down, forcing the thick head past her lips. Chloe gagged slightly, tears springing to her eyes at the sudden, overwhelming intrusion, the stretch of her jaw, the taste of him coating her tongue. He filled her mouth completely, pressing against the back of her throat. "Suck it, Chloe," Jules growled, his hand tightening painfully in her hair, holding her in place as he began shallow thrusts. "Suck my fucking cock like you mean it." Across the scant few feet, Olivia stood frozen, her champagne flute slipping from nerveless fingers to shatter on the concrete, the sound sharp and shocking. She wasn’t looking at the broken glass. Her gaze was locked on Chloe’s face, on the obscene stretch of her lips around Jules’s girth, on the tears tracking through her mascara, on the desperate bob of her throat as she struggled to take him deeper. A low moan escaped Olivia, a sound of pure, tortured arousal. Jules chuckled darkly, the vibration traveling through Chloe’s skull. "See, Liv?" he panted, his thrusts into Chloe’s mouth deepening, making her choke. "Pure fucking art. Don't you want a taste?" His free hand snaked out, grabbing Olivia’s wrist with bruising force, yanking her stumbling forward until she was level with Chloe’s kneeling form. He pressed Olivia’s trembling hand roughly against the back of Chloe’s head, forcing her down further onto his cock. Chloe’s nose crushed against the rough fabric of his trousers, her throat spasming around the relentless invasion. "Help her," Jules commanded Olivia, his voice guttural. "Make her choke on it." Olivia’s fingers, cool and shaking, tangled in Chloe’s hair beside Jules’s, her touch hesitant at first, then, with a ragged gasp of surrender, pressing down, sharing the force holding Chloe impaled. Chloe’s vision blurred, tears and saliva slicking her chin, the thick cock pistoning ruthlessly into her throat, the combined pressure of their hands inescapable. Above her, Jules groaned, his body tensing. "Fuck yes, take it, you filthy girl. Both of you… fucking feel it!" His hips stuttered. Olivia’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, her eyes wide and dark, fixed on the point where Chloe’s lips stretched obscenely wide around Jules’s shaft. Chloe felt the hot, salty surge flood her mouth as Jules came, pulsing violently down her throat, his groan echoing off the gallery walls. She swallowed convulsively, gagging, the taste overwhelming. Jules held her head down, milking every last spurt, before finally, slowly, pulling his softening cock from her bruised lips with a slick pop. Chloe collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing, strings of saliva and come hanging from her chin, gasping for air. Jules tucked himself away, his expression one of sated triumph. He looked at Olivia, still standing frozen, her hand hovering where it had pressed Chloe down. Her chest heaved, her cheeks flushed crimson, her lips parted, her tailored silk blouse visibly taut over her hardened nipples. The gallery lay in a state of suspended horror and fascination, the other guests silent statues. Jules reached out, smearing a droplet of his come from Chloe’s chin with his thumb. Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to Olivia’s mouth. "Open," he ordered softly. Olivia, her eyes glazed, hypnotized, obeyed. Her lips parted. Jules pushed his thumb between them, depositing the viscous fluid onto her tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut as she swallowed, a shudder wracking her frame. Mark stood transfixed, a vein throbbing in his temple, the shattered glass at his feet reflecting the scene like a broken mirror. Jules leaned close to Olivia’s ear, his voice a low, intimate rumble that silenced the entire room. "Still think your marriage is enough?"
The phantom taste of salt and betrayal lingered on Olivia’s tongue as Jules’s mocking words echoed. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The polished concrete floor dissolved beneath her bare feet.
She gasped, bolting upright in the unfamiliar darkness. Sweat plastered her silk nightgown to her trembling skin. Moonlight sliced through unfamiliar blinds, illuminating stark white walls, not the gallery’s harsh lights.
Her own bedroom. Relief flooded her, sharp and dizzying. The gallery, Jules, Chloe on her knees… A dream. Only a vile, suffocating dream. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of Jules’s thumb forcing his come into her mouth.
The humid scent of pine and damp earth replaced champagne and perfume. Outside, wind sighed through trees near the house. Her frantic breathing slowly eased, the terror receding like a tide.
The bedroom door creaked open violently. Mark stood silhouetted, breathing heavily, his eyes wild in the gloom. He’d clearly heard her gasp. "Olivia?" His voice was thick, strained.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room in three strides, his movements jerky with barely contained fury. The lingering horror of the dream collided with the raw tension radiating off him.
He grabbed her shoulders, fingers digging in painfully, shoving her back onto the mattress. "Still dreaming about him?" he snarled, his breath hot and sour with whiskey against her face. His knee forced her legs apart roughly.
She cried out, a sound swallowed by the dark. "Mark, no! It was just—" His hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. His other hand ripped at the delicate silk of her nightgown, tearing it down the front with a harsh rip.
Cool air hit her exposed skin. He didn’t kiss her. He bit her collarbone, hard enough to bruise. She whimpered against his palm. His free hand groped her breast, squeezing brutally.
"Shut up," he growled, releasing her mouth only to fumble frantically with his pajama pants. His cock sprang free, already hard and angry-looking in the moonlight. "You want it rough? You want real?"
He spat onto his palm, slicking himself crudely. He shoved her thighs wider apart, the rough motion scraping her skin on the sheets. He positioned himself at her entrance, blunt and demanding.
"No warmup for you tonight, princess," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. He thrust into her dry, unforgiving tunnel with one brutal shove of his hips. Olivia screamed, arching off the bed, the sudden, searing pain obliterating the last shreds of the dream. He filled her completely, a punishing invasion.
"Fucking ridiculous," Mark snarled, pulling back only to slam into her again, deeper, harder. Her body clenched in protest, slickness forced by the violence. "Feel that? That’s me, not him." He pistoned into her relentlessly, the bed frame slamming against the wall with each jarring thrust. Tears streamed down Olivia’s temples, lost in the pillow. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Moan my name like you did his," he commanded, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. "Say it like you meant it."
The command hung in the humid dark, sharp as broken glass. Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to conjure the dream that had started Mark’s rampage the other night; Jules’s phantom touch, the rough felt of the poker table beneath her bare back, the illicit thrill of his cock plunging into her while Mark watched, frozen. She tried to recall the dream’s vivid heat, the way Jules’s fingers pinched her nipple, the exact moment she’d gasped his name aloud. But the memory dissolved like smoke. The body rutting into hers was heavy, familiar, smelling of stale whiskey and fury, not expensive cologne and danger. Mark’s hips slammed against hers, the dry, brutal friction scraping her raw inside. She felt every ridge of him, every punishing thrust jarring her bones against the mattress. "Say it!" Mark snarled again, his breath hot and sour against her ear, his fingers digging bruises into her hips. She forced her lips apart, a dry sob escaping instead of a moan. "M-Mark," she choked out, the name tasting like ash. It wasn't Jules. It was her husband, his face twisted with possessive rage, fucking her like he was trying to erase something, his cock a blunt instrument of punishment buried deep in her unwilling flesh. She tried again, picturing Jules’s smirk, the gallery lights, Chloe’s tear-streaked face. Nothing. Only the relentless, painful drag of Mark inside her, the cold dread pooling in her belly. Her body remained stubbornly detached, a vessel being used, while her mind screamed silent protest against the violation. The wetness between her legs was born of violence, not desire, slicking his brutal passage but offering no relief, no spark. He grunted, a harsh, animal sound, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own release, oblivious to her hollow stillness beneath him.
His hips slammed forward one last time, a final, jarring thrust that buried him impossibly deep inside her dry, aching passage, and he came with a choked, guttural groan, his body rigid above hers. Hot, viscous spurts pulsed directly into her core, a claiming she felt like a physical brand. He collapsed heavily onto her, his sweat-slicked chest pressing her into the mattress, his breath ragged and sour against her neck. He lay there, a dead weight pinning her down, for several long, suffocating moments before finally rolling off with a grunt, turning his back immediately. Within seconds, the deep, ragged breathing turned into unmistakable snores, oblivion claiming him instantly. The smell of sex, sweat, and whiskey hung thick in the dark room.
Olivia lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling blurring through unshed tears, feeling the sticky wetness leaking between her thighs onto the sheets, a stark counterpoint to the emptiness inside. The brutal reality of Mark’s possession felt like a violation, leaving her raw and hollow. Carefully, silently, she slid out of the ruined bed, the cool air hitting her naked, bruised skin, making her shiver. She gathered her torn nightgown from the floor, not bothering to put it on, and padded across the cold wooden floor towards the en suite bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click. The harsh fluorescent light flickered on, blinding her momentarily, reflecting off the pristine white tiles and chrome.
She turned the shower on full, the pipes groaning before hot water cascaded down in a thick, steaming curtain. Stepping under the near-scalding spray, she flinched as it hit the bite mark on her collarbone, the sting a welcome anchor. She scrubbed fiercely at her skin with a rough washcloth, trying to erase the feel of Mark’s hands, the smell of him, the brutal invasion, the sticky residue of his release trickling down her inner thigh. But as the steam filled the small enclosure, swirling around her, her mind, desperate for escape, clawed its way back to the vivid, illicit dreamscape she’d conjured just before Mark’s assault. Not the nightmare gallery, but the earlier, darker fantasy that had truly ignited his fury: the low hum of the bar, the cool, slick green felt of the poker table beneath her bare back, the sharp scent of cigars and liquor mingling with Jules’s expensive cologne. She saw his predatory grin as he’d pushed her down, heard the clatter of chips cast aside as he’d spread her legs wide. The phantom sensation of his calloused fingers digging into her hips, holding her open, sent a treacherous jolt through her core, a stark contrast to the sore emptiness Mark had left. She remembered the thick, heavy weight of his cock, hot and insistent against her entrance before he’d slammed it home, filling her completely in one ruthless thrust while Mark watched, frozen, a forgotten beer bottle dangling from his hand. The memory of Jules’s possessive growl, "I bet you still taste the same," echoed in the steamy air, louder than the drumming water.
Steam thickened the air as the scalding water drummed Olivia’s back, the sting a counterpoint to the throb between her legs where Mark had left her sore and empty. Jules’s voice in her head, rough and possessive – I bet you still taste the same – cut through the water’s roar, igniting a treacherous heat low in her belly that had nothing to do with the shower. Her hand, slick with soap, drifted down her stomach, fingers skimming through the coarse curls, seeking the swollen flesh Mark had brutalized, needing to reclaim it, needing more.
Her fingertips brushed her clit, a jolt of electric sensation making her gasp, sharp and sudden against the memory of Mark’s dry invasion. It wasn’t Mark she pictured. It was the cool, slick green felt beneath her bare back in the fantasy bar, the sharp tang of bourbon and cigars, Jules’s hungry eyes locked on hers as he’d shoved her legs apart. "Fuck, look at you," the phantom Jules growled, his calloused hands gripping her hips, holding her wide open for his cock. "Begging for it."
Olivia’s fingers found her clit properly, circling in tight, urgent little strokes, her breath catching in ragged gasps that fogged the glass. The ache bloomed fierce, a sharp counterpoint to the dull soreness, demanding release. She needed friction, pressure, him. "Jules," she moaned against the tile wall, the name a desperate prayer lost in the steam. Her free hand fumbled blindly for the detachable shower wand, knocking over a bottle of conditioner in her haste. She yanked it from its cradle, the hose slithering like a snake, and twisted the dial.
A hard, focused jet of hot water exploded from the nozzle. Without hesitation, Olivia angled it down, pressing the pulsating stream directly onto her engorged clit. "Oh, GOD!" The sensation was instantaneous, overwhelming – a relentless, vibrating pressure that mimicked the ruthless thrust she craved. Her knees buckled; she braced one hand high on the wet tile, legs splayed, presenting herself to the water and the phantom Jules looming over her in her mind.
"That's it, Liv," the Jules in her head rasped, his phantom breath hot on her neck. "Take it. Show me how fucking wet you get thinking about my cock stretching you wide." The vivid image slammed into her: Jules’s thick, flushed crown pressing against her entrance on the fantasy poker table, the exquisite burn as he forced his way inside her in one brutal, filling shove while Mark watched from the bar, frozen. "Fuck yes, so goddamn tight," phantom-Jules groaned.
Olivia cried out, her fingers abandoning her clit to plunge two, then three, deep inside her own slick channel, fucking herself furiously in counterpoint to the shower wand’s relentless assault on her clit. She imagined it was Jules’s cock pistoning into her, hard and fast, just like in the dream fantasy, just like she needed. "Harder," she sobbed, driving her fingers deeper, curling them roughly, seeking that spot as the water hammered her sensitive nub. "Fuck me, Jules! Please!"
"Come with me, Liv," the phantom commanded, his voice thick with lust. "Scream when you come on my cock." The dual assault – the deep thrusting of her fingers mimicking penetration, the water’s brutal vibration on her clit – pushed her relentlessly towards the edge. She was panting, writhing against the tile, water streaming down her face like tears. "NOW!" the phantom Jules roared, and Olivia shattered. Her back arched violently off the wall, a raw, guttural moan tearing from her throat, completely drowned by the pounding water, as wave after wave of pure, obliterating ecstasy ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching desperately around her own fingers, the shower wand still vibrating mercilessly against her throbbing clit until the sensations blurred into overwhelming, shuddering release.
She stepped out of the steam like someone returning from a sin, her skin flushed and damp, hair a heavy wet curtain down her back. The bathroom mirror was useless, fogged so thick she couldn’t see herself—just the soft orange halos from the wall sconce bleeding through mist. For a moment Olivia lingered there, towel wrapped under her arms, pulse still jittering in her neck.
Water ticked from her elbows, slow and regular as a clock. The air felt tight with what she’d just done, though technically, she hadn’t done anything. She hadn’t touched Jules. Hadn’t touched Chloe. She hadn’t even said anything aloud. Just leaned back against the tile and let the hot water sluice over her while her mind turned inside out with memory and invention—Chloe’s lipstick smudged from a kiss, Jules’ hand between her legs, both of them laughing softly like they had a secret they were letting her in on.
She pressed the towel tighter to her chest and turned from the mirror.
Back in the bedroom, Mark still lay where she left him, snoring softly into the pillow with one arm folded under his cheek. His breath stuttered on the inhale—he always did that when he was in the second phase of sleep, before the twitching would start. She watched him a moment, as if maybe she could use his stillness to still herself, too.
Mark wasn’t a bad man. But that wasn’t the same thing as being good to her. And lately, there were signs—faint but sharp-edged—the odd hours spent at his office, messages he tilted away from when she entered the room, smiles that didn’t reach his eyes when he said her name. Sometimes she wondered if he was fucking someone else, if that was why his touch had turned so practiced lately, like he was trying to remember what used to work on her.
And maybe she’d care more if she still believed they were in love. But the truth was harder to say aloud: they’d married too fast, too young, both dazzled by the idea of having someone solid. She hadn’t even known what permanence meant then. Now it felt like a weight.
What they had now wasn’t romance. It was a shared mortgage, joint accounts, a managed trust that covered them both. It was two names on everything. That was what made walking away feel impossible. Not heartbreak. Logistics.
She peeled on a fresh pair of panties, plain cotton ones. Her nightshirt followed—a soft gray tee with a stretched neckline, nothing that clung. She didn’t want to feel anything cling to her skin. Not now. The residue of the dream still pulsed in her somewhere, like a glow beneath the surface, and she felt almost raw with it, touched-out by her own imagination.
Tomorrow was the show. Chloe had texted her the time twice, as if Olivia might somehow forget. Jules would be there. Of course he would. There was something going on between the two of them, she could just feel it.
Her stomach clenched as she padded quietly to her side of the bed. She lifted the covers and slid beneath them inch by inch, careful not to wake Mark. The mattress shifted under her weight. He murmured something incomprehensible and rolled onto his back, arm flopping across the sheets between them. His hand didn’t touch her. That somehow made it worse.
She lay still in the dark, eyes open, watching the ceiling though she couldn’t see a thing. Her skin prickled where the sheets touched it, like her nerves were out of sync with the rest of her body. Jules had always made her feel that way. Back then it had been exhilarating, dizzying. Now it felt like a slow unraveling. Something she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.
She turned her head to look at Mark. The curve of his jaw in the faint light, his chest lifting and falling beneath the covers. If he knew what she’d been thinking in the shower… No, not just the shower. Earlier. During. While he kissed her neck and pulled her nightdress down, her body stiff as a stranger’s. He hadn’t noticed, or pretended not to.
She exhaled through her nose and let her gaze fall to the ceiling again. Tomorrow, she’d wear something simple. Neutral. Professional. She’d smile, and Chloe would kiss both her cheeks like she always did, and Jules would hug her—one arm, brief—and they’d talk about the lighting in the gallery and Chloe’s use of negative space and how amazing all the other pieces looked. No one would mention the way Olivia’s hands might tremble when she picked up a glass of wine. No one would ask why she couldn’t hold eye contact for more than a breath.
She’d act like none of it mattered.
Like she hadn’t just come thinking about Jules’s cock inside her.
Like she hadn’t imagined Chloe sinking to her knees with both hands while Jules leaned back against the gallery wall, lips parted, eyes heavy. Like she hadn’t pictured Chloe’s tongue tracing slow up the length of him, lips slick and deliberate, fingers digging into Jules’ thighs to hold him steady as she moaned and rocked into it, helpless and breathless. Like she hadn’t watched it all behind her eyelids in the shower, gripping the tile with one hand while the other pressed between her legs, until the heat curled so sharp through her she had to bite her own shoulder to stay quiet.
She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder. She couldn’t sleep, not really. But she could lie still. She could keep her breathing even. She could rehearse tomorrow’s smiles, her nods, her little laughs.
She could pretend.