Shouldn't

A short story by Sierra Simone

Greta

In the smallest room of the gallery, far from the cocktails and conversation, I’m staring at a canvas.

From a distance, the painting appears to be of an anatomical heart rendered in shades of ruby and violet. Closer, you can see the heart is made up of bodies: twisting limbs, vulvas, cocks. From the pearly pools underneath it, it’s apparent that the dripping slickness of the heart tissue is cum. 

I’m alone—although I don’t feel alone, not with the sharp handwriting on the paper tacked to the wall next to the painting. I have no idea how a silent auction can feel so loud, but that handwriting is like marcato notes on a violin, breaking through the hushed quiet of the room.

I’ve been outbid again. By the same set of initials, and by the same amount every time: a single pound. 

It’s insulting. I’m insulted.

I take a fortifying drink of champagne, set the glass on a nearby bench, and use the pen I’ve been carrying around for the last hour to make my final bid. The silent auction will end in ten minutes, and I have no intention of losing. The painting is perverse and perfect, and I’m not leaving here without it.

Footsteps echo off the wood floor and art-hung walls, and I turn to see a man in a tux approaching. Late thirties, pale and dark-eyed. I had seen him earlier, in the main room, and the sight of him had sent a thrill of awareness straight down my spine.

I’ve been avoiding him since.

His eyes drop to my hand, where the pen is still set to the paper. “A fellow admirer, I see,” he says in a smooth American accent, his eyes flicking back to my face. 

There’s amusement in the words, and a kind of victory too. Suddenly, I know.

“One pound at a time? Really?” I step back from the wall, turning so that he can’t get to the bid sheet. I’m not above playing dirty now. This piece is meant for me. When I look at it, it’s like someone has cracked open my chest and hung a light bulb inside. Like someone has solved me for y, and now I make sense.

“You have to admit it’s the most logical way to bid,” he says. 

I consider myself a rational person, and yet some things are far outside the bounds of reason. Like loving this painting, or the way I feel when this man looks at me.

We only have a few minutes left of the auction; I just need to guard the bid sheet a little longer. “Are you one of the doctors?” I ask. The week-long International Conference on Neurosurgery and Neuroscience just concluded here in London, capped off by this charity event.

His gaze is direct as he lifts his champagne and slowly takes a drink. 

A wedding ring glints on his left hand.

When he speaks, it’s not to answer me. “You’re not a doctor yourself?” 

“I’m on the board of the foundation.”

“On the board.” A honey-sweet smile. “That explains the dress.”

I am in a very nice dress tonight, a bright red Valentino that sets off my fair complexion and green eyes. I give him a small smile, not caring if he thinks a designer dress and a seat on a board add up to a specific kind of woman.

“You’re American too,” he observes, “but you’re here in London, and here enough to be on a board?”

“We live in other countries sometimes. Maybe you’re familiar with the documentary, An American Werewolf in London?”

His eyes dance. “Shouldn’t you be out mingling, then? Working the room?”

“Maybe, but I don’t like doctors.” I realize too late that he’s stepped closer, and I angle myself more pointedly between him and the painting. “Especially neurosurgeons.”

His smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The slight gap between his front teeth makes him look younger and a little roguish. He’s tall enough that even in my heels, I have to look up to meet his sparkling gaze. 

Once I do, he slips it down my body and then pulls it back to my face. There’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match his smile. Something a little dark. A lot dangerous.

“Now why is that?” he asks.

I take a breath. “Because neurosurgeons are arrogant, they’re rude, and”—I give a meaningful flick of my eyes down to his hand—“they cheat on their spouses.”

He doesn’t say anything, but a dimple flashes briefly in his cheek, like he finds this declaration amusing.

Heat flares below my navel, and I look away, not trusting myself. 

“Ah, marvelous,” a woman in a lime green dress says, hurrying into the room with a basket.

The tuxedoed man and I stay silent as she collects the sheets for the other paintings in the room. She doesn’t move to collect the one from the wall behind me, however, and I’m confused, until she looks at the man sipping champagne, and says, “Congratulations, Dr. Pace. We’ll reach out with details about shipping the piece to you tomorrow.”

I stare at him as she leaves, a numb feeling gathering at the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet. “But—how…the auction wasn’t over.”

Dr. Pace comes closer, hands in his pockets. “A needless formality.”

No. No. “You can’t possibly want it as much as I do,” I whisper, unable to keep from glancing at the painting itself. It’s just as depraved and illuminating as it was the first time I saw it. Just as depraved as me.

“Maybe that’s true,” he says mildly. “Maybe you should tell me what it is you like about it.”

I look back at him, at the sharp mouth and square jaw, the nose that would be perfect if it weren’t for the flare at the bridge. If you didn’t look closely—if you only saw the tousled flop of his hair, the raffish smile, the immaculately tailored tuxedo—you’d think he was any other wealthy man throwing money around for the hell of it. If you didn’t see the appetite in his stare. If you didn’t see the way his tongue flicked at his incisor, like an animal about to bite.

My eyes drop to his pale throat above his collar, the firm spread of his shoulders in his jacket, to his hands, large but elegant. 

It was his hands I noticed when he first walked into the gallery. 

They make me feel the same way the painting does.

Goosebumps raise on my arms as I drag my eyes from his hands to his face. His eyebrow is lifted, my body is giving me away. He has me exactly where he wants me, and he knows it.

“Fine,” I concede, trying to find my footing. This one victory I can claim for myself—that I do love this painting more, that I understand it better. I turn around, which is a mistake, because then he moves closer, coming to stand just behind me. I can feel the brush of warm breath against the base of my neck, my exposed shoulder blades.

“I like it because it’s taboo,” I say steadily. “This artist’s work is filthy and precise, and this is the filthiest of all their pieces. When I look at it, it’s…”

It’s a fatal diagnosis and a clean bill of health all at the same time.

It’s standing alone in a room with a married man and feeling my own capacity for perversity, for immorality, flushing my skin with reckless warmth.

“It’s a composition of tension,” I finish. “Of opposites. Sex and medicine. Sex and science. They shouldn’t mix.”

“A lot of things shouldn’t mix,” Dr. Pace murmurs, his voice in my ear now. “But we live for shouldn’ts, don’t we? We starve without them.”

I feel the ghost of his fingers over my shoulder, and my knees nearly give out. He finds the ultra-thin strap of the bodice of my dress and runs a fingertip along it. His other hand—the hand with his wedding ring—comes up to my hip and slides around my stomach. 

I give a shuddering exhale like I’ve been struck. 

Those fingers…strong and splayed, shameless. 

A hand that should be on his wife’s stomach. He is unyielding behind me, close enough that the wool-silk blend of his jacket brushes against my bare back, and I can hear the words rumble through his chest when he asks, “What would you do to have it?”

“I—ah—what?” 

His hand has wandered up now, to my breast. My breasts aren’t large, but it’s still shocking how his hand dwarfs the entire curve and swell of the one he’s holding. He finds my nipple through the bodice of the dress, and then, with an impatient huff, reaches inside the bodice and plucks at the stiffened tip.

I can barely breathe. I’m surprised stars aren’t orbiting my cunt, that it’s not the center of the galaxy. The gravity of my need is that immense.

“I don’t understand.” My voice is breathless. Hopeless.

“I think you do,” he says, dark charm oozing from every consonant and vowel. “The painting could be yours. I’ll have it delivered to you, free of charge.”

I tell myself that I’ll stop. That I’m not going to do anything wrong, I’m going to step away any second now. 

I’m not going to fuck a married man in an art gallery, even if he has my thighs slick with just one hand on my breast.

“Free of charge?” I murmur. The fingers on my nipple are so capable, so deft.

“Hmm. Well. Perhaps I’ll need to collect a small fee. You understand.”

His mouth moves down, and my whole body trembles as he kisses the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. His tongue flicks against the skin, followed by the scrape of his teeth. His other hand palms my breast again, this time a hard, almost angry squeeze. 

The matching squeeze in my core terrifies me. 

What the hell am I doing?

I’ve always been driven by data. Every decision I’ve made has been informed by observation, hypothesis, and conclusion. Schools, degrees, lovers, mortgages—I’ve chosen my life as carefully as a surgeon chooses where to cut the skin. 

Except, apparently, when it comes to sex-soaked art and the man behind me.

I stumble forward, away from him, my neck cooling rapidly from his kisses, my breast already aching without the possessive grasp of his hand. I can’t look at him, I can’t let him touch me again, and yet I can’t make myself leave the room. I can’t make myself stalk off with a cool maybe you should call your wife.

Why? Is it those hands? The cruel edges of his mouth?

This goddamn painting that I can’t let go of?

“How would you start collecting your fee?” I face the painting, my words both strangled and longing.

“I’d want to see how wet your cunt is.”

His words burn through me like a match put to paper, and I turn to face him, curled and scorched and smoldering.

“What?” I whisper.

“You heard me.”

I straighten the wide skirt of my gown. It’s made of several layers of sheer fabric, and I pray that he can’t see my legs through it. That he can’t see the way my thighs are clenched together.

I take a deep breath and try to think of what a good woman would say. A logical woman who isn’t overrun by her own aberrant lust. Who doesn’t want a piece of art so desperately it feels like life or death.

“You’re married.”

He lifts a shoulder. He has one hand in a pocket now, and he looks unbearably good like this. It’s not fair.

“I was married a few minutes ago when I had your breast in my hand,” he points out. “What’s the difference now?”

“That shouldn’t have happened either.”

 I let him step closer, a mouse mesmerized by the hawk.

“There you go with the shouldn’ts again. I did warn you about those.”

The shadows in his eyes are utterly at odds with the friendly crinkles in his expression, that wide smile.

“Let me ask you this,” he murmurs, reaching out and running a finger along the neckline of my bodice. I shiver at the touch, closing my eyes. “Are you wet right now? If I push my hand up your skirt, would I find you ready to fuck?”

I lose the ability to breathe.

“Maybe,” I whisper.

“Will you let me?”

 His face is close enough that I can count the dark eyelashes fringing his coffee-colored eyes. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. I barely recognize my own voice. It’s low and hoarse and the furthest thing from polished.

He lifts his hand to my mouth and rubs my lower lip with one finger. “Because I walked into the gala and saw you in that dress. Because I saw you run away from me.. Because you sounded like you were already underneath me in bed when you described that painting.”

Each sweep of his finger along my lip is like a kiss from a burning brand. “Because,” he says, leaning down so the tip of his nose brushes mine, “I think you’ve got a sweet little cunt, and I think it’ll do very nicely for tonight. I think it will milk me fucking dry.”

I can’t. 

The brutal, seedy filth is so at odds with the rest of him, and the contrast unravels me. No one talks to me like that. Ever. Especially not married men.

“Why don’t you let my sins belong to me?” Dr. Pace suggests in a whisper right before his lips run gently over mine. “You’re not doing anything wrong by letting me inside you. Letting me feel how tight you are. After all, you’re only doing it to acquire some art that’s definitely better off with you.”

He’s wrong about my shared culpability, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Right and wrong stopped making a difference the moment he walked into the gallery with that tousled hair and that sinful mouth, and I want this, I want him, and I want my painting. 

He was right. 

We starve without the shouldn’ts.

I lift to press my lips against his, and he exhales, using the finger on my lower lip to open my mouth so he can slip his tongue inside. He tastes like mint, like money, like victory…although I can’t tell whose victory I’m tasting. 

He kisses with a combination of assurance and subtlety. Careful strokes of his tongue along my own, soft bites of my lower lip. 

And all the while I think, I’m stealing someone else’s kisses.

I find the hand holding my mouth open for his explorations, and curl my fingers around his wrist. “Back here. There’s a room.”

He follows easily—not truly docile but like it entertains him to pretend to be docile—as I lead him to the deepest room in the gallery with its temporary doors, an exhibit in the process of installation. I noticed the room earlier tonight, and the wicked part of my mind, the part that chose this dress and what jewelry not to wear, filed it away for later.

The room is nearly silent, with hundreds of fake wisteria blooms wired to the ceiling. The only light comes from the windows along one side of the room, where the eternal glow of Soho peers in from outside.

Dr. Pace points to a waist-high crate near the window. “Sit. Please.”

I walk over to the crate and hoist myself onto it. He strolls over, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like walking toward a woman who’s not his wife is utterly unremarkable. 

Maybe it is for him. Maybe every conference, every out-of-town trip, is like this. Those dark eyes finding their prey across ballrooms and upscale bars, that smile bent on possession. After all, what kind of man makes this kind of devil’s bargain with a ring still on his finger? 

Someone used to it. Someone who likes the challenge. 

And if I’m a woman of deliberation, I have to think he’s a man of impulse. Someone who will take my hypotheses and analyses and fuck them sideways. With glee.

A tension of opposites.

He wastes no time finding the skirt of my dress, scrunching his hands in the chiffon and floral appliqués, and wrinkling seven thousand dollars of Valentino craftsmanship. He pushes the hem to my thighs, and I catch his hands to stop him.

“Yes?” he asks. His voice is polite in contrast to the controlled heave of his chest. If I reached down, I’d find him harder than stone.

“I just realized you don’t know my name,” I murmur. “It’s Greta.”

“Greta,” he repeats, the name sounding strangely erotic in his deep voice. “Is that your real name?”

Too late, it occurs to me that I could have lied, that he might lie to me.

“Reed,” he allows after a minute. “My name is Reed.”

“Is that your real name?” I ask, unable to help my smile.

He stares down at my mouth, studying the curve of my lips, like my smile is something unexpected he doesn’t know how to categorize. “Yes,” he finally says. And then nothing else as he finishes pushing my gown to my hips. A pleased noise leaves his throat when he presses his hand to my core. “No underwear,” he says.

I don’t answer. He doesn’t need to know my reasons, my state of mind when I dressed tonight. The minutes I spent arching and turning in the mirror to make sure my pussy wasn’t visible through the layers of chiffon. The obscene fantasies I let twine through my thoughts as I left my hotel room and, apparently, my morality there inside it.

“And,” he says, letting out a breath, “you are so fucking wet. Jesus Christ.” There’s a raggedness to his words now, like he’s in a fight, taking punches. 

I spread my thighs and arch against his hand. He gives a short, dangerous laugh. 

“Oh, Greta,” he says, running his fingertips through my slick center. “Is that all it takes? Some kisses and a hand up your skirt? Are you that easy?”

I palm his groin, and just as I knew it would be, his cock is unyielding, hot and hard against my touch. It stretches nearly all the way to his hip. “Is that all it takes, Reed?” I mock. “Some kisses and your hand on a pussy?”

He leans forward, mouth achingly close to mine. “Even less, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I was hard the moment I saw you. I was hard looking at your initials on a bid sheet.”

“Something’s wrong with you,” I say, my breath hitching as he circles my clitoris with perfect, unerring movements. The adroitness, the skill—the expert application of pressure and friction. 

I knew these hands would undo me. 

He laughs a little, like he’s delighted with my accusation. 

“So you’ve noticed, have you?” He pushes two fingers inside of me, and I’m so wet that I can hear it. He crooks his fingers up and urgent pleasure shudders through my belly. “Not many people do. They think I’m a good man.”

“Does your wife think you’re a good man?”

His teeth gleam in the dark as he presses his thumb to the berry at the top of my sex. “Depends on the day.”

There is no hope for me now, not with the way he works my body, and when I look down past the waves of chiffon to see his left hand gripping my bare thigh, his wedding ring glinting in the London glow, the force of the moment rolls over me like a wall of fire. I seize around his fingers, clench tight enough that he hisses, and I come with a breathless moan, my eyes on his ring the whole time.

When I finish, he slides his hand free of my channel and licks his fingers. They’re shining in the light from the window. “You taste like goddamn candy.” 

He sounds almost annoyed by it, like I’ve disrupted a plan by having a taste he enjoys, like he doesn’t have time for this. He yanks me off the crate, spins me around. I stumble, caught off guard as he shoves my gown back up to my hips.

“You can taste me as much as you want,” I say, faint at the idea of that sharp-edged mouth between my thighs. “As long as you want.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he whispers. “I’m already thinking about keeping you for the night.”

“You can’t.”

I can feel his hand at his zipper, his other hand holding up the chiffon, my cunt exposed. “We’ll see about that,” he croons, and then the blunt head of his dick presses against my opening. He shoves home.

Reed

I’m not wearing a condom so I can feel every hot, tight inch of her pussy welcome me inside. It’s kissing me, tickling me, gripping me, from my swollen crown all the way to my base, where she’s wet enough to leave her slick on my balls. 

“I knew it,” I mutter—more to myself than to her. “I knew this pussy would be so goddamn sweet.” And then to her, “Are you clean?”

She pauses. “Yes,” she says in a low voice. “Are you?”

“Yes. Are you on birth control?”

Another pause. Then, “No.”

Lust tears through my stomach and my hips jerk involuntarily forward, until I’m flush with her gorgeous ass, and my hands find her hips, her breasts, until I grab her hands and plant them on the crate in front of her, trapping them. Like I’m not going to let her leave.

The things I’m thinking right now…she should be trying to leave.

“Please don’t come inside me,” she says, and the words break apart as I give her a raw, wet thrust. “Don’t.”

I’m about to tell her I won’t—even though it might kill me—when I feel something under my fingers. I cease the rocking of my hips, the chiffon of her skirt hiding the secret of our sinful joining as I caress the skin of her ring finger.

There’s a dent.

Subtle, slight, but it’s there.

I catch on fire, a lightning strike on a dry prairie. Anger, jealousy, victory, lust—it burns through me until I’m shaking, shoving her forward, following her so I can put my lips to her ear.

“You little liar,” I breathe, and she trembles. She knows she’s been caught. “You fucking hypocrite.”

Greta. Greta from the foundation, Greta wearing a dress tailored for infidelity and letting a stranger lead her into the shadows. Greta with her honey-colored hair and her skin that feels like silk and those green eyes that sliced me apart the moment I walked into the room, like she could see past my smile and my tux right down to my twisted soul.

“So now I know what that painting was worth to you, Mrs. Shouldn’t. A broken vow to purchase your heart’s desire.”

“I love him,” she protests, her hands curling under mine. “But tonight, I—”

She doesn’t finish, and I wonder if we would have ended up here no matter what, painting or no painting. If she took off her ring and put on a dress with nothing underneath hoping for exactly this.

I bite her shoulder, and she whimpers. Then I pull up enough to start rutting into her traitorous little cunt. To fuck into the place that’s getting wetter and wetter. I find her breast again, the nipple like a bullet against my palm.

“Do you like having another man’s cock inside you?” I ask as I shove in deep. She cries out as her hand moves between her hips and the crate. I feel her fingertips against my balls and realize she’s rubbing her clit. Filthy girl. “I bet your husband treats you like a queen. I bet he tells you how soft your skin is, how beautiful your eyes are. I bet he praises you for being so good to him, because you let him fuck this marvel of a pussy, and he’ll do anything to have that, won’t he? Give you anything you want just so he gets to put it inside whenever you let him. But he doesn’t know the truth, does he? That you might like being treated like a queen, but deep down, you ache to be treated like a whore.”

She comes with a high sharp cry that yanks at my balls, my thighs straining. Bent over, I can see the smooth sweep of her back, the lean muscles shifting in her shoulders, the long earrings dripping like gold tears toward the floor. Beautiful whore-queen, as stunning with a cock between her legs as she was murmuring about art with one arm around her waist and the other holding champagne. 

She shakes through it, every pulse like an electric shock to my cock, and I grit my teeth, not ready to give this up, not yet. She slumps forward as her orgasm fades, panting something that I can barely hear over the rush in my ears.

“Don’t come inside me, don’t come inside me.”

“Why, sweet Greta? Is it actually that you’re not on birth control? Or is it that you don’t want your husband to know what you’ve been up to?”

She doesn’t answer, but she turns her head away, and I know I’m right.

I brace my hands next to hers and cover her body with mine, and I’m a fucking monster because I love how much larger I am than her: I love being able to smother her like this while I’m still driving into that wet cunt. “Would your husband inspect you? Would he be jealous if he found another man’s semen inside you?” I ask in a low voice. “Would he leave you?”

“He loves me,” she whispers, the word love broken in two by a particularly mean thrust of mine.

“Oh, so maybe he’d stay. But would he punish you for it? Would he take you over his knee? Deny your release for weeks and weeks until you cry at night because you need it so badly? Or maybe he’d tell you that bad wives don’t get good cum and refuse to come inside you until you’ve learned how to behave again?”

The moan she gives in response is obscenity incarnate. Obscene enough that my body clenches, flexes. My balls are so tight and hard I could weep.

“Tell me how you’d prove you were a good wife, Greta,” I growl, my hips hammering harder and faster. “Tell me what you’d do to make yourself his queen again.”

Her voice is shredded, defeated when she answers. “He’d fuck my throat whenever he wanted. At dinner, I’d be under the table, with him in my mouth. Even when he’s flaccid, he’d want me nuzzling it and kissing it. Worshiping it. He’d use my asshole too, when my mouth wasn’t enough.”

With an angry grunt, I yank out at the last minute and ejaculate all over her firm, smooth backside, spurting so hard and thick that I can hear it spatter on the skirt of her gown. It’s too much: the sight of my orgasm striping her rumpled dress, and the edge of her delicate jaw as she tries to watch; the dent on her finger gripping the crate, and the lewd fantasies she’s conjured in my head. I’m getting off on both her sin and her atonement, and fuck if that doesn’t make me the depraved villain Greta sees when she looks at me.

And it doesn’t matter that I’ve just come all over her, that I’ve just come hard enough to leave static sparkling at the edges of my vision; I’m still hard, maybe even harder than I was before I came, which is fucking impossible, but here we are.

“I’m sorry, baby doll, but I need it again,” I tell her as I shove back inside of her hard enough to drive her to her toes. “Just real quick. I promise to be quick. I just—need—more—”

“Then you have to give me more too,” she says, twisting enough to meet my gaze. Even in the muffled light, her eyes are green green green, and even though I’m eight inches deep into the tightest cunt I’ve ever felt, even though there are thousands of dollars of cum-splattered designer dress between us, it’s those eyes that have me captivated. They are sharper than a scalpel, hotter than a cauterization pen. They can save a life or take it, they can peel apart layers and secrets and years of scar tissue and lay a man bare within seconds.

I pull her into my arms, hissing as my penis comes free and within seconds, I’m flat on my back on the floor, Greta freshly speared on my body, her gown all around us and her silhouette framed by silk wisteria. I reach under her skirt and find her clit with my thumb, giving her just a little bit more friction as she rides me, fucking herself with my dick like the world depends on it.

“You’re so big,” she breathes, her head flung back. “So fucking big. No wonder your wife hasn’t left you.”

“Too goddamn right,” I say, reaching up to palm one of Greta’s perfect tits as she works her hips over me. We’re wet everywhere, and my cock feels like it’s being stroked by a velvet fist; she twists, her entire body tight, her movements jerky and her ribs catching on a frozen inhale. “She loves a big cock. It makes her come so hard. Just like you’re going to come when I fill you up. And when your husband punishes you, you’ll know it was worth it. While you’re taking his cum down your throat or all over those lovely tits instead of in your pussy where it belongs, you’ll be able to console yourself with how good it felt to be my whore.”

Greta’s climax snaps through her like a rubber band. She gasps out a syllable—Reed—my name, my fucking name—and I’m done for. As her insatiable pussy clasps around my length and releases, my body follows hers, and my cock jolts hard and heavy.  I arch underneath her, hard enough to lift her up as my balls seize and my stomach contracts—and God I’ll need more after this, I just know it; this is like nothing I’ve ever had.

Greta’s orgasm has her quivering, sobbing, her chin dropping to her chest as she shivers her way through the pleasure, and then, with her fingers digging into my jacket, my cock still emptying between her thighs, she gives a single, abrupt hiccup.

I suck in a breath—I can feel that fucking hiccup around my dick—and then I smile as she hiccups again, a dozy, fond feeling unfurling in my chest.

She always hiccups when she comes that hard.

She collapses onto my chest with me still inside her, and I wrap my arms around her back, kiss the top of her head. I stroke along her back and then along her arms, drinking in the silky feel of her skin. I nose my way into her hair, pulling her scent deep into my lungs.

“I think I’m in love with you,” she mumbles into my chest.

That makes me laugh. “I know you are.”

“I want that painting.”

“It’s yours, baby doll,” I say warmly.

She reluctantly pushes herself away so she’s sitting on my hips again, and I move so that she’s cradled in my lap, using one hand to tuck myself away. I’m still half-hard and could go another round, but she needs a break, and there will be plenty of time for it later.

I search for something in the interior pocket of my tuxedo jacket. A wedding ring, as delicate as her features, its central emerald as green as her eyes. I hand it to her and she slides it in place, still hiccuping.

“So neurosurgeons are rude and arrogant, hmm?” I tease, nuzzling back into her soft hair again. She smells like roses and champagne. God, I could smell her forever.

“Don’t forget that they cheat on their wives,” she adds, then hiccups.

“Their wives like it.”

“You’re lucky they do.”

“I’m lucky my wife is as depraved as me,” I murmur, moving my nose to her jaw. “It’s why I love her so.”

“Oh, you love your wife, do you?”

I kiss my way down to her chin, and lick at her bottom lip. “I treat her like a queen, in fact. I even bought her a painting from her favorite artist tonight.”

She laughs a little as I give her a real kiss. I hold back from laying her on the floor and licking my cum out of her pussy. 

That’s for later. For the hotel.

Before I punish her for being unfaithful, of course. Cheating is cheating, even if it’s with me.

Instead, I stand up and help her to her feet. I straighten her gown and fix her hair. She straightens my bow tie as I adjust my erection and fasten my tuxedo pants. With a final kiss, we emerge back into the open rooms of the gallery and the party.

“Ah, Dr. Pace and Dr. Pace,” a gray-haired surgeon exclaims when she sees us. “I’ve been looking for you two! I was trying to explain to Dr. Wint about the husband and wife team who gave such a brilliant paper about the elevated stroke risk connected to vertebral artery hypoplasia.”

Greta smiles, her cheeks still flushed, a few stray locks of honey-colored hair hanging around her delicate face. “We’d be happy to tell you anything you wanted to know. After more champagne, of course.” She hiccups.

“You go ahead. I probably shouldn’t have any more myself,” the surgeon says wistfully.

“Don’t you know?” Greta asks. She laces her fingers through my hand, tracing over my wedding band. “We starve without the shouldn’ts.”

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