Risk and Pleasure

The rest of Monday drags like a fever dream, Lena's scent still clinging to my skin as I stumble through meetings and emails. Her parting shot—Mara's name dropped like a grenade—gnaws at me, but I shove it down, focusing on the ache between my thighs, the bruises she left on my neck. By the time evening rolls around, I'm restless, itching for something to drown out the noise in my head. Julian's text lights up my phone like a beacon: Studio. 8pm. Wear something you don't mind ruining. It's cryptic, cocky, and I'm already wet thinking about what he's got planned.

His studio's in a grimy warehouse district, all brick and rust, the kind of place that smells like oil and secrets. I show up in a thin red dress, no bra, the fabric clinging to me like a dare. The door's unlocked, and I step inside, the air thick with turpentine and the faint hum of a heater. Julian's there, shirtless, paint-streaked jeans slung low on his hips. Canvases lean against the walls, half-finished explosions of color, and he's got a brush in hand, his eyes locking on me like I'm his next masterpiece.

"Thought you'd chicken out," he says, that smirk tugging at his lips, and I laugh, kicking off my heels as I cross the room.

"Missed your chance to get rid of me." I stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his bare skin, and he sets the brush down, wiping his hands on a rag. There's paint on his chest—blue smudged across his pecs, a streak of yellow down his forearm—and I want to lick it off, taste the chaos he's made of himself. My fingers twitch, but I hold back, letting the tension build, letting him make the first move.

"Good," he says, stepping into my space, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "Because I've been thinking about you all day." His hands find my hips, pulling me against him, and I feel him—hard, ready, pressing through the denim. My breath catches as he spins me, backing me up against a table cluttered with paint tubes and brushes. The edge bites into my thighs, and I don't care; I'm too busy drowning in the way he's looking at me, like he's starving and I'm the feast.

His mouth crashes into mine, rough and urgent, and I match him, biting his lip hard enough to draw a groan. My hands roam his chest, smearing the paint, slick and cool under my fingers, and he growls, lifting me onto the table. The dress rides up, exposing me to the chilly air, and he doesn't hesitate—his hands slide under the hem, spreading my legs as he steps between them. I hook my ankles behind him, pulling him closer, and the friction of his jeans against my bare skin makes me hiss, a sharp jolt of need shooting through me.

"Fuck, Sasha," he mutters, his lips trailing down my neck, sucking at the spot Lena marked earlier. The contrast—her softness, his roughness—sets me on fire, and I arch into him, my nails raking his back. He yanks the straps of my dress down, baring my chest, and his mouth is on me, hot and wet, teeth grazing my nipple until I'm gasping, clutching his hair. Paint smears across my skin—blue on my breast, yellow on my thigh—and it's filthy, perfect, a canvas of our own making.

I reach for his jeans, fumbling with the zipper, and he helps me, shoving them down just enough to free himself. He's thick, pulsing in my hand, and I stroke him, slow and deliberate, watching his jaw clench, his eyes flutter. "You're killing me," he says, voice strained, and I smirk, guiding him where I want him, teasing us both until he snaps—thrusting into me hard, filling me in one brutal move.

The table shakes, paint cans clattering to the floor, and I cry out, the stretch and burn of him overwhelming. He doesn't hold back, setting a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping my hips so tight I know I'll bruise. I love it—the rawness, the edge, the way he's fucking me like he owns me. My legs wrap tighter, urging him deeper, and the studio echoes with our sounds—grunts, gasps, the wet slap of skin on skin. Paint smears between us, slick and messy, and I'm lost in it, head thrown back, chasing the high that's building fast.

Then his phone buzzes, loud and insistent, vibrating across the table beside us. He freezes mid-thrust, chest heaving, and I groan, frustrated, my body screaming for him to keep going. "Ignore it," I snap, rocking my hips to pull him back, but he glances at the screen, and something shifts—his face hardens, shadowed.

"It's Mara," he says, voice clipped, and the name hits me like a slap. His wife. The one he's "separated" from. He doesn't move to answer, but he doesn't pull away either, still buried inside me, and the tension crackles, electric. My heart pounds, a twisted thrill spiking through me at the thought of her on the other end, oblivious—or maybe not.

"Answer it," I say, my voice low, daring him. His eyes widen, searching mine, and I grind against him, slow and deliberate, watching him unravel. "Let her hear."

"You're insane," he mutters, but there's heat in it, a flicker of something dark and reckless. He grabs the phone, swipes to answer, and puts it on speaker, setting it beside us. "Mara," he says, his tone rough, strained, and I bite my lip, stifling a moan as I roll my hips again.

"Julian," comes her voice—cold, clipped, like ice over steel. "Where are you?" There's a pause, and I can't help it—I let out a soft whimper, loud enough to carry, and Julian's grip on me tightens, his eyes blazing with warning and want.

"Busy," he says, thrusting into me again, slow and deep, and I gasp, clutching the table as the pleasure spikes. Mara's silent for a beat, too long, and I wonder if she knows, if she can hear the slick sounds, the way her husband's losing himself in me.

"Sounds like it," she says finally, her voice tighter now, edged with something I can't place—anger? Suspicion? "We need to talk. Tomorrow." The call ends abruptly, and Julian drops the phone, his hands back on me, his thrusts turning brutal, desperate.

"Fuck," he growls, slamming into me, and I'm right there with him, the danger of it—Mara's voice, her shadow—pushing me over the edge. I come hard, a shuddering mess, my nails digging into his shoulders as I scream his name. He follows, spilling into me with a groan, his forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged.

We collapse against the table, paint-streaked and spent, the phone silent beside us. My heart's still racing, adrenaline and lust tangled up, and I laugh, breathless, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "She's got impeccable timing," I say, and he chuckles, dark and low, but there's a flicker in his eyes—something unsettled.

"She always does," he murmurs, pulling back to look at me, and I feel it then—the weight of her, the mess he warned me about. It's not just sex anymore; it's a game, a tightrope, and I'm already hooked. Paint smears my thighs, his chest, a testament to our wreck, and I wonder how long it'll be before Mara steps out of the shadows and into the fray.